Page 14 of Kellan & Emmett (Gomillion High Reunion #1)

Kellan

My travel bag sat open on the chair by the window, clothes folded in neat stacks. A couple of shirts, a pair of jeans, the basics lined up as if order could disguise indecision. The zipper tab clicked softly when I touched it, louder than it should’ve been in the quiet room.

My chest was tight, like packing meant signing a contract I wasn’t sure I wanted. I smoothed a palm down one shirt, then pulled it back out, shaking it flat just to fold it again. Busywork. The kind of thing you did when you couldn’t admit you were stalling.

Outside the window, morning sunlight slanted across the courtyard. A couple lingered over coffee at one of the wrought-iron tables, their low laughter threading with the clink of silverware.

Every part of me knew I should be on a plane tonight. That was the plan. No job in L.A., no lease, no one waiting—but at least it was familiar. At least I knew how to disappear there.

Still, Principal Bushman’s words looped in my head like a broken record. Damn man probably hadn’t thought twice when he said it, but it stuck. Because the truth was, I could still smell the grass, still hear the crunch of cleats, still taste the adrenaline of those nights we thought we’d live forever.

I scrubbed both hands over my face and sat heavy on the edge of the mattress. The springs groaned under me. My knees bounced, restless, while my eyes kept dragging to the rental keys on the nightstand. One drive out of town and this would all be behind me again. One drive to the rec field, and maybe it wouldn’t.

And underneath all of it, Emmett. Always Emmett. His voice last night still sharp in my ears, his face when he walked away, that wall slamming down. He didn’t owe me softness. Hell, I didn’t deserve it. But the thought of leaving without—without at least trying—sat like a stone in my gut.

I leaned forward, elbows braced on my thighs, staring down at my hands. They wouldn’t keep still. Fingers flexed, clenched, flexed again. The kind of restless energy I used to burn off in two-a-days or under Friday night lights. Now it just rattled through me with nowhere to go.

The suitcase stayed open. My chest stayed tight. And the question pressed harder: drive to the airport…or to the field?

I pushed off the bed, paced the length of the room, then back again. It felt too small all of a sudden, four walls pressing in like they wanted me gone. My hand hovered over the zipper but didn’t pull. Instead, I grabbed the rental keys and shoved them in my pocket.

The hall smelled like brewed coffee and lemon polish, same as it had all week. Guests murmured at their tables downstairs, plates clinking, the kind of breakfast chatter that belonged to people who knew their day, their place, their next step.

I didn’t.

By the time I slid behind the wheel, my palms were damp against the steering wheel. The engine turned over easy. The street stretched ahead, two choices I could taste in my mouth—left, toward the highway, the airport, the life I’d been running on fumes; or right, toward the field, where ghosts and maybe something more waited.

The blinker clicked. My pulse kept time with it. One, two, three beats before I flicked it right.

The grass spread wide, brighter under the May sun. The chain-link fence leaned in spots, same as it had when I was a kid sneaking in extra practice. A couple of boys chased each other near the end zone, their laughter carrying high and sharp. A whistle cut through, one of the coaches calling them back.

My throat went tight. My hand stayed locked on the gearshift long after I’d parked.

I told myself it was just curiosity. Just checking the place out, because Principal Bushman had put it in my head and I couldn’t let it go. But the way my chest ached said different. The way my legs buzzed like they’d sprint without me said different too.

I sat there another beat, watching the kids line up, cleats kicking at dirt.

Then I killed the engine and got out.

The air hit warm and thick, sun soaking straight through my shirt. The whistle blew again, and for half a second, it felt like I’d stepped back twenty years.

Only this time, I wasn’t sure if the field was waiting for me—or daring me to stay off it.

The crunch of gravel under my shoes sounded too loud.

I slowed near the fence, fingers curling through the chain link the way they had when I was a kid waiting my turn, watching the older boys run drills.

The links bit into my palm, grounding me, reminding me that this wasn’t memory—it was now.

Kids darted across the grass, jerseys hanging loose over bony shoulders.

They laughed loud, tripped over their own cleats, scrambled back to their feet like nothing could touch them.

On the sideline, a handful of parents leaned on coolers or folding chairs, arms crossed, chatting between shouts of encouragement.

The coaches—a couple of men about my age, one younger, maybe a former player himself—kept the herd moving with a whistle and broad hand gestures.

A spray of water arced into the air as one kid tipped his bottle too far back.

Another boy doubled over, laughing, until a coach barked and sent him back into line.

I should’ve turned around.

Should’ve climbed back into the rental and let the road swallow me whole.

But my feet stuck to the dirt path, eyes locked on the way the grass caught the sun, the faint white ghosts of yard lines still painted faintly across the field.

My chest pulled tight.

How many hours had I burned here? Winded, bruised, chasing something bigger than myself.

How many nights had I walked home with Emmett at my side, shoulder to shoulder?

I blinked hard, but the ache stayed.

For a second, I felt it—the old rhythm of the place. The slap of cleats, the bark of the whistle, the hum of being part of something. My fingers flexed against the fence.

And then one of the kids fumbled the ball.

The leather skittered across the dirt, bumping against my shoe like it had chosen me on purpose.

Instinct moved faster than thought—I bent, scooped it up, spun it once in my palm, the leather rough and familiar.

Old muscle memory hummed. I lobbed it back toward the line, easy, not thinking about who might be watching.

One of the kids—a skinny boy with a wide grin snatched it, eyes sparkling, and without hesitation zipped it right back at me. The throw wobbled, wild, but quick.

My body knew what to do. Hands soft, step into it, catch clean. No bobble, no fight, just air and grip and the faint smack of leather against my palms.

Gasps broke out. Then the noise swelled.

“Whoa!”

“Did you see that?”

“Like on TV!”

“Dude’s got hands!”

“That’s how the pros do it!”

“That was sick!”

Their voices clattered around me, bouncing off the chain link and the bleachers like I’d just walked out of an NFL highlight reel instead of some small-town ghost story.

Pride rose up, sweet as a hit of oxygen—and just as fast, the ache followed.

This was supposed to have been mine.

College ball, Sundays under the lights. The NFL. Until one snap ended it, and I’d had to settle for chalkboards and high school sidelines.

A whistle cut the noise clean in half.

I looked up. One of the coaches—broad-shouldered, early-to-mid-forties maybe, whistle cord digging into his neck—was squinting at me.

“Wait a damn minute.”

He stepped closer, like his eyes needed distance to line me up.

“That’s you, isn’t it? Kellan Miller?”

Heads swiveled. Parents. Kids. Even the other coaches.

My stomach dipped. “Yeah.”

“I knew it.”

His grin broke wide, proud like he’d uncovered treasure.

“That catch—I’d know it anywhere. I’m Rick Carter. Was just finishing college when y’all won the championship. Brad’s arm, your hands—nobody could touch you two. Lord, what was that? Twenty years?”

He let out a low whistle, shaking his head.

“Thought you went west and never looked back.”

The words hit hard. The pride in his voice lifted me for half a breath, and then the fall came, sharper than ever. Because I had gone west. And I hadn’t looked back—not once—until now.

“Coach knows him?”

one of the kids whispered loud enough for everyone to hear.

“You were famous here?”

another said.

“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.

“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 tugging hands 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.