Page 118 of Contested

“Do you want me to come over sometime?”

“No,” Sebastian said too quickly, and Marcos’ face dropped before he was able to stop it. “Sorry. I just… I think keeping stuff separate for a bit is what I need.”

The words hit in the small space between them, quieter than the wind and harder to ignore.

“Okay. That’s cool.” Marcos nodded. “You can talk to me if you need to. I listen.”

The offer sat strangely in his mouth.

Not because he didn’t mean it. But saying it made him aware of how little they had actually done that kind of thing. They had started to, the first night they slept with each other, but then getting to know each other better fell to the wayside, and neither of them picked it up again.

He knew Sebastian liked racing games. That he enjoyed tea—at least hated it less than Marcos. He knew what fear looked like on Sebastian’s face and how anger settled under his skin. Or how quiet Sebastian got when family came to close to the surface.

It wasn’t enough.

Sebastian glanced at him and smiled. “Thanks. For now, I just want this to be over.”

“Yeah. I’d much rather be in the gym lifting life-threatening weights.”

That got the right reaction.

Sebastian’s mouth shifted, the smile becoming more real before he turned away again.

“Alright, guys.” The director’s voice reached them again as he strode across the field. “We’re gonna try a specky. The ball is gonna be thrown in, and I want Seb to be the one to jump up and mark it, alright?”

“So, Marcos is on the bottom?” Sebastian asked with a grin, nudging Marcos.

“Exactly,” the director said, paying no mind to the smile and turning away.

Marcos spun and slapped Sebastian’s arm with a laugh. “Keeping it separate, hey?”

“I’m allowed to joke,” Sebastian said, shoving Marcos’ shoulder.

“Right. Well, good luck jumping high enough with those little legs.”

“Fuck off.”

Sebastian turned and ran toward another member of the crew who was marking out a position for him. Marcos watched him go for longer than he should have, then forced his attention away when the woman in a low cap called him over. Her red hair had been pulled through the back in a ponytail, and she held a clipboard in one hand while pointing at a chalk marking on the ground with the other.

Marcos walked over and stood where she told him, back to Sebastian.

The mark on the grass put him just inside the square, facing toward the camera. It was not the way he would naturally set himself for a real contest, but apparently, real football was not the point. The point was making everything look clean, powerful, and easy to cut into a thirty-second clip.

“Alright, Marcos, just look like you’re ready to mark the ball,” the director called. “Sebastian, you run up, jump onto his shoulders and grab it.”

Marcos glanced back and saw Sebastian give a thumbs up.

Sebastian’s face had already changed. He was trying too hard to look serious, which meant he was less than a minute away from ruining everything. Marcos smiled before facing forward again and putting his best game face on.

The first attempt was terrible.

The ball was thrown too high and too far, sailing right over Sebastian’s head before bouncing once and rolling toward the boundary. Sebastian stopped dead, arms still half-lifted, then slowly turned toward the crew.

The second attempt was worse.

Sebastian misjudged his jump and ran straight into Marcos’ back, shoulder colliding with him at the wrong angle and knocking them both to the ground. Marcos landed first, then Sebastian beside him with a grunt that turned into a laugh almost immediately. That set Marcos off, and the two of them lay on their backs in the damp grass, laughing hard enough that the director had to walk over and scold them and tell them to get back into position.

The pattern continued as the morning pressed on. A bad throw. A late jump. Sebastian landing too hard on Marcos’ shoulders and nearly folding him forward. Twice, Sebastian started laughing right before he was meant to jump and doubled over trying to catch his breath, hands on his knees while the crew waited in open disappointment.