Somewhere Only We Know - 33. Matt’s Morning After the Game

Morning settled over the Everest house in a slow, honey-gold light, softening the frost on the windows and casting long bars of warmth across the kitchen floor. The house smelled faintly of coffee and dryer sheets. Eva flipped pancakes at the stove; Michael adjusted something under the sink, muttering in the familiar way pipes responded to.

And then Matt came downstairs.

He moved like someone trying—and failing—to hide a secret the size of the sun.

His hair was a mess from sleep, dark blond strands sticking up in every direction. There were faint shadows under his eyes from getting home late. But his expression—God, his expression—looked like a boy trying not to burst into laughter and tears at the same time.

Eva paused mid-flip, watching him.

“Well,” she murmured, “that explains last night.”

Matt blinked. “Explains what?”

“You played like someone dropped rocket fuel in your Gatorade,” she said, turning fully to face him. “Four touchdowns? Seventeen completions? You looked unstoppable.”

Matt shrugged, failing miserably at casual. “Just… had a good night.”

“Uh-huh.” Eva narrowed her eyes. “And that has nothing to do with the fact that you kept staring into the bleachers every five seconds before the game even started?”

Heat climbed up his neck. “Mom.”

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me.” She set the spatula down and stepped closer, voice gentler. “Was he there?”

Matt’s breath caught.

For months—months—he had looked at those bleachers every game, every warm-up, every coin toss. The habit had become a reflex. A hope he tried not to feel too deeply.

And last night, against all logic, against all odds—

“He was there,” Matt whispered.

Eva pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh, sweetheart…”

Michael crawled out from under the sink then, wiping his hands on a rag. “Everything okay?”

Eva nodded, eyes still on their son. “Better than okay.”

Matt swallowed. “I saw Kitt last night. At the game.”

Michael straightened slowly. “And?”

“He…” Matt hesitated, emotion tightening his throat. “He looked okay. Healthy. Stronger than before. He didn’t speak to me, but—he was there. Watching.”

“And you won by a landslide,” Michael said, a small smile rising. “Funny how that works.”

Matt laughed breathlessly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Eva touched his arm. “Did he stay after?”

Matt’s smile faded, just a fraction. “No. He left right before the game ended. I tried to find him but… he was gone.”

Her face softened into something warm and sad and hopeful all at once. “Maybe it was too much for him. Or maybe he didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“Maybe,” Matt whispered.

Michael stepped closer. “But he was there,” he said firmly. “He came to see you play. That means something.”

Matt nodded, heart thudding unevenly. “Yeah. It means everything.”

Eva studied him a moment longer. “Your father told Stephen he’d keep him updated if you saw anything.”

Matt stiffened.

“I didn’t tell him,” he said, voice low. “Not yet. I want Kitt to decide what happens next. Not us.”

Michael’s expression turned proud. “Good.”

Eva squeezed his hand. “Whenever you’re ready, tell us more. But for now—eat. You look like you could faint from happiness.”

Matt laughed, finally—quiet and helpless.

And as he walked to the table, he realized something he hadn’t felt in almost a year:

Kitt hadn’t disappeared forever.
He had come back—if only for one night,
if only to watch him from the stands.
He was close enough to touch.
Close enough to hope.

And that hope carried Matt through the entire morning like a second heartbeat.

The afternoon bled into a soft, pale gold by the time Matt tugged on his jacket and slipped out the front door. He didn’t tell his parents where he was going. He didn’t need to. They had always known where he went when the world felt too full.

The lake sat quiet at the edge of town, the early-November air hanging cold and still over the water. The trees had lost most of their leaves, skeletal branches reaching down to the mirrored surface that reflected the fading sky.

Matt walked until the soft crunch of leaves became familiar again, until the dock stretched out in front of him like a memory put back in place.

He breathed in.

The cold hit his lungs, sharp but clean.

He stepped onto the wood planks, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, and stared at the lake that had held their whole childhood.

This was the place where Kitt first learned to trust him.
Where they swam at dawn every summer.
Where they lay side by side watching clouds drift until time stopped existing.
Where a thousand unspoken feelings had once lived in the air between them.

And last night—
last night, from the center of a football field, he had looked up at the bleachers out of habit, expecting nothing, preparing for the same hollow ache.

Instead, he’d seen a familiar silhouette.

Hood pulled low. Scarf hiding half his face.
But the eyes—God, the eyes—he could never mistake.

Kitt.

Safe.
Watching him.

Matt sat at the edge of the dock, legs dangling just above the surface. The lake smelled of pine and winter and something almost like hope.

He let the silence settle inside him.

He felt full—so full he could hardly breathe—but loneliness curled in quietly, a soft shadow beneath the brightness. He missed Kitt with a fierceness he didn’t know how to make smaller. Seeing him had been the best thing that had happened to him in months… and the worst.

Because the glimpse reminded him of everything he wanted but couldn’t have—
not yet,
not until Kitt chose to come back fully.

Matt pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the message thread that began nine months ago with:

Hey, remind me to bring your history notes tomorrow.

The last message he had sent had delivered, but never been read:

I hope you’re okay. I’m not giving up on you.

He could have texted now.

Could have written I saw you last night or I miss you or I’m here.
But Kitt didn’t have a phone yet.

And even if he did, Matt knew better than to push.

So instead, he opened a blank note.

His fingers hovered.
Then moved.

. . .

Unsent Note — Draft #17

I saw you in the crowd last night.

I don’t know if you knew I’d look for you, but I always do. Every game, every warm-up, every time I step on that field, I look for you without thinking. Like my body remembers something my brain can barely keep up with.

You being there… it felt like someone handed me the world back.

I don’t know when we’ll get to talk again. I don’t know when you’ll be ready. But I want you to know this: you matter. More than any win, any season, any scholarship.

And when the day comes—whenever you choose it—I'll be right here.

Waiting.

. . .

Matt stared at the words until they blurred into the soft glow around the screen. He felt foolish for writing it. He felt desperate not to delete it. So he let it sit there, floating in the drafts with every other message he’d never sent.

Then he locked the phone, leaned back on his arms, and tipped his head toward the sky.

Above him, the first stars blinked awake through the fading light.

“If you’re out there,” Matt whispered into the open air, “I hope you feel it too.”

His breath fogged and drifted upward.

He stayed until the cold crept into his bones, until the dark behind him deepened, until the ache of missing Kitt pressed warm and sharp against his ribs.

Then he stood, pocketed his phone, and walked home under the growing night—
lonely,
full,
and happier than he had been in a very, very long time.