Page 47 of Contested

That was how the rest of the session went.

No conversation. No contact. Barely a second glance.

By Thursday, the shape of it had become worse because it had become familiar.

They moved from gym to field, from field to recovery, and back again. The club folded their forced partnership into the rest of the training program with the brutal efficiency of a place built around schedules.

Staff stopped looking surprised when Sebastian and Marcos walked into a room together. Teammates stopped making jokes every time they were sent to the same station. Even Randal only lasted two days before losing interest in asking how Sebastian and Marcos hadn’t killed each other yet.

The lack of attention only gave Sebastian more room to notice things no one else cared about.

Marcos handed him a towel after conditioning on the second afternoon without looking him properly. His fingers brushed Sebastian’s for half a second, then stayed there long enough that he looked down.

Marcos let go after that.

On Friday, they ran stoppage drills with the centre group. Marcos took the ruck, Sebastian the ruck-rover, both of them in the place Jacob wanted them, both of them with no choice but to function. The ball went up. Marcos moved. Sebastian read him easily.

Marcos tapped down toward the left pocket without calling for it, and Sebastian was already moving. He took the ball cleanly, twisted out of pressure, and handballed to Kirk before the reserve mid could close in on him. Jacob blew the whistle, reset the drill, and made them run it again.

The second time, the tap went forward.

Sebastian caught that, too.

Third time, Marcos palmed it toward space where Sebastian hadn’t planned to be, but his body took him there anyway. Boots over grass, hands ready, shoulder dropped to avoid contact. The ball came down exactly where Marcos had sent it, and Sebastian had it before his head truly caught up.

Across the oval, Jacob watched with his arms folded.

Sebastian didn’t look at him for long. He already knew what Jacob had seen.

They were good together.

Professionally, that should’ve mattered more than anything. It should’ve cut through the rest. The club had signed them for this exact reason. ruck and ruck-rover. Contest and clearance. Marcos putting the ball where Sebastian could use it, Sebastian making the tap look deliberate even when half of it was instinct.

But each clean passage of play made the private mess harder to dismiss.

Every new day continued around that problem.

On the second Wednesday, Sebastian walked into the gym mentally preparing himself for his leg workout. As usual, Marcos was there waiting for him. Bar already set up, weight already on it. Marcos glanced up as Sebastian walked over and tilted his chin down. Sebastian couldn’t tell if it was a gentle nod at him or a random movement.

He ignored it either way.

Marcos took a step to the side and motioned to the rack. “Is that good to start?”

Sebastian paused, taken aback. The past two weeks had turned basic communication between them into a myth.

Marcos’ voice landed quietly between them, practical and almost careful.

Sebastian recomposed himself and looked at the weight. It was a little more than what he’d done last week, but he was pretty sure he could do it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, and stepped under the bar. “I can do this.”

Marcos moved behind him.

The mirror threw both of them back at Sebastian. His own face first, focused and tight. Marcos behind him, tall enough to see over his shoulder, hands held near Sebastian’s ribs but not touching. His expression gave nothing away.

Sebastian unhooked the bar, and the weight settled across his back. His feet were planted, knees pointed out slightly, core braced.

Then he started.