The guys fall into conversation again, laughter bouncing off the walls. It’s the kind of noise that drowns out all the heavy shit from the last few weeks. I want to hold onto it—to us—right here.
As we finish eating, I check the time. "We should get going," I say, standing up and gathering the plates. “Coach is already going to make us run the gauntlet. No need to piss him off even more by being late.”
Cecilia stands too, and I catch her hand, squeezing gently. "I’ll drop you off at home," I tell her.
She nods, her fingers tightening around mine. “Yeah, okay.”
I dip down for a quick kiss, our lips brushing softly before I remember the guys are here. It’s a small moment, but it feels like a promise—one I want to keep.
We make quick work of cleaning up the kitchen, and before long, we’re outside, the cool morning air hitting my skin. I keep Cecilia close as we walk to the car, my hand wrapped around hers.
“We’ll meet you there,” Deacon calls from across the driveway, climbing into Atticus’s car while the rest of us pile into Julio’s.
Felix claims the front seat, leaving me and Cecilia in the back. The drive to her house is filled with easy banter. Julio and Felix tease me about everything from my cooking skills to my new position as striker.
When we pull up in front of her place, I jog around to open her door. "I’ll call you later, okay?" I murmur, brushing my thumb across her cheek.
She leans in, and I meet her halfway as she presses a soft kiss to my lips. "See you later."
As soon as we’re back on the road, Felix twists in his seat, a sly grin spreading across his face. "So, you and Cecilia … Is this official? Do we have labels or what?”
Julio snorts, smacking Felix on the back of the head without taking his eyes off the road. “Give him a break, man. A lot of shit’s gone down in the last twenty-four hours. Gabe’s got some things to figure out first.”
I meet Felix’s gaze head-on. "We’re taking it slow, but yeah. We’re together."
Felix grins wider. "Good to hear, bro. But from what we all heard last night …” He wiggles his brows. The guys laugh, the mood light.
My face heats, my jaw clenching. A familiar flash of protectiveness surges. "Watch it, Felix." My voice comes out in a low growl.
Julio chuckles, shaking his head. “You know Felix—he’s got zero chill.”
"Yeah, relax," Felix says, his grin not fading. “Happy looks good on you.”
"Thanks," I mutter, finally relaxing as their teasing softens into something more familiar. It feels good to talk about her like this—like we’re solid, like she’s really mine.
When we arrive at the field, the mood shifts instantly. The lightness of the drive evaporates. Coach is already there, a stern look etched on his face. His arms are crossed over his chest, and it’s clear from the set of his jaw that today’s practice isn’t going to be fun.
“Remember how much you love the game,” Julio mutters as we all climb out of the car and head for the field. “We’re all going to need that reminder today.”
The secondI step onto the field—the sharp scent of freshly cut grass fills my lungs—I know Coach isn’t fucking around. The air is thick with tension, hanging over us like a storm ready to break.
We lost good players when Holt was kicked off the team, and the guys who walked out with him left us with massive gaps in the lineup. Now, Coach is testing us, shuffling positions, trying to see who can step up and who’s going to crack under pressure.
Practice starts hard. The slap of the ball echoes in the air, the thud of feet pounding the turf steady like a heartbeat. It’s a grind from the first whistle—drills that make you feel like you’re drowning, testing our endurance and forcing us to work together under fire. Sweat drips down my back, soaking into the waistband of my shorts. The sun beats down mercilessly, but there’s no time to think about it. No time for anything but the game.
Trial by fucking fire, that’s what this is.
I’m back in my new position as striker, and Deacon’s my attacking midfielder. Thank god we’re in sync because everything else is chaos.
We move as one, the ball an extension of us—his pass sharp, my feet quick. The way the field opens up in front of us feels like something out of a dream. We tear down the field, the roar of our coach and the excited cheer from Jameia—our assistant coach—fade into the background. Our rhythm clicks into place, the thud of the ball against my cleats a steady rhythm, and for a second, there’s hope.
Maybe we’ve got a shot at next week’s game after all.
But the freshmen? Fuck. They’re struggling. Their movements are jerky, uncoordinated, hesitation etched into every step. They’re not aggressive enough, too uncertain when it comes to making plays. You can see the worry in their eyes—the fear of screwing up, of letting the team down. Every fumblesends a ripple of frustration through the field, and each time they hesitate, Coach’s whistle cuts through the air like a blade.
“Cones!” Coach’s voice is sharp, like the crack of a whip. He sends us to run gassers—fucking sprints that burn like fire, our lungs screaming for air, muscles quivering with every step. The grass beneath my cleats feels heavier with each pass, and damn if gassers aren’t the worst. Who the fuck came up with them for soccer? Sweat runs down my face, stinging my eyes, and I blink it away, focusing on the next sprint.
My legs burn, my lungs feel like they’re on fire, and I can’t help but grit my teeth every time Coach yells at us to do another round. The taste of salt from the sweat on my lips makes me want to spit, but there’s no time for that. Two freshmen and a sophomore have already puked on the touchlines, but no one’s tapping out. Pride’s the only thing keeping the rest of us going. The sound of cleats pounding the turf becomes the soundtrack to our misery, especially Felix, who looks like he’s about to keel over any second.
