Page 93 of Caden & Theo
Welcome Back, Millions!reads the glitter-strewn banner hanging above the check-in tables. It’s still early—just after six—and the gym’s filling up. Laughter rings out in waves. Hugs. Back slaps. People snapping selfies beside their old lockers. I help with some light crowd wrangling after a brief stint of manning the registration desks.
I recognize most of the faces. Some more than others. That’s what happens when you’re the teacher who stayed. You end up straddling two worlds—the guy who was one of them and the one they now call “Coach Brooks.”
It’s disorienting.
I glance toward the folding table near the bleachers. Maddie Coyle, two years below me in school and now the PTA president, is handing out name tags. Her toddler’s already face-planted in a tray of glitter markers. I offer her a smile, and she throws me a look of deep maternal despair.
“Beer later?” she mouths.
I nod. “Count on it.”
I do my rounds, slipping easily into small talk. I’m good at this. Familiar. Friendly. Safe. I float through conversations like someone who isn’t half cracked beneath the surface.
It’s 7:23 p.m. when it happens.
He walks in through the side doors.
He’s not even trying to be dramatic, but everything slows. The music. The buzz of conversation. The quickening in my chest.
Caden.
I haven’t seen him since he left my porch last night. I didn’t sleep much after he left either—too wired, too raw, and too aware of how close his scent had clung to my sofa cushions.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a soft gray Henley that fits just snug enough across his chest and forearms to punch the breath out of me. His hair is shorter than it was back then, his jawline more defined. But the shape of him, the weight of him in this space? It’s unchanged.
He still draws attention like gravity.
A few heads turn. I hear a few murmured greetings—people recognizing the old basketball star, connecting dots. Someone claps him on the back. He smiles, polite but guarded.
Then his gaze finds mine across the room.
It holds, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
He doesn’t move toward me, and I don’t move toward him. There’s too much air between us, thick and humming. Instead, I turn away like I’m needed somewhere—which, technically,I am. A mic isn’t working. Another teacher from the art department needs help hauling a projector. I move through it all automatically.
By nine thirty, I’ve had two conversations about booster funding, one about my dating life (shout-out to Martha Brewer for that invasive line of questioning), and barely any sightings of the man who set my entire nervous system on fire just twenty-four hours earlier.
“Hey, Coach Brooks!”
I turn to see Trina Jennings waving me over near the bleachers, a sparkly reunion cup in one hand and a crooked smile on her face.
“Come do the yearbook photo trivia!” she calls out. “There’s a prize!”
I give her a thumbs-up but don’t move. Instead, I check the time again and let out a breath.
“I’m gonna head to Timbers,” I tell Justin as I pass him. “See who’s migrated over.”
I grin as I back away, giving Vanessa a half-hearted salute and promising to swing by later to help clean up, though we both know I probably won’t. My volunteer duties are technically done, and the weight in my chest has only grown heavier the longer I’ve stayed. Smiles are starting to feel a little too fixed. Every shadow at the edge of the gym has me turning my head, hoping—stupidly—that he’ll still be here and I can talk to him.
But he’s nowhere to be seen, so I make my exit.
Outside, the warm May air hits like a balm. The streetlights cast long shadows across the parking lot as I head to my truck. My name badge is stuffed in my pocket, and my pulse thrums somewhere in my throat.
I take the long way to Timbers, past our old route from the school to the court, past the convenience store that still stocks those awful green apple slushies Caden used to swear were“hydrating.” I’m not particularly keen to stay out any longer, but I go anyway.
Because if he’s going to be anywhere, it’ll be here.
The after-party is already in full swing at Timbers & Tallboys. It seems like a lot of folks ducked out early. The bar’s louder, darker, more relaxed than the school gym. String lights crisscross the ceiling. The old wooden floors creak under the weight of alumni reclaiming their youth.
