Page 16 of Kellan & Emmett (Gomillion High Reunion #1)

Kellan

Heat pressed down, thick as the noise around me. Kids bouncing at my side, parents watching from the bleachers, Rick’s grin sharp as a spotlight.

Guest coach. The words hit harder than the whistle had. My pulse kicked, a jolt low in my gut, the kind of crossroads moment you couldn’t sidestep.

I’d packed a bag this morning. Stared at it like it might tell me what to do. And now here I was, standing on a field I hadn’t touched in twenty years, a dozen pairs of young eyes waiting to hear my answer.

“Yeah.”

My voice wasn’t polished. I didn’t have a speech, or a plan. Just a short, firm breath of a word.

“I’ll stick around. I’ll help.”

The kids erupted, voices tumbling over one another. Rick grinned like he’d just won the lottery. Parents nodded from the sideline, easy smiles, approving murmurs.

“We’ll hash out the details on Monday,”

he said, dropping his voice so it was for me, not the crowd.

“Schedule, paperwork, liability waivers—all that boring stuff. But for now—”

He tipped his cap toward the kids still hanging back, waving like I was some kind of pro.

“—looks like you’ve already won ’em over.”

Pride flickered sharp in my chest—because this part was easy. Saying yes was easy. Being useful, showing up, putting on the coach’s voice. I knew how to do that.

But figuring out the rest? Where I’d sleep once the money ran out, what the hell my life looked like past this field—none of that was simple.

Through it all, I felt him. The weight of Emmett’s gaze from the bleachers. I didn’t have to look to know he hadn’t moved, hadn’t left. My skin prickled.

Rick blew his whistle again.

“Alright, that’s it! Pack it up, we’ll see you Monday[4]!”

Parents started calling out names, voices carrying across the field as kids clattered toward the bleachers.

TThe field emptied in slow motion, or maybe that was just how it felt. Parents shepherded kids toward minivans, voices fading with each slam of a door. Rick’s whistle dangled from his neck, quiet now, a small metallic glint.

Sweat cooled sticky on my back. My hand flexed against my thigh, restless.

And I could feel the weight of his stare from the bleachers, steady as a spotlight, pulling at me no matter how I tried to keep my eyes on the field.

Finally, I looked.

Emmett stood, arms folded, his frame angled like he couldn’t decide if he was staying or leaving. He wasn’t scowling, wasn’t smiling either—just watching, the kind of gaze that stripped me down to parts I didn’t know how to hide.

The last kid hollered a goodbye and clattered off, the noise thinning into nothing. For a beat, it was just the two of us across that stretch of grass.

My chest tugged like someone had hooked a fist behind my ribs.

I could’ve walked the other way, could’ve headed straight for the parking lot, let the moment slide like I had a hundred chances before.

But my feet wouldn’t move that way.

A step forward. Then another. Each one too loud in the hush of the field, crunch of gravel carrying, like even the ground wanted to make a damn announcement.

He didn’t move. Just stood there, jaw working like he was grinding back words. Watching me close the space.

And God, if that wasn’t the most terrifying part—because once I reached him, I had no idea what came next.

The distance shrank to a few feet. Close enough to see the way the heat had flushed the top of his chest above the open collar of his shirt. Close enough to catch the faint scent of cologne that clung to him, stubborn even out here in the sun.

I stopped, pulse jackhammering. For a second neither of us spoke, the weight of twenty years pressing down hard, thicker than the heat.

I cleared my throat.

“I didn’t think you’d be here.”

The words were rougher than I meant.

Silence stretched between us. Uneasy, fragile. But not sharp the way it had been in the week I’d been here.

“Didn’t think you’d say yes.”

His arms stayed crossed, hair falling into his eyes, but he didn’t look away.

“Guess the field got its hooks back in you.”

Heat prickled the back of my neck, though I couldn’t tell if it was from the sun or from standing under that gaze.

“Maybe it did.”

His eyes stayed on me, unreadable, and it made me shift, weight rolling heel to toe like I was back under Friday night lights, waiting for a snap.

Then he spoke again, low.

“You didn’t check out this morning.”

Not an accusation, not casual either.

“Figured you’d be on a flight by now.”

I dragged a hand over the back of my neck, buying time.

“I was packed,”

I admitted. A beat. My throat worked.

“Bag’s still sitting by the door.”

His brow ticked, but he didn’t move.

“So what stopped you?”

Air rushed out of me in something closer to a laugh, but there was no humor in it. My shoulders sagged.

“Truth is…”

I had to look past him, anywhere but straight into those eyes, or the words would stick.

“…I didn’t know what I was going to do next. I’m floundering.”

The confession hung there, heavier than the heat pressing against my skin. For a moment, he didn’t answer. My chest tightened, bracing for the scoff, the shake of his head, the cold wall I’d been running into since I got back.

Instead, after too long, he said quietly.

“At least that’s honest.”

Softer than I deserved.

Something in me eased, just barely. Enough to let me breathe.

I shifted, toes digging into the dirt like I could anchor myself to the ground.

“I resigned from my job,”

I said, the words tasting bitter now that they were out.

“Gave up my lease. No plan. No backup. Nothing lined up.”

My laugh was sharp, self-directed.

“It’s a fucked-up thing to do.”

Emmett’s jaw worked. His arms stayed folded, but his eyes—God, his eyes—felt like they were cutting straight through me, seeing every hollow space I’d been trying to cover. I wanted to look away. I didn’t.

Damn. I couldn’t read him. Couldn’t tell if he was about to walk away or let me stand there with the words hanging like a damn noose around my neck. My palms itched. Every second of silence stretched longer than the last.

All I knew was that I’d finally said it out loud — the truth I’d been ducking since I left L.A. — and the one person I’d sworn I’d never admit weakness to was staring back at me.

My throat burned. I held his gaze anyway. Waiting.