Kellan & Emmett: A Small Town MM Romance, page 3
Chapter 4
Emmett
Kellan’s footsteps faded along the hallway, each thud landing somewhere under my ribs. Then silence.
I hadn’t expected him—not here at the inn. When I pulled up the system just now, his name blinked back at me, plain as day. Miller. Grace must’ve processed the booking when it came through the site, slotted it into the calendar, prepped the room. I’d skimmed the entry once but never thought twice—Miller was common enough. I hadn’t let myself imagine it could be him.
Seeing him again at the gym earlier, then at the after-party—I thought that had burned off the shock. Twenty years is long enough to sand down old memories, to file away what someone used to look like.
But the second he walked through my door tonight, bag slung over his shoulder, looking like he belonged nowhere and everywhere at once, the ground shifted.
The Kellan in my head had been eighteen forever. Wide grin, pads on his shoulders, my name on his lips like it was the easiest thing in the world. The man upstairs wasn’t that boy. Broader now, lines around his eyes, hair darker. But the effect was the same: one look, and I was seventeen again, standing on the edge of something I never got to keep.
Anger came next, quick and hot, the kind that burned through nostalgia. He’d left. No explanation. No goodbye. Just gone. Twenty years later, I was still carrying the wreckage, and he’d walked back into town like it was nothing.
He wasn’t getting under my skin. Not again.
I’d spent too long patching myself back together. This time, I’d be smarter. He could sleep under my roof, pass me in the hall, hell, even smile at me like he used to—but that was all.
He didn’t get a second chance at me.
I rose from the chair and got up to lock the front door. Turn the deadbolt, jiggle the knob, flick the porch light off. The house sighed around me, wood beams settling like they knew the hour.
My gaze snagged on the old rocking chair in the corner. Her chair. Miss Cole never sat anywhere else, not once in all the years I knew her. The cushions had been reupholstered since her passing, brighter fabric now, but the grooves on the arms were the same.
I paused.
When Kellan left for LA, I unraveled. He’d been my anchor since we were kids—summers at the creek, winters on the bleachers, graduation night that changed everything. And then he was gone.
Miss Cole filled the gap before I even realized I needed one. First it was yard work, then odd jobs around the house. She paid me more in conversation than dollars—stories about the students she used to teach, recipes for cakes she swore she’d perfected.
When her health started to go—first the diabetes, then the stroke—I stayed. Made sure she ate. Drove her to doctor’s appointments. Sat in a chair across from her, night after night, when her hands trembled too much to hold a book steady.
She never had kids. Never married. No cousins or nieces waiting in the wings. When she died, it turned out she’d left the house to me.
I’d thought about selling. God knows it would’ve been easier. But the walls still smelled like cinnamon, and the porch still sang when the wind hit it right, and for the first time since Kellan left, I felt rooted.
So I stayed. Painted the porch, fixed the roof, turned it into a bed-and-breakfast. My bed-and-breakfast.
And now he was upstairs, sleeping under the same roof.
I entered the kitchen, which was dark except for the glow above the stove. I didn’t bother with the overheads, just grabbed the bottle of bourbon from the cabinet and poured two fingers into a glass. The burn hit the back of my throat sharp, but it didn’t quiet the noise in my head.
It didn’t matter how many years had passed, how much I’d built here, how far I’d come from the boy he left behind. One look, and everything I’d shoved into a box slammed open again.
I told myself I didn’t care. That I was out now, living my life, running the inn, doing fine without him. Truth was, I’d built this place from the rubble he left.
But seeing him—really seeing him, not just across a room full of former classmates, but here in my space—brought it all back.
Graduation night.
The crowd fading, the air thick with summer heat, and then—his mouth on mine. Not a brush. Not a mistake. Solid. Certain. The kind of kiss that seared straight through skin and bone and told me, without words, this mattered. That I mattered. For one impossible heartbeat, it felt like the world tilted open, like we’d stepped out of boyhood and into something bigger, brighter, ours.
And then morning came.
He was gone.
There wasn’t a note. No explanation. Just his absence—like that kiss had been erased everywhere except in me.
And now? He looked good. Better than good. Broader through the shoulders, a man instead of the boy I’d memorized. Handsome in a way that made my pulse trip even as my jaw locked.
Had he married? Had kids? The ring finger on his left hand was bare, but that didn’t mean much. If he was still hiding, I doubted he’d ever parade the truth.
I gripped the glass tighter, bourbon sloshing.
Dammit.
I tipped back the last swallow, heat crawling through me that had nothing to do with the bourbon.
