Page 25 of Kellan & Emmett
May 30
I’m supposed to be heading to L.A. tonight.
Emmett won’t let me in easily. I don’t blame him. Twenty years of silence doesn’t get patched with one apology and an almost-kiss. He handed me back my own mistake in the shape of a key and told me to prove it. I don’t even know if I can.
Mr. Bushman says the kids at the rec field could use someone like me. I used to think coaching was enough to fill the hole football left in me, but I walked away from that too. Gave up my lease, resigned from the job, no plan except “somewhere else.” That’s how I ended up back here, in the place I swore I’d never return to.
California isn’t waiting for me. Nobody is. Not a team, a parent, or a home. Just me, a duffel bag, and whatever comes next.
And still, I’m stuck on him. On Emmett. A week gone and nothing fixed. He told me to prove it. Maybe I can. Maybe I can’t. But if I walk away again, that’ll be the real cowardice.
—K
Chapter 14
Kellan
My travel bag sat open on the chair by the window, clothes folded in neat stacks. A couple of shirts, a pair of jeans, the basics lined up as if order could disguise indecision. The zipper tab clicked softly when I touched it, louder than it should’ve been in the quiet room.
My chest was tight, like packing meant signing a contract I wasn’t sure I wanted. I smoothed a palm down one shirt, then pulled it back out, shaking it flat just to fold it again. Busywork. The kind of thing you did when you couldn’t admit you were stalling.
Outside the window, morning sunlight slanted across the courtyard. A couple lingered over coffee at one of the wrought-iron tables, their low laughter threading with the clink of silverware.
Every part of me knew I should be on a plane tonight. That was the plan. No job in L.A., no lease, no one waiting—but at least it was familiar. At least I knew how to disappear there.
Still, Principal Bushman’s words looped in my head like a broken record. Damn man probably hadn’t thought twice when he said it, but it stuck. Because the truth was, I could still smell the grass, still hear the crunch of cleats, still taste the adrenaline of those nights we thought we’d live forever.
I scrubbed both hands over my face and sat heavy on the edge of the mattress. The springs groaned under me. My knees bounced, restless, while my eyes kept dragging to the rental keys on the nightstand. One drive out of town and this would all be behind me again. One drive to the rec field, and maybe it wouldn’t.
And underneath all of it, Emmett. Always Emmett. His voice last night still sharp in my ears, his face when he walked away, that wall slamming down. He didn’t owe me softness. Hell, I didn’t deserve it. But the thought of leaving without—without at least trying—sat like a stone in my gut.
I leaned forward, elbows braced on my thighs, staring down at my hands. They wouldn’t keep still. Fingers flexed, clenched, flexed again. The kind of restless energy I used to burn off in two-a-days or under Friday night lights. Now it just rattled through me with nowhere to go.
The suitcase stayed open. My chest stayed tight. And the question pressed harder: drive to the airport…or to the field?
I pushed off the bed, paced the length of the room, then back again. It felt too small all of a sudden, four walls pressing in like they wanted me gone. My hand hovered over the zipper but didn’t pull. Instead, I grabbed the rental keys and shoved them in my pocket.
The hall smelled like brewed coffee and lemon polish, same as it had all week. Guests murmured at their tables downstairs, plates clinking, the kind of breakfast chatter that belonged to people who knew their day, their place, their next step.
I didn’t.
By the time I slid behind the wheel, my palms were damp against the steering wheel. The engine turned over easy. The street stretched ahead, two choices I could taste in my mouth—left, toward the highway, the airport, the life I’d been running on fumes; or right, toward the field, where ghosts and maybe something more waited.
The blinker clicked. My pulse kept time with it. One, two, three beats before I flicked it right.
The grass spread wide, brighter under the May sun. The chain-link fence leaned in spots, same as it had when I was a kid sneaking in extra practice. A couple of boys chased each other near the end zone, their laughter carrying high and sharp. A whistle cut through, one of the coaches calling them back.
My throat went tight. My hand stayed locked on the gearshift long after I’d parked.
I told myself it was just curiosity. Just checking the place out, because Principal Bushman had put it in my head and I couldn’t let it go. But the way my chest ached said different. The way my legs buzzed like they’d sprint without me said different too.
I sat there another beat, watching the kids line up, cleats kicking at dirt.
Then I killed the engine and got out.
The air hit warm and thick, sun soaking straight through my shirt. The whistle blew again, and for half a second, it felt like I’d stepped back twenty years.
Only this time, I wasn’t sure if the field was waiting for me—or daring me to stay off it.
