The water shut off in the showers. Somewhere, a locker door slammed.
I sat there, alone, staring at the dent my fist had left in the metal.
A small reminder that no matter how much I tried to control it, the storm inside me always found a way out.
The next morning, I sat in the conference room at SWM Storm HQ, trying not to glare at the motivational quote framed on the far wall. Discipline wins games. Yeah. Tell that to the ref.
The room was all glass and shine—trophies lined the shelves, sponsor logos gleamed from every corner, and the table looked like it cost more than my first apartment. The kind of place built to impress people who never broke a sweat.
Cam strolled in with his usual clipboard and coffee, looking like he’d been awake since dawn and powered entirely by caffeine and damage control. “Morning, Beckett,” he said, sliding a folder across the table.
I eyed it like it might bite. “That my official termination notice?”
“Not yet.” Cam’s smile was sharp. “I have your community youth assignment."
I grunted.
“Do I look like I’m fucking around?” He gestured at the folder. “The Ellery James Youth Foundation. You’ll be helping with their annual charity gala. Meetings, planning, public appearances—you’re the team’s face for the event.”
I snorted. “You mean free labor.”
“No.” Cam leaned back in his chair. “Redemption.”
I opened the folder and started flipping through the contents. Flyers. Schedules. Photos of smiling kids in donated Storm uniforms, their cleats too big, their grins too bright. A gala flyer read Building Futures Through Sports in neat blue lettering.
And then there was a headshot.
Ellery James.
Of course it was her.
My mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
"Look," he continued. "I know you have this weird rivalry with Kyle Talbot, but Ellery is amazing."
I didn’t respond. I was too busy taking in the photo—Ellery, all bright-eyed and polished, blazer perfectly pressed, smile camera-ready but real. The kind of woman who made good look effortless. Who made people believe in things—teams, kids, causes. The kind of woman who smiled at storms and somehow made them stop raining.
And she was dating him. Kyle. My teammate. My not-rival who treated me like one anyway, all calm words and steady hands while I burned too hot for both of us.
“She probably runs on optimism and bullet points,” I muttered.
Cam didn’t even look up. “She runs a foundation that helps kids play the sport you just embarrassed. So maybe, for once, try not to blow this.”
I leaned back in my chair, flicking the folder closed. “You ever think maybe they’re wasting their time?”
Cam sighed. “How do you figure?”
“Because no amount of smiling for the cameras is gonna make people forget I lost my head on the field. Again.”
That earned me a long stare. Then, flatly, “You done feeling sorry for yourself?”
I scowled. “I’m not?—”
“You are,” he cut in, tone bone-dry. “And while you’re busy sulking, the rest of us are trying to make sure you still have a career. So you’re gonna show up, smile, shake hands, help the lady plan her gala, and pretend you’re capable of basic humanity.”
“Pretend?” I shot back.
He smirked. “Let’s not push our luck.”