The thoughts swirling in my head didn't matter. Whatever Kellan Miller was now, whoever he was now, I wasn’t about to find out.
Upstairs, my footsteps fell quiet against the smooth hardwood as I crossed into my bedroom. The air conditioner hummed steady overhead, cool air spilling through the vent. I stretched out on the mattress, staring at the blank white ceiling, trying to will my thoughts quiet.
Sleep didn’t come.
Tomorrow was packed—tours, games, yearbook nonsense, and some former schoolmates booked under my roof. I couldn’t avoid Kellan even if I wanted to. Which I did. Or I told myself I did.
Twenty years ago, I swore I wouldn’t give him the chance to hurt me again.
Now he was sleeping under my roof.
May 24
First night back in Gomillion behind me. Didn’t sleep much—jet lag, nerves, or maybe just the sound of being back in these walls. Hard to tell.
The reunion schedule looks harmless enough on paper: campus tour, yearbooks printed twenty years late, a prom theme that’ll probably have us all sweating under neon lights. The kind of schedule that’s supposed to stir nostalgia, not heartburn.
Part of me wants to lean into it. See the changes on campus. Catch up with old faces. Maybe even laugh about who we used to be.
But none of that feels simple with Emmett in the room. I catch myself scanning crowds, tracking him without meaning to. It’s like my compass never reset.
Maybe today will be different. Or maybe it’ll just remind me of how far I ran, and how close he still feels anyway.
—K
Chapter 5
Kellan
The smell of bacon and brewed coffee drifted up the stairwell before I even reached the bottom step. By the time I stepped into the dining room, the place was already alive—chairs scraping, silverware clinking, voices rising and falling in easy currents. Sunlight spilled through the wide windows, striking the mason jars of wildflowers set at each table.
And Emmett.
He moved through the room like it was second nature, topping off mugs, answering questions. Button-down sleeves rolled, expression composed, he looked every bit the innkeeper. Professional. Untouchable.
I grabbed a plate at the sideboard more for cover than hunger. Eggs. A biscuit. Fruit I barely registered.
“Coffee?” His voice brushed my shoulder.
I turned, heat already creeping up my neck. “Unless you’re hiding sweet tea back there, yeah, thanks.”
He poured without reaction, steam rising between us. Not so much as a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Early start for a Saturday, huh?” I tried again, lifting the cup. “Nine o’clock tour? Thought reunions were about sleeping in and regretting the night before.”
“Plenty of time to regret things later.” His answer clipped short, polite enough for anyone else to miss the edge.
I nodded like I hadn’t felt the sting. “Right.”
He was already gone, refilling another guest’s mug.
I sipped. Too hot, but my eyes tracked him anyway. Efficient. Calm. At home in a way I’d never managed as an adult. Regret pressed tight under my ribs. I’d run from Gomillion like it was poison. He’d stayed. Rooted. Built something. And damn if he didn’t look good doing it.
“Hey, Miller.” A voice at my elbow pulled me back. I glanced over—Caden North, taller than most even sitting down. I remembered him from the basketball team. He gave me a quick nod, easy smile.
“Caden,” I said, returning it.
“Hell of a turnout, huh?”
“Yeah.” Polite. Nothing more.
A couple of other classmates offered passing greetings as they drifted to the buffet. I managed short replies, the kind of small talk that could be over in three words.
When a guy, whose name eluded me, but I think was in the school band, jostled past to reach the orange juice, my coffee nearly tipped, dark liquid sloshing against the rim.
“Sorry, man!” he said, grabbing a napkin.
“Don’t worry about it,” I muttered, blotting at the spill.
From across the room, I caught Emmett’s glance. Just a flicker—his eyes on me, then gone as quick as it came. No warmth. No opening. Just the reminder of a wall I’d never learned how to climb.
At the campus tour, we got to see the new wing that’d been added. The colors were bright with fresh paint and the windows were wider.
I trailed with a loose knot of classmates. Derrick Barnes pointed out the spot near the science lab where he’d set off a stink bomb in tenth grade, swearing the janitor had tried to hunt him down for weeks. Jamal Johnson cracked a joke about still having nightmares of Coach’s push-up punishments.
That sent the two of them right back into old rhythms—ribbing each other about who’d gotten softer since high school.
“Definitely you,” Derrick said, poking Jamal in the stomach.
“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.
By the time Theo Brooks’ whistle cut the final seconds, the score tilted just enough in the alumni’s favor. The bleachers erupted, old teammates slapping backs like no time had passed. For a moment, it almost felt like history had looped back on itself—like the class of 2005 had claimed one more win.
