The way she scanned the board, eyes tracing the lines of tape and photos, like she couldn’t turn off the part of her brain that catalogued every detail. The way her hands lingered on the corners, steady and sure, like she couldn’t leave anything halfway done.
And then there was that moment—barely a heartbeat—where she looked up at the pictures. Kids in mismatched jerseys. Mud-streaked faces. The same kind of joy I used to feel before the game turned into a job.
She exhaled slowly, shoulders easing as she reached for the light switch.
You work yourself to the bone for this. For them. For nothing in return. You’re insane.
That was what I wanted to say. But what I really meant was something I didn’t have words for. Something that made my chest tighten in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
She turned off the lights, leaving the gym in a soft amber glow from the emergency bulbs. I followed her out, hands shoved deep in my pockets, the sound of our footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Outside, the rain had calmed to a light drizzle, tapping softly against the asphalt. The air was cool, heavy with that wet, clean scent that comes after a storm.
She locked the door behind us, balancing her laptop under one arm while fumbling with her keys. Without thinking, I reached out, took them from her hand, and unlocked her car before she could protest.
She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said, handing the keys back.
Her fingers brushed mine as she took them, quick but enough to make something flicker under my ribs again.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. The parking lot was quiet except for the rain and the faint hum of streetlights.
She finally broke the silence, her voice softer than usual. “Good night, Beckett.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You too, Ellery.”
She opened the car door, slid in, and started the engine. The headlights washed over me as she pulled out; the beams catching the water on the pavement like glass.
I stood there, hands still buried in my pockets, watching her taillights fade into the dark.
The sensible thing would’ve been to head to my own car, go home, and forget the whole night happened. Pretend it didn’t matter. Pretend she didn’t matter.
But I didn’t move.
Instead, I found myself standing there in the February snow, jaw tight, replaying the way she’d smiled when we finished, the way her laugh had sounded when she teased me, the way she’d said my name like it wasn’t a headline.
I wasn’t mad at her.
I was mad at myself—for caring, even a little.
For feeling something I didn’t have a playbook for.
And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or the beginning of another mess I couldn’t walk away from.
Chapter 7
Ellery
The media room at the Storm training complex looked like controlled chaos, if you squinted hard enough. Bright banners with both the SWM Storm and Ellery James Foundation logos lined the walls, cameras clicked in rapid bursts, and someone had arranged soccer balls and donation boxes in what was apparently an “organic” display but mostly looked like a tripping hazard.
I stood near the center of it all with my clipboard in one hand and a headset crooked on one ear, trying to look composed even as my stomach fluttered.
Cam Hunter, the team’s PR director, was in full command mode near the photographers. He clapped his hands once, sharp and decisive. “All right, people, these photos go everywhere — headlines, socials, sponsor decks. I want energy. I want teamwork. I don’t want anyone looking like they just lost a game.”
Across the room, Naomi was squinting at the backdrop, aligning it by millimeters. “Smile,” she told one of the volunteers, “but not like you’re being audited.”
That made me laugh — a quick, nervous sound that probably fooled no one. “Can we make that the foundation’s new slogan?”
