Page 27 of Kellan & Emmett
“Show us!”
“Do it again!”
“How’d you catch like that?”
Rick clapped my shoulder, easy, welcoming. “Kids, this here’s Kellan Miller. Played for Gomillion back when they won the championships.”
They swarmed closer, eyes big, voices spilling over each other. My chest pulled tight. I wanted to laugh, wanted to disappear. Instead, I felt both things at once—thrill and loss, pride and pain, tangled in a knot too old to untie.
“Alright, alright,” I said, holding up a hand. “One more.”
I still had the ball, warm against my palm. This time I kept it, tucking it under my arm, showing them how to cradle it tight against the body. I exaggerated the footwork, a quick slant across the grass so they could see the rhythm, not just the speed.
Their whoops chased me back to the line. I pulled up, grinning despite myself, and lobbed the ball toward the nearest boy. He fumbled it against his chest, then clutched it like treasure. The others roared, shoving at him, demanding their turn.
“See?” I called, jogging back. “Soft hands. Eyes on the ball. And once you’ve got it, you don’t let go.”
The kid beamed, holding the ball up over his head like he’d just scored in the big leagues.
“Alright, you—” I pointed at another boy with quick feet, still bouncing from one sneaker to the other, “—run a line downfield. You—” I caught the taller kid’s eye, who straightened with determination—“cover him.”
They scrambled into place, chatter spilling over each other. Parents on the sidelines leaned forward, shading their eyes, curious now.
I wound up, lofted the ball high and clean. The runner stretched, snagged it just before the defender reached him, and the two went down in a heap, laughing and rolling in the grass.
The sideline erupted—kids hollering, a couple of dads clapping, one mom whistling through her teeth.
I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth. Couldn’t stop the part of me that remembered what it felt like to live here—in the air, in the crowd, in the game.
I was in it. Tossing, catching, showing stances, turning drills into games. Their laughter carried on the hot air, sneakers thudding against packed dirt.
“Eyes up, Speedy,” I called when one boy went sprawling, tripped clean over his own cleat. He popped up red-faced, grinning, brushing grass from his knees.
“Speedy?” he echoed, in mock indignation.
“You keep running without looking, that’s what they’ll call you,” I said, fighting a smile.
The others cackled, chanting, “Speedy, Speedy,” until the boy puffed out his chest and sprinted back into line.
A wiry kid with hair sticking out jabbed a finger at me. “Bet you can’t do a one-hander!”
Gasps rose like he’d just thrown down a gauntlet.
I arched a brow. “Bet I can.”
Their eyes widened as I jogged a few steps, let the coach toss me the ball, then stretched one hand into the sky. Leather smacked my palm, stuck like it was always meant to be there. I tucked it in, jogged back, and flipped it to the doubter.
The whole sideline erupted—high-pitched shrieks, stomps, before a coach barked them back into order.
From the shade, a couple of parents clapped along, smiling at the noise. One coach crossed his arms, the corner of his mouth tugging into a grin.
“Alright, line it up again,” I said, pointing them back toward the cones. “This time—clean routes. Feet under you, eyes on the ball.”
They scattered into formation, some bumping shoulders, some too eager to wait their turn. A smaller boy hung back, chewing his lip. I crouched down, eye-level with him.
“Scared?” I asked, softer.
He shook his head fast, but his hands fidgeted at his sides.
