Page 51 of Contested

A handball out. Another. A kick around the body.

Goal.

The SCG erupted.

The sound came down on Marcos before he’d even turned fully toward the posts. Storm players gathered near the kicker, crowd roaring behind them, and the goal umpire stepped back into place. Now the ball reset to the centre. Marcos walked back with his jaw tight, trying to keep his breath steady as the first proper hit of the game settled into him.

Sebastian passed him on the way back to the centre square. “He’s beating you to the jump,” he said, low enough that it only belonged to them.

Marcos glanced at him.

Sebastian didn’t look back. He got into position, knees loose, eyes already on the umpire. The comment was football. Nothing else.

The first quarter became a fight for control the Mustangs couldn’t quite get. Marcos won some taps. Lost others. Broke even in enough contests to keep his own game from falling apart, but the team around the ball wasn’t clean. A fumbled handball inside their forward fifty cost them a chance when Darcy was free, closer to the goal. A rushed kick from Kirk went straight to a Storm defender. A loose defensive read on the wing let Sydney run the ball through too easily and send it back with interest.

The quarter-time siren arrived with Sydney ahead and the crowd pleased with that.

The Mustangs huddled on the field, Jacob in the centre of them, clipboard in hand. His face was set, and his voice clipped as he ran through the plays and what was going wrong. He focused on the wing first, where Sydney had found too much room to move after kick-ins and turnovers. Then he moved to the forward fifty, where the Mustangs had fumbled when the ball needed to be either locked in or sent to advantage. He reminded them not to get dragged into chasing the noise.

Marcos nodded along with it, his eye catching Sebastian’s and lingering for too long.

Sebastian stood two players away, hands on hips, mouth set, sweat already flattening the hair at his forehead. His eyes met Marcos’ for a beat, then shifted back to Jacob.

When the play reset, ready for the second quarter, Sebastian caught Marcos as they crossed the field toward the centre.

“Feign the tap then help cover the centre,” he said, voice low.

Marcos flexed his jaw once, then gave a stiff nod.

The siren sounded. The ball went up. Marcos jumped, but not as high. He raised his hand, but aimed below the ball. Hart took the bait, reached over him, and got the tap. It went down toward Sydney’s centre player exactly where Sebastian had read it would.

Marcos’ feet were on the ground first.

He spun and drove toward the ball.

The Storm player saw him coming and fumbled, the ball slipping loose under the pressure. Marcos collected it cleanly, swung his body through the turn, and caught Sebastian next to him, free.

He handballed to him.

Sebastian took it without breaking stride and slipped through the midfield before kicking the ball toward Parker, who had pushed high and marked square in his chest just inside fifty.

The travelling pocket of Mustangs supporters behind that end erupted, their noise briefly cutting through the heavier Storm crowd.

Parker moved quickly, turning before the Storm’s defence fully settled. He centred the ball and sent it deeper inside fifty, where Darcy had slipped away from the Storm defenders and caught the ball overhead.

The SCG noise shifted. Storm supporters shouting to create pressure. Mustangs fans trying to rise over them. Darcy walked back, spun the ball once in his hands, then set himself.

Marcos stood near centre with hands on hips, chest moving hard, eyes fixed on the forward line.

Darcy kicked.

The ball went straight through.

And for the first time that night, the Mustangs’ noise felt like it belonged in the stadium.

By halftime, the Mustangs had pulled the game back to something manageable.

Inside the locker rooms, the difference between the clubs felt sharper.