Page 26 of Kellan & Emmett
The crunch of gravel under my shoes sounded too loud.
I slowed near the fence, fingers curling through the chain link the way they had when I was a kid waiting my turn, watching the older boys run drills. The links bit into my palm, grounding me, reminding me that this wasn’t memory—it was now.
Kids darted across the grass, jerseys hanging loose over bony shoulders. They laughed loud, tripped over their own cleats, scrambled back to their feet like nothing could touch them.
On the sideline, a handful of parents leaned on coolers or folding chairs, arms crossed, chatting between shouts of encouragement. The coaches—a couple of men about my age, one younger, maybe a former player himself—kept the herd moving with a whistle and broad hand gestures.
A spray of water arced into the air as one kid tipped his bottle too far back. Another boy doubled over, laughing, until a coach barked and sent him back into line.
I should’ve turned around. Should’ve climbed back into the rental and let the road swallow me whole. But my feet stuck to the dirt path, eyes locked on the way the grass caught the sun, the faint white ghosts of yard lines still painted faintly across the field.
My chest pulled tight. How many hours had I burned here? Winded, bruised, chasing something bigger than myself. How many nights had I walked home with Emmett at my side, shoulder to shoulder?
I blinked hard, but the ache stayed.
For a second, I felt it—the old rhythm of the place. The slap of cleats, the bark of the whistle, the hum of being part of something. My fingers flexed against the fence.
And then one of the kids fumbled the ball.
The leather skittered across the dirt, bumping against my shoe like it had chosen me on purpose. Instinct moved faster than thought—I bent, scooped it up, spun it once in my palm, the leather rough and familiar. Old muscle memory hummed. I lobbed it back toward the line, easy, not thinking about who might be watching.
One of the kids—a skinny boy with a wide grin snatched it, eyes sparkling, and without hesitation zipped it right back at me. The throw wobbled, wild, but quick.
My body knew what to do. Hands soft, step into it, catch clean. No bobble, no fight, just air and grip and the faint smack of leather against my palms.
Gasps broke out. Then the noise swelled.
“Whoa!”
“Did you see that?”
“Like on TV!”
“Dude’s got hands!”
“That’s how the pros do it!”
“That was sick!”
Their voices clattered around me, bouncing off the chain link and the bleachers like I’d just walked out of an NFL highlight reel instead of some small-town ghost story. Pride rose up, sweet as a hit of oxygen—and just as fast, the ache followed. This was supposed to have been mine. College ball, Sundays under the lights. The NFL. Until one snap ended it, and I’d had to settle for chalkboards and high school sidelines.
A whistle cut the noise clean in half.
I looked up. One of the coaches—broad-shouldered, early-to-mid-forties maybe, whistle cord digging into his neck—was squinting at me.
“Wait a damn minute.” He stepped closer, like his eyes needed distance to line me up. “That’s you, isn’t it? Kellan Miller?”
Heads swiveled. Parents. Kids. Even the other coaches.
My stomach dipped. “Yeah.”
“I knew it.” His grin broke wide, proud like he’d uncovered treasure. “That catch—I’d know it anywhere. I’m Rick Carter. Was just finishing college when y’all won the championship. Brad’s arm, your hands—nobody could touch you two. Lord, what was that? Twenty years?” He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Thought you went west and never looked back.”
The words hit hard. The pride in his voice lifted me for half a breath, and then the fall came, sharper than ever. Because I had gone west. And I hadn’t looked back—not once—until now.
“Coach knows him?” one of the kids whispered loud enough for everyone to hear.
“You were famous here?” another said.
