Page 26 of Contested

Andrew, a bulky redhead who’d been with the Mustangs for years, sprinted away from one of the reserve players into an opening on the right wing. Sebastian acted before the gap could close, driving his boot through the ball and sending it in front of him. The kick travelled low and clean, dropping directly into Andrew’s path. Andrew marked it without breaking stride, the whistle blew, and players scrambled as he decided to play on.

Andrew bounced the ball once and sprinted down the wing toward the reserve’s fifty-metre mark, then handballed it to Parker as two reserve players closed in. Sebastian had already shifted from where he’d kicked it, running through centre field to keep up with the play. He wasn’t going to be the next option, but he needed to be close enough for the return, close enough to stop the reserves if they cut the ball off and turned it back through the middle.

That was how quickly the game could change. One second the Mustangs could have the ball almost passing through goal, and less than five seconds later, the other team could have it right next to their own. Jacob had drilled that into them for weeks. Attack meant nothing if half the field switched off after a clean kick.

Players inside the fifty called for the ball, shoving each other and trying to get into open space. Sebastian kept going, eyes on Parker as he pushed closer and sent the ball toward the cluster of players standing in front of the posts. Kent’s voice came out above everyone else’s. The ball dropped into the mass of hands, shoulders, and heads, then the whistle blew as Kent stepped out of the pack with the ball clutched to his chest.

The Mustangs cheered as the play settled. Players moved around the field while Kent walked back from where he’d marked it, a reserve player standing on the mark and waiting for an attempt to stop the kick.

Sebastian knew he wouldn’t be able to.

From all his time training with Kent, Sebastian knew it would take a lot for him to make a mistake and miss from there. Kent was nearly dead in the centre of the two largest posts. Sinking the ball between them and getting six points was going to be easy.

Even still, Sebastian readied himself. If Kent somehow got the ball on the other side of either large post and through for a behind, the ball would be back in play quickly and shooting up the field.

Kent spun the ball in his hands, took in the sight of the four posts in front of him, then slowly ran forward and booted the ball over the man on the mark. It soared with ease between the goal posts, and the Mustangs cheered again, players running to congratulate him before shifting back to their starting positions.

Sebastian walked slowly, the reserve ruck-rover already in position for the reset. Some players jogged back downfield. Others waited with their hands on their hips, breathing through the small break in play. The ball had been kicked far enough that someone had only just reached it and torpedoed it back toward the centre as hard as they could.

Marcos was nearby, feet kicking at the grass, body close to the reserve ruck. He wasn’t breathing heavily, even though he’d been running as much as Sebastian. Sweat dripped off his hair, and his jersey stuck to his back, darkened between his shoulders and along his spine.

Sebastian shook his head and focused on the painted lines at his feet.

He didn’t want to look at Marcos. Didn’t want to think about him. Didn’t want to notice the way Marcos kept his eyes somewhere else now, as though staring at Sebastian directly would restart the exact thing he had spent a week avoiding.

The reserve ruck’s voice broke through the noise. Sebastian didn’t catch all of it. Something about weak players, maybe. The usual match-sim rubbish that got thrown around when bodies were tired.

Then Marcos’ voice. Fucking Marcos’ voice.

Not everything. Not every word. But enough. Enough to make Sebastian’s blood run like lava and his head snap up.

“No…we have…the fag.”

Sebastian’s ears rang.

He couldn’t hear the world around him properly. The voices blurred. The whistle in the distance flattened. The ground under his boots was too hard, too open, too public, and his legs moved before he realised what he was doing. His hands balled into fists at his sides as the space between him and Marcos disappeared.

He was barely two metres from Marcos when he spoke.

“What the fuck did you say?”

Marcos turned, brow furrowed, before he saw the look on Sebastian’s face. Then his eyes widened. He raised his hands and opened his mouth to speak, but Sebastian didn’t wait for him.

His right fist had already left his side and was swinging for Marcos’ face.

Marcos reacted as best he could, leaning a little, but it wasn’t enough.

The connection was good, and the crack of bone on bone could be heard across the field. Marcos didn’t go down, though. His head turned with the punch, and he shifted his leg out and planted his foot, grounding himself, before ducking underneath Sebastian’s arms and tackling him. His shoulder lodged into Sebastian’s gut, hard enough to send the air out of him as they hit the ground.

Yells and shouts ran around both teams as everyone close enough to do anything rushed forward. Sebastian tried to twist, tried to get a knee beneath him, tried to make Marcos let go, but the bodies arrived too fast. Marcos’ arms were grabbed, and he was hauled back before either of them could do any more damage. Other teammates hooked their hands under Sebastian’s armpits and pulled him off the ground.

A whistle echoed through the ground, but it wasn’t from Jeremy, who had been umpiring. It came from off the field.

Sebastian struggled against his teammates and finally yanked himself free from their grasp, turning toward the sound. Jacob was striding across the field, hat low, clipboard tucked under his arm, and an expression on his face that looked like pure fury.

“Bench. Now.” He pointed at Marcos and Sebastian.

Sebastian flexed his jaw once, but he didn’t argue. He shoved past whoever had been holding him and didn’t check who it was. He could hear footsteps behind him, could feel his anger rising again with every step, and had to keep his eyes fixed on the boundary line so he didn’t turn back and do something worse.