Page 3 of Contested

The older man was walking toward them from the boundary, cap pulled low, training shirt zipped halfway, Coach embroidered on both. Sebastian had met him twice before signing and once after. Jacob had not been warm in any of those meetings, exactly, but Sebastian had not needed warm. He had needed clear. Jacob had given him that. He had told him where the club saw him, what they wanted, and what they would not tolerate.

Apparently, they were about to reach that part early.

Behind Jacob, a younger guy dragged a bag of footballs in one hand and carried a stack of cones awkwardly in the other. Jeremy, if Sebastian remembered correctly. Assistant, trainer, or the kind of first-year staffer who got every job no one else wanted. Hair buzzed close to his scalp, slight frame, head down while he crossed the wet grass and started setting up.

Jacob stopped in front of them and looked from Marcos to Sebastian. The pause was short, but did plenty.

“Full squad’s not back yet, but you fresh kids aren’t that lucky.” Jacob’s eyes stayed on them. “You’ve had your break. Don’t make me spend the first morning watching two blokes who should know better square up over nothing.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened.

Marcos dropped the ball to the grass.

“Couple of laps,” Jacob continued. “Both of you. Since you’re so keen to move.”

Marcos went first. He did not argue or roll his eyes. He just stepped around Sebastian and broke into a jog, cutting across the grass toward the boundary line.

Jacob lifted his eyebrows.

Sebastian gave a single nod, then turned and followed.

The first few strides came too sharp and quick. He forced them back. No point making the punishment worse by turning it into a sprint, even if every part of him wanted to catch Marcos and shoulder him into the fence. He reached the out-of-bounds line and settled into a steady pace a few metres behind Marcos, eyes on the white paint beneath his boots.

The oval was still quiet enough that his breathing felt loud to him. The wet grass gave under each step. Across the centre, Jeremy kept placing cones in neat lines, stopping now and then to shift one by the width of a boot. Players drifted toward small groups, stretching hamstrings, rolling shoulders, bouncing on their toes. The facility building sat beyond the boundary, glass and concrete and club branding.

Sebastian’s eyes locked on that. He had given up his position to come to this club, and he knew plenty of players changed positions early in their careers and became better for it. He had told himself the centre group would still be his to force his way into.

All of that had depended on the ruck not being Marcos Reyes.

He isn’t even good. The thought arrived with his next step, petty and immediate. He just got lucky. Another step. He doesn’t deserve the position.

He knew enough football to know that was not entirely true. Marcos was good. He was strong at the tap, read the drop well, and had a second effort that did not match the lazy way he sometimes carried himself.

Sebastian did not have to be fair inside his own head, though.

“How’s the view from back there?”

Sebastian’s eyes lifted.

Marcos had turned his head just enough to be heard, still jogging ahead of him. He wasn’t breathing hard.

Sebastian didn’t answer.

Marcos slowed until they were side by side. “Don’t be so grumpy,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s okay to be second best.”

“Dude, shut up.”

Sebastian picked up the pace, and Marcos matched him.

That was the problem. It had always been the problem. Marcos followed a shift too quickly and read the wrong things too well. On the field, Sebastian could lose other players with a shoulder drop, a half step, or a pause before exploding into space. But he was never able to get the best of Marcos. Somehow, Marcos always managed to stay there, too close, too solid, making Sebastian work harder than he wanted to admit.

“Incluso corres como un perdedor,” Marcos muttered.

Sebastian glared at him. “Speak in English.”

“And dishonour my mother’s heritage?”

“God, you’re so fucking annoying.”