It did something strange to my chest. Like the ground had shifted under my feet.
Why does he look at me like that? Like he was seeing something he wasn’t supposed to. Like I was more than the title on my email signature.
The air between us felt heavier than it should have. I looked away first, pretending to adjust my hair, pretending the heat in my cheeks was from the sun.
“You owe me coffee anyway,” I said, forcing my voice back into its usual lightness.
He smirked, that easy confidence snapping back into place. “Pretty sure that’s not how bets work.”
“It is when I’m in charge.”
He laughed, and I couldn’t stop the grin that slipped out in response. The kids were still running drills nearby, shouting and laughing, but it felt like the noise had faded to the edges of everything else.
Beckett brushed the back of his hand across his forehead, eyes still flicking toward me like he hadn’t quite shaken whatever moment had passed between us.
“You’re something else, you know that?” he said.
“I get that a lot,” I replied, turning to grab my clipboard. It was safer, somehow—something to hold, something to hide behind.
We walked back toward the bleachers, side by side but quiet this time. The easy teasing had settled into something softer, unspoken but charged.
When we reached the edge of the field, he paused, shifting his weight like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.
Instead, he just nodded toward the goalpost. “Next time, I’m not holding back.”
“Next time, I’ll wear cleats,” I said, matching his tone.
He chuckled and started to walk off, and I stood there for a moment longer, watching him go.
It was ridiculous, really—how someone could be infuriating and kind, reckless and careful, all at once.
I told myself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just a game, just another afternoon.
But as I looked down at the grass stains on my skirt and the faint smile still clinging to my lips, I wasn’t sure I believed it.
The sun was dropping low, washing the field in gold. The kids waved as they left, their laughter fading into the hum of crickets starting up somewhere beyond the bleachers. Beckett and I walked side by side toward the parking lot, our shadows stretching long across the grass.
“You should play more often,” he said, kicking at a stray ball as we passed it.
“You should complain less often.”
He grinned, unbothered. “No promises.”
Our laughter echoed softly, mingling with the rhythmic sound of cleats on turf. The tension that had once filled every pause between us was gone, replaced by something quieter—steady, almost easy.
For the first time since I’d met him, Beckett Mason didn’t feel like a storm waiting to break. He just felt present.
That evening, I still had grass in my hair and mud on my heels when I collapsed onto my couch. The living room smelled faintly like turf and coffee and exhaustion. I kicked my heels off and pulled out my phone, scrolling through the foundation’s social media page.
Someone had already posted a photo from earlier—me mid-kick, scoring that goal, hair flying. In the background, Beckett was laughing, grinning like an idiot. It made me laugh too, quietly, even as something tugged at me from somewhere deeper.
He keeps showing up, I thought. Even when he says he won’t. Even when he complains the whole time. He still shows up.
He wasn’t easy. He wasn’t careful. But when Beckett said he’d do something, he did it. And that had started to matter more than I wanted to admit.
My phone buzzed again—Kyle.
Sorry I’ve been MIA. Big week. Miss you.
