Page 11 of Kellan & Emmett
“Yeah? Takes one to know one.”
“Please,” Derrick shot back. “Last time you ran a full mile was probably to beat the ice cream truck.”
Jamal clutched his chest. “And I’d do it again. Bomb pops don’t chase themselves.”
They broke into laughter, and Derrick turned to me, eyes scanning me head to toe—but not in a sexual way. More like the quick appraisal of a teammate sizing up an old friend.
“Man, Kell, you still look good for a guy pushing forty.”
“My guy, I’m only thirty-eight,” I said, tongue in cheek. “And besides, as a coach I have to set a good example for the kids. Eat right, exercise… occasionally yell at them to do push-ups so I don’t have to.”
That cracked them up, Jamal doubling over like he’d actually been dropped for twenty. Even Megan shook her head, grinning.
We moved past the trophy case outside the gym. Rows of polished metal reflected our faces back at us—a football championship, basketball wins, Emmett’s debate team plaques tucked in among them. For a second, it was like time folded in on itself, memories pressed between glass.
The double doors ahead stood propped open, letting out the low buzz of a crowd settling in. Inside, the gym smelled like varnish and sweat soaked deep into the bleachers, same as it always had. Folding chairs lined the far baseline, the current varsity team jogging layup drills while the alumni stretched and ribbed each other on the sideline.
“You think the alumni team has a chance of beating the varsity?” Meghan Price clamped a hand on my arm as we moved toward the bleachers.
I gave her a crooked smile. “Depends how many knees still work and how many backs survive warm-ups.”
She laughed, steering us up the steps. My own knee twinged as I climbed, a phantom reminder of everything that had ended before it should’ve.
We wedged into a row halfway up, shoulder to shoulder with classmates trading stories.
And then my eyes found him.
One row down and across, Emmett sat among a cluster of familiar faces. His profile was turned toward someone speaking, mouth curved in a grin I hadn’t seen in twenty years. The scoreboard glow caught him just right, softening the edges, haloing him in light. He looked relaxed. At ease in a way I hadn’t managed to be since I’d come back.
My chest tightened, breath catching before I forced myself to look away.
The murmur of the crowd shifted, low and sharp enough to draw my eyes toward the doors. Miles Johnson walked in, hand in hand with Atlas St. James.
Not a friendly clasp. Not two old classmates dragging each other along. No—this was something else. Something certain. Their fingers twined, easy as breathing.
Beside me, Meghan’s smile faltered. Jamal blinked, eyebrows lifting. Derrick leaned back a little, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. None of them spoke, and I didn’t either.
Because I knew exactly what I was seeing.
Miles Johnson—straight-laced Miles—walking in with someone who wasn’t just a friend. And doing it in front of everyone.
I smiled, my lips slightly tremulous, but the warmth in my chest had a sharper edge. A rush of pride, maybe, or envy, or both. Happy for Miles—of course I was. But beneath it ran the ache of what I wasn’t. What I’d never let myself be. Miles had found his courage, claimed his truth in front of everyone. And I… I’d been running from mine for two decades.
For a moment, I let myself imagine it—what it would be like if I had that kind of bravery. If Emmett and I could step into the light together. Just us, just me, standing side by side with Emmett, with nothing to prove, nothing to run from.
Almost against my will, my gaze flicked across the bleachers. Emmett was already watching me. His expression gave nothing away, steady and unreadable, like a wall I couldn’t see past.
What was he thinking? Did he see himself in this? In me? Or had I been wrong all along—imagining that kiss, convincing myself he’d kissed me back when maybe it had been nothing more than my wishful thinking, my fear twisting memory into something it never was?
Maybe he wasn’t even gay. Maybe he wasn’t bi. Maybe he’d just been curious, a teenager messing around, and I’d spent twenty years making it into something monumental.
Or worse—maybe he’d felt the same, once, and buried it so deep I had no right to go digging it up again.
The whistle blew then, sharp and clean, pulling my gaze back to the court as players took their spots. Sneakers squeaked. The game was about to begin.
The alumni’s starting five drew a cheer as they stepped out—Cameron Jameson at point, Shane Bailey sliding into small forward, Ray Barker at power, Dale Rivers at center, and Caden North at shooting guard. For a second, it was like 2005 all over again, the crowd buzzing with old loyalties.
They opened strong, trading baskets with the varsity kids, each play tight enough to remind everyone that these men had once owned this court. Caden lasted ten minutes before subbing out—limp pronounced, but grin easy, soaking up the applause. The rest of the alumni held their ground, the game staying scrappy, competitive enough to keep the crowd leaning forward.
