“You doing okay?” I ask Deacon as we sprint down the field. My breath is labored, muscles burning like they’re about to tear.
“Peachy,” he says, not even winded. Fucker doesn’t seem out of breath. “You get used to two-a-days,” he tells me, his voice almost casual. “Still fucking sucks. But I’ve got the endurance for stuff like this.”
Lucky him. I grit my teeth, forcing my body to keep moving. My muscles scream for relief, but I push through, my focus narrowing on Deacon as we set up for another play. I glance at the field, the heat shimmering in the distance, and block everything out but the ball at my feet and the next goal in sight.
Coach blows the whistle, and I’m off, weaving through defenders, the ball glued to my feet. My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat like a war drum, adrenaline surging through my veins. Deacon’s right there with me, our connection seamless,like we’re reading each other’s minds. The field opens up, and we push forward, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
Our offense might be on point, but defense? It’s a fucking disaster. Shaky as hell, and if we don’t lock it down, it won’t matter how many goals we score next week.
Another fuck-up, and Coach’s whistle shrieks again. The sound pierces the air, and I clench my jaw, bracing for the order.
"Gassers! Now!"
Dammit. My legs feel like they’re made of lead, but I jog back to the cones, steeling myself for another round. Every breath feels like fire in my chest, but I push past it. There’s no other option. I don’t complain, though. None of us do. Complaining only makes it worse. The field blurs slightly, the sun relentless overhead, but we keep moving, pushing harder.
By the time Coach finally blows the whistle for the last time, signaling the end of practice, I’m drenched in sweat, my shirt clinging to my back, my muscles screaming in protest. I collapse onto the grass, rolling onto my back as the too-bright sun blazes overhead. The sky is a piercing blue, but it might as well be black for how drained I feel.
Julio walks by and taps my leg with his foot. "You alive?"
"Barely," I mutter, my voice hoarse from exertion, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. The scent of earth and sweat fills my nose, grounding me even as my body protests every movement. "I’m hitting the showers, then I’m crashing. Need a few hours of sleep before I can function again."
"Same, bro." He reaches down, pulling me to my feet. My legs wobble beneath me, muscles protesting the shift in weight. "Good work out there, though. We’ve still got a shot this season."
I nod, exhaustion weighing me down, but beneath it, there’s a sense of satisfaction. Despite the pain, despite the gaps in our team, there’s something here—a thread of hope, a shot atredemption. We may be down a few good players, but we’re not out yet. Not by a long shot.
CHAPTER 80
CECILIA
The second I step inside, the cool air wraps around me like a safety net, easing the tension in my shoulders. Relief floods through me as I breathe in the familiar scent of home—freshly brewed espresso and the lingering aroma of garlic and basil from whatever Mom’s been cooking today. It grounds me in a way only home can. Well, home and Gabriel, I suppose.
My parents greet me as I enter, smiles on their faces, completely unaware of the chaos that unraveled last night. No signs of panic, no sharp questions—just the soft murmur of their usual small talk.
I had texted Dad from Gabriel’s, letting him know I’d be staying the night. But still, a part of me expected my mom to bombard me with questions the second I walked through the door. She’s always so nosy, especially when it comes to Gabriel.
“Did you have a good time last night?” Mom asks, her voice light and casual as if nothing’s wrong. She glances at my dad, who’s already buried in his newspaper, one hand lazily stirring a cup of coffee. The clink of his spoon against the ceramic mug blends with the familiar scent of Italian food filling the air.
I force a smile, the muscles in my face feeling tight. “Yeah, it was nice,” I say, keeping my tone as easy as theirs. Relief loosens the knot in my stomach. I don’t linger—just a couple of nods and polite chuckles before I make my escape upstairs. Each step feels lighter, the distance between me and their questions a necessary buffer.
Shutting the door behind me, I let out a sigh of relief. Thank God. They didn’t know. They didn’t have to worry.
I flop down onto my bed, the mattress sinking beneath me like it’s trying to swallow my exhaustion whole. My phone catches my eye—its screen cracked from last night, a reminder of everything I want to forget. Great. Just what I need, another thing to deal with. Swiping through the notifications, I quickly clear the missed calls from Gabriel and the rest of the guys. But my attention sticks to the missed calls and texts from Adriana.
I hit call before I can second-guess myself, the trill of the outgoing ring pulsing in my ear, my heart matching its rhythm. After the second ring, she answers, bombarding me with a flood of questions—no buffer, no warning.
“Are you okay? Julio called last night and said you were missing, but he wouldn’t give me any details,” she huffs. “He said you and Gabe got into a fight, and you weren’t answering your phone, but seriously, where the hell have you been? I get ignoring the guys—if Gabriel was being an asshole, I’d ignore him too,” she grumbles, her tone softening as she adds, “But you didn’t answer me either. What gives? And don’t lie. Are you okay?”
I consider making something up or blowing off the question, but lying to Adriana doesn’t sit right with me. Besides, I’m tired of carrying this by myself.
“Well …” My chest tightens, hesitation curling in my gut. I can just tell her. She won’t be mad like Gabriel. At least, I don’t think she will. I doubt she’ll be happy but—Screw it.I need to tellsomeone, and Adriana is the safest option I have. She’s the least likely to judge me for it and the most likely to understand.
I take a breath and dive in, giving her the quick version of last night’s events. “Gabriel and I went to his mom’s wedding, and … well, she definitely wasn’t thrilled to see him.”
Adriana’s response is immediate, but her tone remains steady. “That sucks,” she says, her voice even, controlled. I know she’s absorbing it, processing it in her own quiet way. She and Gabe used to be close, so she’s already familiar with the messy dynamic between him and his parents.
“Yeah, it wasn’t great. I could see how much it hurt him, and I tried talking to him, but he was just ... pissed. Really pissed. He lashed out, blamed me for the whole thing going sideways.” I pause, feeling the sting of those words again.
“Of course he did,” Adriana says, her voice so matter-of-fact it almost stings. “Like you could’ve known his mom was gonna act like that.”
