Page 53 of Contested

A hand hit his back as someone passed.

He straightened and stepped into the handshake line. Hart found him near the end of it, sweat dark through his Storm jumper, chest still rising hard.

“Good contest,” Hart said, gripping Marcos’ hand firmly.

Marcos nodded. “Yeah. You, too.”

Mustangs supporters clapped from the pockets near the boundary, trying to give the team something that wasn’t pity. The Storm supporters leaned over the rails and shouted things Marcos didn’t bother hearing properly. The stadium lights made the grass look too bright for how tired his legs felt.

Sebastian walked a few metres ahead, shoulders set, jumper clinging to his back. A thin line of blood still sat near the edge of his mouth. He hadn’t wiped it properly. Or maybe he had, and it had come back.

Marcos watched him until Parker got into his line of sight, then turned away.

The changing room was quiet after Jacob had said what he needed to say.

Not silent. Rooms after football were never silent. Boots came off. Tape ripped away. Bottles hit the floor or rolled under benches. Players walked slowly, heavily, speaking only when they had to. The away room made it feel worse. No familiar scuffs near lockers, no usual places where players dropped their gear, no home-ground noise bleeding in from known corridors. Everything felt temporary, which made the loss feel even harder.

Jacob had kept it direct. He had told them what had gone wrong without turning seven points into a disaster. They needed to train harder. Work better together. Contest harder. Cover the opposition better after kick-ins and turnovers. Stop letting one bad passage become three. Use the ball with more care going inside fifty. Finish chances when momentum gave them half a door open.

Marcos had heard all of it before, but he still agreed with all of it. They had to do better if they were going to win games.

Parker came to settle next to him as Marcos took his boots off. The rest of the team moved around them, getting changed and organising their own things.

“Not a bad first game, hey,” Parker said, giving Marcos a gentle bump on the shoulder.

“Yeah. Not great either,” Marcos replied, lifting his shoulder.

“Meh. The Storm’s movement was pretty on point.”

“Nah.” Marcos shook his head. “I need to listen more.”

“To what?”

“The movement. The plays. I wasn’t reading it right.”

“Nah, man. You did good. Don’t sweat it too much.” Parker slapped Marcos’ thigh before getting to his feet and crossing the room.

Marcos nodded to himself before leaning back against the wall.

Across the room, Sebastian sat on the bench in only his underpants and socks, sweat still running down his body from the game.

Marcos let his gaze linger, taking in the sight.

It should have been easier to look away here than it had been at home. More people around. Less privacy. A loss sitting heavy. Nothing soft in the air.

But Sebastian was there, tired and marked by the game, hair damp and pushed back badly from where he had dragged a hand through it. His chest rose and fell more slowly now. His mouth was still touched with blood at the corner, and his eyes were down, fixed somewhere between his own feet and the floor.

Marcos looked because he wanted to.

That was the part that had stopped surprising him. He wanted to. Though the dip in his chest still made him unsure how to feel about it.

Sebastian shifted, reaching for a towel beside him, and his head lifted.

Their eyes met across the room.

Marcos could have looked away. He had done it enough times. He didn’t.

Sebastian stilled with the towel in one hand.