The second Cam said her name, I was already counting the hours.
He leaned back in his chair, flipping through the file like he was savoring the moment. “You’ve logged seventy-two community-service hours,” he said finally, looking up with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “After the gala, you’re officially cleared.”
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “So I’m off the leash.”
“Let’s call it ‘back in good standing,’” he corrected. “The league loves redemption stories. Makes for good press.”
I snorted. “Yeah, nothing says redemption like making small talk with rich people who think donating a check is a personality trait.”
Cam ignored me and slid a packet across the desk. “Here are your gala expectations: show up on time, smile when prompted, pose for photos with the sponsors, and, for once in your life, avoid explosions—literal or verbal.”
“Define ‘verbal.’”
“Anything that could end with a press release,” he said dryly.
I grabbed the pen and scrawled my name across the final form. “Yes, sir,” I muttered, because I knew that’s what he wanted to hear.
Cam studied me for a beat longer than usual. Then, to my surprise, his tone softened. “You’ve actually helped them, you know.”
I looked up. “Helped who?”
“The foundation,” he said. “The board called me yesterday. Said you were… dependable.”
I almost laughed, but the word caught in my throat. Dependable. Nobody had called me that before—not a coach, not a teammate, not even my own family.
“Guess I’m getting soft,” I said instead, trying to keep it light.
Cam shook his head. “Or human. Don’t ruin it now.”
That one landed. I gave him a half-smile, but something in my chest tightened. “No promises.”
He smirked, going back to his notes, clearly satisfied that I’d play nice at least until Saturday. But my mind had already drifted miles from his office—to the sound of Ellery’s voice, the way she smiled when she forgot to be composed, the way she made chaos feel almost manageable.
Cam kept talking about schedules and media coverage, but it all faded into background noise.
The whole community-service deal had started as punishment—another box to tick after that fight with the referee, another PR clean-up job to make the team look good. But somewhere between sorting donation bins and chasing a bunch of kids across the practice field, I’d stopped counting the hours.
It wasn’t about checking a box anymore. It was about her—Ellery James, with her impossible standards and her soft voice that turned sharp when she cared too much.
Now I was out of time.
Cam was saying something about coordinating with the press table when I stood up, stretching until my back cracked. “I’ll see you at the gala,” I said.
He looked up, surprised. “Try not to look like you’re attending your own funeral.”
“No guarantees,” I said, forcing a grin.
Cam slid a folder across the desk—crisp, thick, full of all the things I didn’t want to think about. “Event itinerary and donor list,” he said. “I know you managed to pull some yourself so you should know them. In case you don't, memorize them. Smile at the right people, thank the right checks. Then you’re done.”
I flipped it open halfheartedly—names, photos, company logos. The usual suspects: investors, sponsors, the city’s elite. The kind of people who wore generosity like a designer label.
“Done,” I said, closing it. “Got it.”
Cam leaned back, watching me like he was waiting for something. “You’ve done good work, Mason.”
That caught me off guard.
He didn’t say it with his usual PR gloss—no performative tone, no caveats. Just plain and simple.
