Page 23 of Kellan & Emmett
I shook my head, half-smile tugging but not landing. “Not sure it was meant kindly.”
“Doesn’t matter. Folks remembered you. That’s worth somethin’.” He let that hang for a beat, the weight of it heavier than his tone.
Bushman tilted his head. “Tell me somethin’, son. You still in football?”
The question snagged, sharp in my throat. “Football?”
He nodded. “Back then, you lived and breathed it. Wide receiver with hands like glue. Hell, half our plays were built around you and Brad running that field. Figured you’d end up passin’ it down somewhere—coachin’, maybe.”
Heat crawled up the back of my neck. For him, it was memory. For me, it was a wound.
“I played in college,” I said finally, voice rougher than I liked. My chest tightened again, but this time it was different—old bone-deep ache. “Then I didn’t. Injury took care of that in my junior year.”
His brows knit, but he didn’t press. Just waited.
I forced myself to keep going, because silence would’ve been worse. “I stayed in LA. Ended up teaching. Lit classes. And yeah…coached for a while.”
Bushman nodded, slow, like it fit the picture he’d always carried. “Makes sense. You had the patience. The head for it. Better than me, anyhow.” His mouth hitched in a self-deprecating smile. “Boys at the rec field could use somebody like that now. Summer program’s always scramblin’ for help.”
My pulse jumped, unsteady. “I’m leaving on Friday.”
He lifted his mug, eyes never leaving mine. “Just think on it. Go down to the field one afternoon. See if the grass still feels the same under your cleats.”
He pushed up from the chair with a grunt, nodding at me like the matter was settled. “Good to see you, Kellan.”
Then he was gone, weaving toward the buffet, leaving me sitting in the wake of his words.
Boys at the rec field could use somebody like that now.
Football had been everything once. Breath in, breath out. Friday nights under the lights, sweat slicking down my back, the whole town on its feet chanting our names. I’d thought it was the beginning of something bigger—scholarship, college ball, maybe even the draft if the stars lined up.
Then one bad hit and it was over. Junior year of college, doctors muttering words that meantdone. And I was. Done.
I hadn’t let myself think about it in years, not really. Teaching had filled the gap. Coaching high schoolers on a dusty LA field gave me just enough of the rush to pretend it didn’t hurt anymore. Until it did, until even that wasn’t enough.
Now here was Principal Bushman, dropping a casual line over coffee like it was nothing. Like stepping back on a field—anyfield—wouldn’t rip the scab clean off.
Stay in Gomillion for the summer? Help at a rec league? The thought made me want to laugh. Except I didn’t. Because buried under the ache was something else. Something I didn’t want to name.
Want.
Not for football—not really. For a reason. For a place. For something that didn’t vanish the second someone walked away.
Bushman’s words clung like burrs.See if the grass still feels the same under your cleats.
I hated how much I wanted to.
Across the room, Emmett moved between tables with that quiet efficiency of his. A nod here, a refill there, his hand steady as he tipped the pot into a guest’s mug. He didn’t glance my way. Not once.
My throat tightened.
Twenty years ago, he was the one I couldn’t wait to tell everything to—the first person I looked for in a crowd. Now I could’ve been wallpaper for all the notice he gave me. Maybe that was worse than anger.
I pushed my chair back, the scrape loud enough to make a couple of heads turn. Emmett’s gaze flicked up from across the room, brief as a blink, then slid away.
That was it. That was all he was giving me.
My hand tightened around the keys in my pocket, metal biting into my palm.
