I’d even cleared the conference room, set out a neat stack of volunteer waivers, and arranged a few branded coffee mugs on the table, because apparently I still believed in the power of first impressions.
By 1:15, the coffee had gone cold.
By 1:30, my patience had gone with it.
Naomi poked her head in once, saw the look on my face, and backed out wordlessly. Probably for the best.
I paced the length of the room, heels clicking against the tile, every minute stretching like an hour. The laughter from the kids’ program next door bled through the wall—a sharp contrast to the tension knotting in my chest. I could organize a full-scale gala with two interns and a spreadsheet, but apparently, coordinating one professional athlete was asking too much.
At 1:37, the door finally swung open.
Beckett Mason strolled in like he was stepping onto a late-night talk show—baseball cap turned backward, sunglasses still on indoors, energy drink in one hand, phone in the other. His walk wasn’t hurried or apologetic; it was lazy confidence, the kind that said he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “You Ellery?”
I crossed my arms. “You know I am. You’re late.”
He cracked open the energy drink, the hiss loud in the silence. “Traffic.”
My brow arched. “You live five miles from here.”
He gave me that half-grin—the kind that belonged on highlight reels and tabloid covers. “Then it was bad traffic.”
I inhaled slowly through my nose, reminding myself that professionalism was a virtue. My smile felt tight, sharp enough to cut glass. “Right. Well, thank you for coming in, Mr. Mason. Why don’t we get started?”
He dropped into the nearest chair like he owned it, sprawling out with zero regard for posture, decorum, or the concept of accountability. His sunglasses stayed on.
Fantastic.
Professional, Ellery. Be professional. You can survive one week of this.
Still, as I picked up the volunteer packet and started walking him through the schedule, I couldn’t help thinking: if he handled the field like he handled punctuality, it was no wonder he spent half the season in trouble.
But I kept my smile steady, my tone polite, my composure intact. Because someone in this room had to act like an adult.
And apparently, that someone was me.
I launched into the standard walk-through, clipboard in hand like armor.
“This way,” I said, keeping my tone chipper as I led him out of the office and down the hallway. “We’ll start with the training field. The kids use it for drills after school, and on weekends we host community scrimmages.”
Beckett followed a few steps behind, sunglasses still on, energy drink still in hand. His phone buzzed twice before we even reached the door. He checked it both times.
“Sounds fun,” he muttered, clearly not listening. “Lots of photo ops, huh?”
I ignored that. “The classrooms are next—this is where we run tutoring sessions before practice. Most of the kids come straight from school, so it’s important they get their homework done before they hit the turf.”
He made a noncommittal sound—half grunt, half sigh—and glanced down at his screen again.
I tightened my grip on the clipboard. Patience, Ellery. Smile. Keep it cordial.
We stepped into the main hallway that opened to the glass windows overlooking the field. The sound of laughter and sneakers squeaking on turf floated in from outside. A few of the kids spotted us through the glass.
“Is that—?” one whispered.
“Beckett Mason!” another hissed, eyes wide.
They started pressing against the window, waving and giggling like it was Christmas morning.
