Page 59 of Contested

The stadium seemed to stretch around him with every step, sound thinning until all that remained was the ball in his hands and the shape of his boot rising to meet it.

Then, the ball was in the air.

|| Chapter Fourteen ||

Marcos – “Not anymore”

The sound was deafening.

Even in the changing rooms, with concrete walls and closed doors, the crowd drilled through everything. It came through in waves, low and thick at first, then sharp whenever the song rose again outside. The stadium hadn’t settled. Melbourne hadn’t settled. No one wanted to go home yet.

Inside the room, it was worse.

The Mustangs were packed together in a huddle that barely held its shape, shoulders jammed against shoulders, arms hooked around necks, hands thumping backs hard enough to leave marks through sweat-soaked jerseys. Boots slapped against the floor. Someone was still yelling. Someone else had already lost most of his voice. The staff stood around the edge of it, clapping, laughing, and shaking their heads. One had even poured a bottle of water over a few of the players in celebration.

Sebastian was in the middle.

Marcos could barely see him now. At first, he had been able to, because the boys had dragged him in from the field with blood drying along one side of his face and his grin cutting straight through it. Then they had closed around him properly, and the maroon and gold swallowed him.

They were all singing the same song that was shaking the stadium outside.

We're running free, we're running strong

It's Mustang gold, or it's all wrong

March in maroon, keep standing tall

In Mustang gold, all others fall

Marcos stood somewhere near the back of the huddle, arms wrapped around Callum and Jaxon, because that was where he had ended up when it had formed. Callum was still bouncing on the balls of his feet. Jaxon had one arm tight across Marcos’ back and the other around Edgar, half shouting the words, half laughing them. Marcos sang too, or thought he did. His mouth moved, and the sound came out, but he couldn’t hear himself over the rest of them.

He kept trying to look through the chaos in front of him.

Sebastian’s kick had been perfect. There had been no stumble, no hesitation, no rush once the ball left his boot. It had carried through the light above the ground, above the line of defenders who already knew they couldn’t do anything, and through the goal with the whole match narrowed to that one exact line.

Marcos had known before the goal umpire moved.

The second the team realised it was going through, they collapsed on him. Bodies from every direction. Hands in his hair, arms around his shoulders, someone catching him around the waist and dragging him off balance.

Sebastian had turned to face Marcos as soon as the kick landed.

For one moment, through the noise and the players surging between them, they had both frozen.

Marcos had wanted to run over to him. To celebrate and congratulate him. To be the first one to reach him, to grab him before anyone else did and say something stupid because his heart had been smashing hard enough to make his ribs feel too small. He had wanted to touch him while the whole stadium roared and pretend, for one bright, dangerous second, that it didn’t matter who was watching.

His legs didn’t carry him.

Callum got there first. Then Parker. Then half the forward line. Sebastian disappeared beneath them, and Marcos stayed where he was, breathing hard through a grin.

And now, his legs were carrying him away.

The team hit the last line of the song again. The huddle shifted, bodies jumping, boots scraping, voices breaking. Marcos’ arms slipped from Callum and Jaxon, and no one noticed at first because everyone was closing in every direction. He stepped back once, then again. The grin stayed on his face because it had nowhere else to go, but the rest of him had gone thin and strange.

He would still celebrate the win. He was happy. He was more than happy. They had needed this, and Sebastian had given it to them with blood on his face and pressure sitting on his shoulders.

Sebastian deserved to enjoy it without whatever Marcos would bring to it.

“Good contesting,” Jacob said, his hand coming down roughly on Marcos’ shoulder.