Page 13 of Contested

“Disculpe, pequeño Seb.” Marcos kept his eyes on Sebastian. “I’ll have you know I’m very good at reading. For example, your face is saying… ‘Damn, Marcos is so much better than me at ruck and deserved that position more than me’.”

“Kẻ ngốc.” Sebastian shook his head. “Would you like to know what my fist is about to say?”

“Is it something in Japanese?”

“I’m—”

“Vietnamese,” Marcos finished with a grin. “Conozco a mi dulce niño.”

“Get a room. Jesus,” Parker said with a chuckle. “I said be nice, not try to fuck.”

“Jealous?” Marcos nudged him, and Parker pushed him away.

“Uncomfortable,” he corrected. “If this fucking guy doesn’t blow this whistle soon, I’m gonna lobotomise myself.”

“Lob—lobotomise?” Marcos questioned.

Sebastian scoffed. “Ironic you don’t know what that word means.”

Marcos turned his head slowly.

Sebastian was still facing forward, but his mouth had pulled into the smallest smirk, one he seemed to be trying to kill before it became too obvious.

Parker made a sound beside them, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, then he mumbled, “Finger trap.”

“What?” Sebastian asked, eyes snapping to Parker.

“He wants us to…” Marcos mimicked Parker’s finger moment, and Sebastian’s face contorted, and he turned away.

Parker shrugged at Marcos as the first whistle blew.

The first group launched.

Marcos watched them take off, boots digging into the grass, arms driving hard. Corey started well, then slowed halfway through and lost ground. Phetmany ran quickly enough that he looked like he was barely touching the grass. Randal came last by a step and complained loudly that he slipped at the start.

Jacob barely reacted. He stood near the finish with his arms folded, cap pulled low, watching each player in a way that made Marcos wonder if the man ever blinked during training.

Another whistle. The next group went.

Marcos shook out his legs once and stepped toward the line, and Sebastian did the same beside him. Parker took the outside lane.

Marcos looked down the stretch of grass.

It was about twenty metres. An easy sprint. One that he intended to win, even though that wasn’t exactly the point of the exercise.

“I guess I’ll see you at the finish,” Marcos murmured.

Sebastian scoffed. “Yeah, I’ll be waiting for you.”

“You think you can beat me with those little legs?”

“Please, blow the fucking whistle,” Parker muttered.

The assistant lifted his hand, and Marcos dropped forward slightly, ready.

The whistle blew.

He drove off hard.