Page 24 of Kellan & Emmett
When he passed close, coffee pot balanced in one hand, I held out the keys anyway, palm open between us.
“Yours,” I said.
He stopped, eyes dropping to the glint of metal before lifting back to mine. For a heartbeat, I thought he might refuse. That he’d leave me standing there, arm outstretched like an idiot.
But then his fingers brushed mine as he took them back. Warm, rough, gone too quick.
“Thanks,” he said, flat, but his gaze lingered half a second longer than it needed to before he turned.
Chapter 13
Emmett
I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But when Josiah Bushman opened his mouth, it wasn’t exactly optional. The man’s voice carried the way it always had—like a foghorn with an Alabama drawl, rolling through walls, conversations, and whatever good intentions I had about minding my own business. So when he told Kellan the boys at the rec field could use him, that they needed hands with patience and know-how, I caught every word.
And damn if it didn’t land. Because Bushman wasn’t wrong.
Kellan had always had a way of slowing down for people who needed it. Most varsity guys back then didn’t give freshmen the time of day, but Kellan? He never seemed to mind. I remembered one in particular—Brady, a ninth grader who spent more time tripping over his own cleats than running drills. He hung around practice like a stray dog, wide-eyed and desperate to belong.
One afternoon, I’d leaned against the fence, watching Kellan run through a set with him.
“You training your replacement?” I’d called, grinning.
Kellan tossed Brady the ball, steady as ever. “Doesn’t hurt me to help.”
Brady fumbled, then caught it on the second try. The way his face lit up, you’d think Kellan had handed him the keys to the universe.
That was Kellan. It didn’t give him an edge, didn’t make him faster or stronger, but he helped anyway. Because it mattered.
“Emmett, darlin’—”
Mrs. Crosby’s voice snapped me back to the present. She waved me over from her table, suitcase already propped against her chair.
“Before we leave, you’ve got to tell me what’s in these biscuits.” She patted her empty plate with a satisfied sigh. “They’re sinful.”
“Heather swears it’s her mama’s recipe,” I said, topping off her husband’s coffee. “And she won’t tell me either.”
Her husband chuckled. “Well, whatever’s in them, it’s reason enough to book again.”
I smiled at that, let it warm me for a second, then excused myself to check the sideboard.
The dining room hummed with the soft sounds of Sunday departures—chairs scraping back, silverware clinking, good-mornings exchanged. Sophia threaded between tables with her carafe, hair slipping from her ponytail, cheeks pink from rushing, and smiling that polite, efficient smile she’d perfected in her two summers here. She caught my eye as she passed. “Sorry, Mr. James. I thought I had more juice in the pitcher.”
“You’re fine,” I told her. “It’s Sunday. Nobody’s in a hurry.”
Heather came through the kitchen doors then, setting down another tray of biscuits with a decisive thud. She gave me that look she always did when she thought I was wound too tight. I answered with a half-smile, then went back to refilling, wiping, smiling, repeating. My body knew the motions; my mind was still with Bushman’s words.
The rec league. Kellan.
I knew Kellan’s check-out was set for Friday. One week in town, then back to California, back to the life he’d built.
But what if Bushman had planted a seed? What if five days from now, Kellan didn’t just pack up and drive west, gone for another twenty years?
The thought tightened something in me I didn’t want to name.
I busied myself with coffee cups, let the rhythm carry me through. But all the while, I kept hearing that Alabama drawl, steady as a drumbeat:See if the grass still feels the same under your cleats.
Damn Bushman. He might’ve been retired, but he still had a way of making the truth echo long after he left the room.
