Page 70 of Contested

Jacob made them run the drill again anyway.

By Thursday afternoon, Sebastian had started to wonder if Marcos had forgotten about asking to come to his apartment. Neither of them had mentioned it, and Sebastian didn’t want to seem like he had been waiting for confirmation all week.

It wasn’t until after training, when Sebastian had showered and was getting changed, one foot still bare, and hair damp, when Marcos came to sit on the bench beside him. He did not sit close enough to touch this time. Marcos pulled on his socks and tied his shoes.

Sebastian’s gaze ran over him. “You ready for tomorrow?”

Marcos gave a tight nod, leaning back against the lockers, then, “Does tonight work?”

Sebastian paused, his shirt halfway over his head. “Uh.” He pulled the shirt down and ran a hand through his hair. “Tonight?”

“Yeah,” Marcos said slowly, his eyes locked onto a locker on the other side of the room, and his hands picking at each other in his lap. “To come around?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, that’s fine.” The words left Sebastian quickly, and the edge of Marcos’ mouth twitched up before he nodded again.

“Alright. I’ll be there around seven.”

Marcos left after that, bag over his shoulder, footsteps even across the changing room floor. He didn’t look back. Sebastian watched him go and couldn’t stop the smile creeping onto his face once Marcos disappeared through the door.

The rest of the afternoon dragged.

Sebastian drove home with both hands on the wheel and his mind somewhere else entirely. He tried music, then turned it off after two songs because his brain stopped listening after the first verse. He tried thinking through the Friday-night game, but the tactics kept breaking apart under the thought of Marcos standing in his doorway in a few hours.

When he arrived at his apartment, he cleaned everything that was already clean.

The kitchen bench had nothing on it except a bowl he took from one side to the other before putting it back where it started. The couch cushions were fine, but he rearranged them anyway, then messed one up slightly because he didn’t want the apartment to look like he had spent the whole afternoon preparing it.

He stood in the middle of the living room with no idea what he was doing.

He didn’t know what was going to happen tonight. He didn’t know exactly what Marcos would want to do.

He made sure he was ready for anything, regardless, then immediately felt stupid afterward.

By six o’clock, he was sitting on his couch in somewhat nice clothes: a blue button-up shirt, loose-fitting jeans, and white socks. He had dressed like he was not trying too hard, which meant he had tried too hard for at least twenty minutes before landing on something that looked casual enough to lie for him.

An hour to go before Marcos was meant to arrive.

Sebastian drummed his fingers on his thighs, looking around his apartment. The light spilling in from the window had started to fade as night crept in, softening the edges of the city beyond the glass. His reflection sat faintly over the view whenever he looked too directly at it, dressed, waiting, and too obviously aware of himself.

He sighed and checked the time again, before his eyes went to the door, then he dragged them to the black of the television in front of him. With a small shrug aimed at no one, he loaded up his racing game and got into a few races.

That helped more than he expected.

By the third race, he had leaned forward, elbows on his knees, focus narrowing to corners, timing, and the engine noise through the speakers. His shoulders loosened. His hands remembered something other than waiting.

Then a knock came at the door.

Sebastian felt his heart jump.

He paused the game, placed the controller on the coffee table, and got to his feet. The apartment seemed too quiet as he crossed from the living room toward the hall, fingers flexing at his side as he went. It was stupid to feel nervous about opening his own door. It was more stupid to stop there with his hand hovering over the handle as if the few inches of wood between them changed anything.

He inhaled deeply and opened it.

Marcos stood before him with his hair curling tightly, wearing a plain white T-shirt and dark grey dress pants. The effort of the pants hit Sebastian first, because Marcos looked good in training gear, in jerseys, in whatever he dragged on after a shower, but this was different. It was neater. His lips were drawn into a tight smile, which crinkled the sides of his eyes, and he gave Sebastian an awkward wave, his hand barely rising above his waist.

“Hi,” Sebastian said softly, before stepping to the side for Marcos to walk in.

Sebastian kept his gaze locked onto Marcos as he stepped over the threshold and squeezed by, slipping past him and into the hall. Marcos’ shoulder almost brushed his chest.