Page 2 of Contested

Sebastian’s gaze slowly worked its way up, past the white sock pulled up above the ankle. The Mustangs shorts. A compression shirt tight across a body Sebastian recognised before he let himself look higher. Broad chest and strong shoulders. Arms he had shoved off at stoppages more times than he could count. Curly brown hair sitting messy over a forehead Sebastian had once tried to drive into the turf with his palm.

Marcos Reyes lifted his head.

Sebastian stopped dead.

The Mustangs’ maroon and gold colours should not have looked right on him. That was the first thing Sebastian thought, and it annoyed him before anything else had a chance. Marcos should have looked wrong and out of place. Instead, he stood there with the ball trapped under his boot, bronze skin warmed by the dull morning, brown eyes steady and bright with something Sebastian immediately chose to hate.

“Are you fucking kidding?” The words left Sebastian before he had decided to let them out.

Marcos dropped his gaze to the ball, then lifted it back to him. “Hey, Seb,” he drawled. “Nice mark.”

Sebastian folded his arms.

Marcos Reyes had been a problem long before the AFL got hold of them. Their junior clubs had sat on the same ladder, which meant Sebastian had spent half his childhood running into Marcos at centre bounces before either of them understood what a rivalry looked like from the outside. Back then, it had been smaller. Muddy grounds, parents along the fence, coaches yelling themselves hoarse, boys growing into bodies they had not worked out how to use yet. Marcos had been there through all of it, too tall too early, too strong at the wrong times, too difficult to move when Sebastian needed him gone.

Then they had been drafted in the same year, into the same position, to different clubs, both eighteen. Geelong Rams for Sebastian. Bendigo Bandits for Marcos. The professional league had not started anything. It had just put cameras on what was already there.

The commentators had enjoyed it from the first senior game. The media teams had clipped their contests, slowed them down, replayed every shove and late bump until it looked cleaner and more deliberate than it had felt in the moment. By the end of their first AFL season, someone had called them rivals, and neither club had bothered to deny it.

Sebastian had not hated the label.

‘Opponent’ was too mild for Marcos. He had a way of being there, always there, in front of Sebastian at the wrong time, underneath him in a contest, over him in a mark, grinning when he should have had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Marcos made Sebastian forget the ball sometimes. That was the worst part. For one stupid second, the game would narrow to the man in front of him.

Now, it had been two years since their rookie season, and Sebastian knew that could not happen here. Not when they wore the same colours.

Marcos bent and picked up the ball. He bounced it once, then again, walking toward Sebastian with the lazy control of someone who had not been surprised by anything this morning.

More players were arriving now. A couple jogged past toward the far boundary. Others had started stretching near the line, voices low and loose.

Sebastian barely registered them.

“You seem surprised to see me,” Marcos said, stopping a few feet away. He bounced the ball once more. “You didn’t read the announcements?”

“I’ve been busy.” Sebastian’s voice came out sharp. He did not soften it. “You got ruck?”

Marcos’ mouth curved. “Yep. The better player got it, and I’m so excited to be able to rub it in like this.”

The ball thudded back into Marcos’ palm.

Sebastian’s arms loosened from his chest. His hands fell to his sides, fingers flexing once before he stopped them. “Better? Is that why the Bandits didn’t make it to the top eight last season? ‘Cause the Rams did.”

“The Rams also never won a game against us when I got signed.”

Sebastian stepped closer.

It was not enough to make Marcos move. Marcos was taller by enough that it mattered in a contest but not enough that Sebastian could pretend it gave him an excuse. They were built for the same violence. Heavy legs, strong backs, and shoulders made by years of fighting other bodies for space. Marcos had used that body against him plenty. Knees, hips, forearms, legal pressure held right up to the edge and sometimes past it.

Now he was standing on Sebastian’s new oval, in Sebastian’s new colours, with Sebastian’s old position.

“I don’t care if we’re on the same team now,” Sebastian started, eyes locked on Marcos’. “I’ll kick your ass.”

Marcos held his gaze. “First time for everything.”

Sebastian took another step.

“Alright. Pissing contest is over.”

Jacob Nilara’s voice cut across the oval with enough force to make both of them turn.