By the time Theo Brooks’ final whistle blew—the same Theo who now taught English at the high school and served as the team’s assistant coach—the alumni had edged out the varsity by a handful of points. The bleachers erupted, old teammates slapping backs like no time had passed. I clapped along with everyone else, though my eyes slid sideways before I could stop them.
Emmett was smiling—small, quiet, nothing showy, but real. Pride softened his face, pride that didn’t surprise me. He’d always loved watching people succeed, even if he’d never stepped onto the court himself.
The ache came quickly. Once, that smile had been for me—my plays, my games, my name. Now it wasn’t. And the emptiness of that truth pressed sharp beneath my ribs.
Chapter 6
Kellan
The knot in my tie looked like a toddler had tied it with their eyes closed. I yanked it loose, tried again in front of the mirror above the dresser. Too tight this time. My fingers were useless.
The rental suit wasn’t helping. Stiff shoulders, collar that pinched like it had a grudge against me. I muttered a curse under my breath and dropped my hands, staring at the stranger in the mirror. Nearly forty. A little more gray at the temples. A little less shine in the eyes. And about to walk into a gym decorated like the 1980s had exploded.
A knock broke the silence.
I frowned, crossing the room. Nobody was supposed to come by. Maybe someone from the committee, maybe—
I opened the door.
Emmett.
He leaned against the frame like it cost him something to be standing there. Crisp shirt, sleeves rolled once at the forearms, hair brushed back. My chest pulled tight.
His gaze flicked down, caught the mess at my throat. A huff of air, almost a laugh, not cruel. “You still can’t tie one, can you?”
Heat crawled up my neck. “It’s been a while.” I tugged at the damn piece of fabric.
A pause. Then, quieter: “I used to do it for you all the time.”
The memory landed before I could shove it aside—me at thirteen, my father barking that no son of his would walk into church looking sloppy. Emmett’s fingers had steadied the knot at my throat, faster and neater than I ever managed. He’d done the same before school dances, before graduation. Always gruff about it, always acting like I was hopeless, but he’d never let me walk out with it crooked.
He stepped inside before I could argue, close enough that the faint clean scent of cologne and soap reached me. “Come here. Let me help you.” His voice was gruff, but not unkind, his fingers already brushing mine aside.
Emmett
Kellan’s footsteps faded along the hallway, each thud landing somewhere under my ribs. Then silence.
I hadn’t expected him—not here at the inn. When I pulled up the system just now, his name blinked back at me, plain as day. Miller. Grace must’ve processed the booking when it came through the site, slotted it into the calendar, prepped the room. I’d skimmed the entry once but never thought twice—Miller was common enough. I hadn’t let myself imagine it could be him.
Seeing him again at the gym earlier, then at the after-party—I thought that had burned off the shock. Twenty years is long enough to sand down old memories, to file away what someone used to look like.
But the second he walked through my door tonight, bag slung over his shoulder, looking like he belonged nowhere and everywhere at once, the ground shifted.
The Kellan in my head had been eighteen forever. Wide grin, pads on his shoulders, my name on his lips like it was the easiest thing in the world. The man upstairs wasn’t that boy. Broader now, lines around his eyes, hair darker. But the effect was the same: one look, and I was seventeen again, standing on the edge of something I never got to keep.
Anger came next, quick and hot, the kind that burned through nostalgia. He’d left. No explanation. No goodbye. Just gone. Twenty years later, I was still carrying the wreckage, and he’d walked back into town like it was nothing.
He wasn’t getting under my skin. Not again.
I’d spent too long patching myself back together. This time, I’d be smarter. He could sleep under my roof, pass me in the hall, hell, even smile at me like he used to—but that was all.
He didn’t get a second chance at me.
I rose from the chair and got up to lock the front door. Turn the deadbolt, jiggle the knob, flick the porch light off. The house sighed around me, wood beams settling like they knew the hour.
My gaze snagged on the old rocking chair in the corner. Her chair. Miss Cole never sat anywhere else, not once in all the years I knew her. The cushions had been reupholstered since her passing, brighter fabric now, but the grooves on the arms were the same.
I paused.
When Kellan left for LA, I unraveled. He’d been my anchor since we were kids—summers at the creek, winters on the bleachers, graduation night that changed everything. And then he was gone.
Miss Cole filled the gap before I even realized I needed one. First it was yard work, then odd jobs around the house. She paid me more in conversation than dollars—stories about the students she used to teach, recipes for cakes she swore she’d perfected.
