Page 41 of Kellan & Emmett
“You’re up first,” I said, because if I didn’t give my mouth a job, my brain was going to do something stupid.
Kellan hefted a ball, turning it in his hands like he was reacquainting himself with an old friend. His first ball thudded down the lane too fast, swerved wide, and disappeared into the gutter. He dragged a hand over his face, shaking his head, and the sound that came out of him was half-groan, half-laugh.
“Rusty?” I asked, leaning forward on my knees.
“Understatement,” he muttered, grabbing a second ball. This one wobbled straighter, but still veered left, toppling only a pair of pins. He looked back at me with a sheepish tilt of his mouth, the kind of look that made it hard not to grin.
“Not bad,” I said, drawing it out just to watch his expression shift. “Couple more decades and you’ll have it down.”
He huffed, but there was no heat in it. “Right. And you’re an expert, huh?”
I shrugged, stood, and took my turn. The first ball clipped the edge—seven pins. The second cleaned up the spare. Muscle memory, nothing more, but I felt his eyes on me all the way back to the plastic seat.
“Show-off,” he muttered, though his grin gave him away.
The alley hummed around us—pins exploding two lanes over, a pack of kids hollering from a birthday table stacked with paper hats and melting ice cream cake. Somewhere near the snack bar, the jukebox rattled as somebody fed in quarters, and Bon Jovi kicked on. The sound wrapped around the crash of pins, the clatter of balls rolling back down the return.
Kellan stepped up for his frame, shoulders set too tight. I could see it before he even threw—the way he was trying too hard. The ball skidded off his hand and toppled only three pins.
“Don’t muscle it,” I said without thinking.
He glanced over, eyebrow arched, not annoyed but curious. “And what would you suggest, Coach?”
I hesitated — then crossed the small space between us. My hand found his forearm, light, guiding, my other palm hovering at his hip just long enough to shift him half an inch to the right. “Looser. Let it roll through, don’t fight it.”
For a moment he went perfectly still under my touch. The weight of his breath changed, deepened, and I had to force myself to step back.
He rolled. The ball curved straighter this time, knocking down six. Progress.
He turned to me, grin wide, and for a second I saw the boy he used to be, glowing under stadium lights.
Next round, he set up again, looser this time, and when he let go the ball flew clean, straight into the pocket. Pins exploded, a perfect strike.
The sound hadn’t even died before he spun toward me, laughter breaking out of him, and then his arms were around me. Tight, unthinking, full-bodied joy.
It hit me like nothing else had in twenty years — the heat of him pressed in, the smell of soap and sweat, the strength in his grip. My breath caught; my body remembered before my brain did. For a heartbeat, I didn’t move; in fact, I didn’t want to.
Then I felt it — the way his grip tightened, then faltered, like he realized what he’d done. He pulled back too quickly, eyes flickering with something I couldn’t name.
I forced a smirk, words steadier than I felt. “Don’t get cocky, Miller.”
His grin came back, softer this time, and he ducked his head before turning back toward the lane.
But the echo of him lingered — the warmth of his arms, the way he’d held on a fraction too long. And all I could think was how easy it was to fall into him, how much harder it was to step away.
The game wound down frame by frame, pins clattering, balls thudding, our laughter slipping out too easy. Neither of us kept much track of the score — though I suspected I was ahead — but that wasn’t the point. It hadn’t been the point since the second frame, when he hugged me and stole my breath.
By the time we dropped our shoes back at the counter, the alley had quieted. The birthday group was gone, leaving behind stray balloons tangled in the chairs. A pair of teenagers were still playing at the far lane, but their giggles and shrieks barely reached us over the jukebox humming an old country ballad.
We claimed a booth by the snack counter, split a basket of fries. Grease bled through the paper lining, the salt sharp on my tongue.
Kellan leaned back, stretching out those long legs under the table, his laugh still buzzing faint in my ears. He plucked a fry, and the sight punched me with memory so hard I nearly reeled. Twenty years ago, same booth, same basket of fries. His smile younger, my chest lighter. We’d sat here like this a hundred times, shoulder to shoulder, daring each other to snag the last fry.
Now the years hung between us, heavy as ever, but so did the pull.
I dragged a fry through the smear of ketchup, tried to act casual while heat crawled up the back of my neck. He caught me looking, one brow lifting like he was about to call me on it, but he didn’t. Just smirked and reached for another fry.
Nothing’s changed.
