Page 28 of Kellan & Emmett
“That’s okay. Just stick close to me. We’ll figure it out.”
He blinked, then nodded like I’d handed him a secret code, and sprinted to join the line.
Their chatter swelled again, rising and falling like music. For the first time in a long time, I felt steady in it—like I wasn’t an outsider, like maybe I still knew who I was when the ball hit my hands.
And then I felt it. That prickle down my spine.
I looked up.
Emmett.
He was leaned against the rail by the bleachers, half in shadow, arms folded across his chest. Not cold—at least not the way he’d been since I returned. But not open either. His face was unreadable, carved in stillness while the noise of kids and whistles carried on around the field.
The sight knocked something loose in me. I blinked, and for half a second, I was thirteen again, sweaty and breathless under the August sun, ball cradled against my ribs. First team win. The scoreboard flashing. Emmett’s voice carrying over everyone else’s, loudest on the sideline—“That’s Miller time! That’s Miller time!” Pride swelling so hot in my chest it almost hurt.
Now? No grin. No voice. Just that gaze I couldn’t read, pinning me from across the field. Just his eyes locked on mine.
And I couldn’t look away.
For a stretch of seconds too long for comfort, the world dropped out—the kids shouting, the whistle blowing, the sun beating on the grass. It was just us, staring across the years.
Heat climbed my throat. My pulse stumbled. In the end, I was the one who blinked, dragging my gaze back down to the tugginghands at my sleeve, the boys clamoring for another throw. I forced a grin for them.
Every part of me, though, still pulled toward the bleachers. Toward him.
“Alright, alright,” I said, shaking the fog off and clapping my hands.
One kid bounced on his toes like he’d had three sodas for breakfast. “Show me again! I can do it, I swear!”
“C’mon, Coach, throw it to me!” another piped up, jostling for position.
Their laughter spilled into the heat, sneakers thudding against the packed dirt. I gave in to it—tossing the ball, catching it back, turning drills into games. Before I knew it, the rhythm came easy again, a rhythm I hadn’t let myself feel in years.
Their laughter spilled into the heat, sneakers thudding against packed dirt. And I let it carry me—tossing, catching, breaking drills down into games. Not the grind I’d left behind at the high school, where every practice felt like pressure and paperwork. This was different. This was the kind of easy rhythm I hadn’t touched in years—the joy that made me love the game in the first place.
Still, the weight of his gaze lingered at the edge of it all—silent, steady, impossible to shake.
Chapter 15
Emmett
The noise of the field blurred. For a beat, neither Kellan nor I looked away. His stare held, unreadable, and my chest tightened like the years had folded in on themselves. Sweat ran down from his temple, clinging to the edge of his jaw, his shirt plastered against his back. My body betrayed me—pulse quick, heat climbing sharp and unwanted.
Kellan blinked first, dropping his gaze back to the kids. Relief should’ve come with that, but it didn’t. Because a minute later, he did it again—another quick glance, like he couldn’t help himself. Each one landed like a spark, small but enough to warm something I’d worked hard to freeze.
The ache settled deep, heavy as summer air.
And just like that, I was back in the stands. Friday night lights burning overhead, the roar of the crowd shaking the bleachers. Kellan on the field, scanning the rows after a big play. Every time, without fail, his eyes skipped past the boosters, past his dad, past the coaches. They landed on me.
I hadn’t known what to do with it back then. Pretended it was nothing. But I’d noticed. Always noticed. And now the thought hit hard—maybe I hadn’t been the only one feeling something more.
I remembered the moment I realized I was in love with my best friend. It was during a late practice, and of course, I’d stayed back to watch. Kellan’d jogged off, sweat-dark hair plastered to his forehead, grin stretched wide. And somewhere between the sight of him brushing it back and the sound of his laugh, I’d realized I was gone. That it was more than friendship, and had been for longer than I’d admitted to myself.
The sharp tweet of a whistle brought me back to the present. I stayed tucked near the bleachers, the cases of water nearby,telling myself I was only here to drop them off. That was a lie I barely believed. Kellan’s key was still on the board this morning. He hadn’t checked out. Curiosity got the better of me.
“Em.”
I turned. Paige Turner angled toward me, sunglasses sliding down her nose, a travel mug in hand. She had that kind of effortless polish that came with confidence—skin smooth and glowing, dark hair brushing her shoulders, eyes sharp but warm. She looked like someone who belonged on a magazine cover at the airport, not standing on the sidelines of a youth scrimmage.
