Page 96 of Caden & Theo

He’s quiet for a second and then gently says, “I mean it. You always had a way of making people feel like they mattered.”

I glance down, suddenly too warm in the face. “Well, at least someone still listens to me. I told Jeremiah not to wear mismatched sneakers to practice, and he said, ‘It’s fashion, Coach.’”

Caden chuckles. “He’s not wrong. That’s peak Gen Z defiance.”

“And Coach nearly had a coronary. Thought the kid was concussed.”

We laugh again. It’s the kind of laughter you forget your body needs until it fills you up. The brimming tension is still there and pressed between us. But we’re making space around it. Light is cracking through.

“So….” Caden leans an elbow on the table. “Moses still isn’t here full-time, huh?”

“Nope. I rarely see him these days.”

“Still because of all that shit that went on years back?”

I nod. “Yeah. I think so. But if you’re drunk enough, he’ll show you the shelf of people’s secrets.”

Caden lifts a brow. “Wait, what?”

I sip my beer. “You’ll see. Just don’t piss him off. He still remembers who broke the foosball table in 2004.”

“That was definitely Finn.”

“Tell him that,” I say, laughing. “Moses has a memory like an elephant. A bitter, bourbon-soaked elephant.”

The conversation meanders.

We talk about dumb pranks from senior year. About how Kirkwood’s hair hasn’t changed and how Vanessa still makes cookies for teachers. About Clara, who probably knows more than the NSA and has no shame about eavesdropping.

“It’s wild,” Caden murmurs, looking around. “Feels like the whole town just… paused. Like I could walk outside tomorrow, and it’d be senior year again.”

I hum in agreement. “Except we’re not those guys anymore.”

“No,” he says. “We’re not.”

But he doesn’t sound sad about it. Just… aware.

And neither of us points out that despite the years, despite the scar tissue, we still fit like puzzle pieces with slightly softened edges.

At midnight, the bar starts to thin out. The jukebox plays something older than either of us. Moses yells good night to a group staggering toward the exit. I watch Caden finish his beer, the curve of his fingers around the bottle as familiar as the ache it triggers.

“You checked in okay at Emmett’s?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“You good to get back tonight?”

He nods. “It’s close enough.”

I hesitate. “Tomorrow’s the alumni game.”

“I saw,” he says. “You coaching?”

“Reffing,” I say with a grin. “But yeah. I’ll be there.”

He holds my gaze. “Good. I’ll come.”

It’s not a promise. But it’s something.