The Replay (Boys of Richland #3)

10. Gabriel

gabriel

. . .

The guys settle into the space, banter flying, jokes easy and sharp. Cecilia and I work side by side, laughing and teasing like old times. As we move around the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon filling the air, a sense of normalcy settles over us. The kind of normal that used to feel so far away.

The ease of it all tugs at something deep inside me, making it feel like we’ve stepped into a kind of comfortable rhythm. It’s chaotic, but it feels right. Like maybe, just maybe, this thing between us has a real chance.

“You know,” Deacon says, his voice casual as he leans against the counter, “if this whole soccer thing doesn’t work out, you could always open a café.”

I snort. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Cecilia chuckles beside me, shooting me a playful look. The warmth in her gaze settles the leftover tension from earlier, and I can’t help but smile back. It feels like we’re getting there—slowly, but we’re getting there.

“Here, let me get that,” I say, reaching to help her pour the batter onto the griddle. Our hands brush, and I let my fingers linger just for a second longer than necessary. She grins, and for a moment, everything feels easy.

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 second I 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 fumble sends 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.

“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 at redemption. We may be down a few good players, but we’re not out yet. Not by a long shot.