When her health started to go—first the diabetes, then the stroke—I stayed. Made sure she ate. Drove her to doctor’s appointments. Sat in a chair across from her, night after night, when her hands trembled too much to hold a book steady.
She never had kids. Never married. No cousins or nieces waiting in the wings. When she died, it turned out she’d left the house to me.
I’d thought about selling. God knows it would’ve been easier. But the walls still smelled like cinnamon, and the porch still sang when the wind hit it right, and for the first time since Kellan left, I felt rooted.
So I stayed. Painted the porch, fixed the roof, turned it into a bed-and-breakfast. My bed-and-breakfast.
And now he was upstairs, sleeping under the same roof.
I entered the kitchen, which was dark except for the glow above the stove. I didn’t bother with the overheads, just grabbed the bottle of bourbon from the cabinet and poured two fingers into a glass. The burn hit the back of my throat sharp, but it didn’t quiet the noise in my head.
It didn’t matter how many years had passed, how much I’d built here, how far I’d come from the boy he left behind. One look, and everything I’d shoved into a box slammed open again.
I told myself I didn’t care. That I was out now, living my life, running the inn, doing fine without him. Truth was, I’d built this place from the rubble he left.
But seeing him—really seeing him, not just across a room full of former classmates, but here in my space—brought it all back.
Graduation night.
The crowd fading, the air thick with summer heat, and then—his mouth on mine. Not a brush. Not a mistake. Solid. Certain. The kind of kiss that seared straight through skin and bone and told me, without words, this mattered. That I mattered. For one impossible heartbeat, it felt like the world tilted open, like we’d stepped out of boyhood and into something bigger, brighter, ours.
And then morning came.
He was gone.
There wasn’t a note. No explanation. Just his absence—like that kiss had been erased everywhere except in me.
And now? He looked good. Better than good. Broader through the shoulders, a man instead of the boy I’d memorized. Handsome in a way that made my pulse trip even as my jaw locked.
Had he married? Had kids? The ring finger on his left hand was bare, but that didn’t mean much. If he was still hiding, I doubted he’d ever parade the truth.
I gripped the glass tighter, bourbon sloshing.
Dammit.
I tipped back the last swallow, heat crawling through me that had nothing to do with the bourbon.
The thoughts swirling in my head didn't matter. Whatever Kellan Miller was now, whoever he was now, I wasn’t about to find out.
Upstairs, my footsteps fell quiet against the smooth hardwood as I crossed into my bedroom. The air conditioner hummed steady overhead, cool air spilling through the vent. I stretched out on the mattress, staring at the blank white ceiling, trying to will my thoughts quiet.
Sleep didn’t come.
Tomorrow was packed—tours, games, yearbook nonsense, and some former schoolmates booked under my roof. I couldn’t avoid Kellan even if I wanted to. Which I did. Or I told myself I did.
Twenty years ago, I swore I wouldn’t give him the chance to hurt me again.
Now he was sleeping under my roof.
May 24
First night back in Gomillion behind me. Didn’t sleep much—jet lag, nerves, or maybe just the sound of being back in these walls. Hard to tell.
The reunion schedule looks harmless enough on paper: campus tour, yearbooks printed twenty years late, a prom theme that’ll probably have us all sweating under neon lights. The kind of schedule that’s supposed to stir nostalgia, not heartburn.
Part of me wants to lean into it. See the changes on campus. Catch up with old faces. Maybe even laugh about who we used to be.
But none of that feels simple with Emmett in the room. I catch myself scanning crowds, tracking him without meaning to. It’s like my compass never reset.
Maybe today will be different. Or maybe it’ll just remind me of how far I ran, and how close he still feels anyway.
—K
Chapter 5
Kellan
The smell of bacon and brewed coffee drifted up the stairwell before I even reached the bottom step. By the time I stepped into the dining room, the place was already alive—chairs scraping, silverware clinking, voices rising and falling in easy currents. Sunlight spilled through the wide windows, striking the mason jars of wildflowers set at each table.
And Emmett.
He moved through the room like it was second nature, topping off mugs, answering questions. Button-down sleeves rolled, expression composed, he looked every bit the innkeeper. Professional. Untouchable.
I grabbed a plate at the sideboard more for cover than hunger. Eggs. A biscuit. Fruit I barely registered.
“Coffee?” His voice brushed my shoulder.
I turned, heat already creeping up my neck. “Unless you’re hiding sweet tea back there, yeah, thanks.”
