Page 100 of Caden & Theo
Another whistle. People drift toward their benches. The crowd is bigger than I expected—alumni, curious locals, a few kids who only know me because their dads won’t shut up about a season that happened before they were born. I follow the flow to the former players’ side and drop onto the end of the bench to retie my shoe. When the PA crackles to life with someone’s dad announcing names, I catch more than a few double takes as mine is called. It’s fine. It’s expected.
It’s time.
I rise when the others do, huddle for a joking, loose game plan, and then we’re breaking to the floor. I walk past the scorer’s table, set my foot on the hardwood inside the sideline, and feel the whole world go quieter.
I do not look up to find Theo in that instant. I don’t need to. I already know exactly where he is. Where he has always been.
Whistle hanging loose from his mouth, his shirt doing absolutely nothing to hide how good he looks, he’s planted just off the baseline. Focused. Watching everything. Watching me.
The alumni game tips off, and for the first few plays, I’m all instinct. The kids are quick—fresh legs, light on their feet, darting in and out of passing lanes like minnows—but I’ve got strength and experience on my side. I muscle into position under the basket, feeling the slight give of the hardwood through my sneaker, the balanced weight of the prosthetic holding steady as I pivot. It’s different than before—always is—but it’s not a disadvantage. Just a different way of moving.
The leg hums with each push-off, a quiet reminder that it’s both part of me and something else entirely. The strain in my quads, the solid slam of the ball into my palms, the heat building under the socket—it’s all familiar in the best way.
Ten minutes in, my lungs are working harder, sweat slicking the back of my neck. My teammates are grinning at me like we’ve been running plays together for years. When I sink a short jumper over one of the varsity forwards, the crowd cheers.
It’s enough. I know my limit. I slap hands on the way to the bench, chest still heaving, prosthesis ticking faintly as I slow down. Applause follows me—louder than I expect—and for just a second, I let myself feel it. That I’m not just the guy who lost his career. Not just the accident.
When I finally look toward the baseline, Theo’s there, one hand resting on his hip, whistle spinning lazily from the cord. His eyes find mine.
It’s not a smile exactly. But it’s warm. Steady. The kind of look that makes it very, very easy to remember every single reason I came back here.
And for today, at least, he’s on my side of the line.
I take a seat on the bench, towel over my shoulders, water bottle cold in my hand, and watch the rest of the half play out. The kids are quick, relentless. I can already tell their coaches have them drilled on speed over brute strength. They slice through open space like they’re made of nothing but reflex and confidence. I find myself grinning, almost itching to get back out there, but knowing better than to push it.
Halftime hits. The scoreboard blares, and the gym fills with that restless chatter people fall into when they’ve got a few minutes to kill. I’m leaning back, catching my breath, when a shadow falls over me.
Soren Hayes.
I knew he was here—small towns never lose their ghosts—but seeing him up close, I’m reminded that time hasn’t softened him. He’s filled out, sure, but the smirk is the same. That smug, I’m-untouchable curve to his mouth. The mayor’s son, wrapped in privilege like it’s body armor. He always did know how to hide behind his dad when shit got real.
“Well, well,” he says, eyes flicking down my leg and back up with deliberate slowness. “Didn’t think you’d have the balls to play again after… you know.”
My fingers tighten around my water bottle. “After what?”
He shrugs, all mock innocence. “The accident. Figured you’d stick to, I don’t know, coaching the pity league or something. But hey, nice to see you proving me wrong.” His grin sharpens. “Kinda. Guess the new hardware doesn’t slow you down too much, huh?”
There’s a ripple in the noise around us—people close enough to hear, pretending not to. My pulse jumps, not from embarrassment, but from the pure, clean edge of anger.
I stand. Not quickly, not threatening, but I’m looking down at him now. “You really wanna do this here, Soren?”
He blinks, but that smirk doesn’t move. “Just making conversation.”
“Yeah?” I take a step closer, letting my voice drop low enough that only the nearby gawkers get the full effect. “Then here’s some for you—don’t ever mistake me playing through something for me being less than I was. I’m still stronger than you on my worst day. And that’s saying something.”
That finally cracks his expression. His jaw ticks. “You think you?—”
“Is there a problem?”
Theo’s voice cuts clean through the air, sharper than the whistle hanging from his neck. He’s there at my side, eyes locked on Soren with a kind of controlled fury that makes me almost sorry for the guy. Almost.
“No problem,” Soren says, too fast.
“Good,” Theo says, stepping just close enough that Soren has to shift back. “Then you can take your mouth and your half-baked insults somewhere else. Unless you’re signing up for the alumni game, you’ve got no business talking about someone else’s performance. Especially not his.”
Heat curls in my chest. God, he’s changed. Not in the way people mean when they talk about aging—though, yeah, he’s thicker now, stronger through the shoulders, every inch of him built from years of staying active. No, it’s in the way he holds himself, the absolute certainty in his voice.
And all I can think is, what would it feel like to taste him now? Does he still kiss like he means it—all heat and focus? Would it undo me the way it used to?