He poured without reaction, steam rising between us. Not so much as a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Early start for a Saturday, huh?” I tried again, lifting the cup. “Nine o’clock tour? Thought reunions were about sleeping in and regretting the night before.”
“Plenty of time to regret things later.” His answer clipped short, polite enough for anyone else to miss the edge.
I nodded like I hadn’t felt the sting. “Right.”
He was already gone, refilling another guest’s mug.
I sipped. Too hot, but my eyes tracked him anyway. Efficient. Calm. At home in a way I’d never managed as an adult. Regret pressed tight under my ribs. I’d run from Gomillion like it was poison. He’d stayed. Rooted. Built something. And damn if he didn’t look good doing it.
“Hey, Miller.” A voice at my elbow pulled me back. I glanced over—Caden North, taller than most even sitting down. I remembered him from the basketball team. He gave me a quick nod, easy smile.
“Caden,” I said, returning it.
“Hell of a turnout, huh?”
“Yeah.” Polite. Nothing more.
A couple of other classmates offered passing greetings as they drifted to the buffet. I managed short replies, the kind of small talk that could be over in three words.
When a guy, whose name eluded me, but I think was in the school band, jostled past to reach the orange juice, my coffee nearly tipped, dark liquid sloshing against the rim.
“Sorry, man!” he said, grabbing a napkin.
“Don’t worry about it,” I muttered, blotting at the spill.
From across the room, I caught Emmett’s glance. Just a flicker—his eyes on me, then gone as quick as it came. No warmth. No opening. Just the reminder of a wall I’d never learned how to climb.
At the campus tour, we got to see the new wing that’d been added. The colors were bright with fresh paint and the windows were wider.
I trailed with a loose knot of classmates. Derrick Barnes pointed out the spot near the science lab where he’d set off a stink bomb in tenth grade, swearing the janitor had tried to hunt him down for weeks. Jamal Johnson cracked a joke about still having nightmares of Coach’s push-up punishments.
That sent the two of them right back into old rhythms—ribbing each other about who’d gotten softer since high school.
“Definitely you,” Derrick said, poking Jamal in the stomach.
“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.
By the time Theo Brooks’ whistle cut the final seconds, the score tilted just enough in the alumni’s favor. The bleachers erupted, old teammates slapping backs like no time had passed. For a moment, it almost felt like history had looped back on itself—like the class of 2005 had claimed one more win.
By the time Theo Brooks’ final whistle blew—the same Theo who now taught English at the high school and served as the team’s assistant coach—the alumni had edged out the varsity by a handful of points. The bleachers erupted, old teammates slapping backs like no time had passed. I clapped along with everyone else, though my eyes slid sideways before I could stop them.
Emmett was smiling—small, quiet, nothing showy, but real. Pride softened his face, pride that didn’t surprise me. He’d always loved watching people succeed, even if he’d never stepped onto the court himself.
The ache came quickly. Once, that smile had been for me—my plays, my games, my name. Now it wasn’t. And the emptiness of that truth pressed sharp beneath my ribs.
Chapter 6
Kellan
The knot in my tie looked like a toddler had tied it with their eyes closed. I yanked it loose, tried again in front of the mirror above the dresser. Too tight this time. My fingers were useless.
The rental suit wasn’t helping. Stiff shoulders, collar that pinched like it had a grudge against me. I muttered a curse under my breath and dropped my hands, staring at the stranger in the mirror. Nearly forty. A little more gray at the temples. A little less shine in the eyes. And about to walk into a gym decorated like the 1980s had exploded.
A knock broke the silence.
I frowned, crossing the room. Nobody was supposed to come by. Maybe someone from the committee, maybe—
I opened the door.
Emmett.
He leaned against the frame like it cost him something to be standing there. Crisp shirt, sleeves rolled once at the forearms, hair brushed back. My chest pulled tight.
His gaze flicked down, caught the mess at my throat. A huff of air, almost a laugh, not cruel. “You still can’t tie one, can you?”
Heat crawled up my neck. “It’s been a while.” I tugged at the damn piece of fabric.
A pause. Then, quieter: “I used to do it for you all the time.”
The memory landed before I could shove it aside—me at thirteen, my father barking that no son of his would walk into church looking sloppy. Emmett’s fingers had steadied the knot at my throat, faster and neater than I ever managed. He’d done the same before school dances, before graduation. Always gruff about it, always acting like I was hopeless, but he’d never let me walk out with it crooked.
He stepped inside before I could argue, close enough that the faint clean scent of cologne and soap reached me. “Come here. Let me help you.” His voice was gruff, but not unkind, his fingers already brushing mine aside.
