Page 93 of Contested

The Central Coast Sharks were their next win, ugly in the first half and sharp in the second. The wind off the coast made every high ball a problem, and Marcos spent most of the match adjusting under kicks that died or carried without warning.

Sebastian adapted quicker than everyone else. He stopped waiting for clean service and started reading the bounce instead, cutting through packs with his head low and his hands already out. Marcos found him twice from stoppages that should have gone nowhere. The second led to a goal through Andrew.

By then, people were starting to use the word ‘chemistry’.

Marcos heard it in the rooms after the match when one of the assistant coaches said it to Jacob, not quietly enough. Jacob only grunted and told them their defensive spread in the first quarter had been shit.

The Western Sydney Sentinels came to Melbourne the week after and left with a loss that felt cleaner than any of the ones before it. The Mustangs controlled the middle for longer stretches. Parker and Corey stayed wide enough to stretch the field, and every time Marcos got first hand to the ball, Sebastian seemed to appear where the tap wanted to go.

Their next game didn’t go as well. The Adelaide Devils were the first loss after the run had begun to feel like something they could hold. It was a narrow loss in cold, ugly conditions, decided by a late clearance. Marcos won the tap. Sebastian got caught half a step behind because Adelaide’s rover blocked him early, and by the time the ball spilled, the Devils had too many numbers moving.

Sebastian had bent over after the final siren sounded, and Marcos had walked over, pulling him up straight and wrapping his arm around Sebastian’s shoulder.

“Unlucky,” he whispered, and Sebastian had given a small grin in response.

That image hit social media harder than the news of the loss.

Reyes and Nguyen: Remedied Rivals

It had been stupid, and Marcos had rolled his eyes at it before moving on and keeping his focus on training.

Sebastian didn’t.

MID MAY

“You can see it in the way Nguyen seems to be able to read the field before Reyes is even in the air.” The commentator’s voice filled Sebastian’s apartment, travelling to the kitchen where Marcos sat. “Now, we know they played against each other as kids growing up. So, I guess after all that time they’d be natural at reading each—”

The television shut off, returning to a black screen, and Marcos’ eyes flicked toward the stove where Sebastian was standing, the remote clattering onto the counter.

Marcos raised his eyebrow.

“What?” Sebastian asked, looking down at the pan.

Marcos couldn’t quite see what he was cooking, but he wasn’t going to complain about whatever ended up in front of him tonight. Sebastian had been quiet since Marcos arrived. He’d made comments about Marcos’ clothes and how he smelled, told him to take his shoes off like Marcos had somehow forgotten the rules of the apartment, and asked if he wanted water before disappearing into the kitchen. But the quiet sat under all of it.

It had been sitting under him for weeks.

Marcos shrugged. “Not a fan of recaps?”

“I see enough of it in our reviews.” Sebastian pulled some plates down from the cupboard and laid them out. “Besides, praise doesn’t make me a better player.”

Marcos tilted his head at that.

Sebastian wasn’t wrong. Praise didn’t make anyone better. It didn’t fix the missed pressure, the bad kick, the late run, or the one piece of hesitation that could turn a clean passage into a turnover. But the bluntness in Sebastian’s voice threw Marcos slightly. It sounded like Sebastian didn’t want the words in the apartment with them.

The commentator had been talking about their last two games—the Canberra Knights and the Hobart Heat. The Mustangs had won both quite easily, with margins over thirty points each time, and the footage had been hard to argue with. Marcos and Sebastian had been in sync through both matches.

Marcos had watched enough of the replay before Sebastian killed it to see what the commentators meant.

At the centre bounce against Canberra, Marcos had gone up against a ruck who tried to body him out early. He had taken the contact, adjusted in the air, and palmed the ball wide without looking. Sebastian had already cut across the space, taking it at pace and sending the kick inside fifty before the Knights’ Rover had fully turned. Against Hobart, they had done it again, this time off a throw-in near the boundary. Marcos had knocked the ball down behind him, and Sebastian had gathered it cleanly, almost like he had known where the tap would land before Marcos decided.

“Thinking for the other,” the commentator had said.

Marcos didn’t quite understand it as a compliment. It made them sound stranger than they were. Like football had become something private. Like people could see a shape between them that Marcos still didn’t have proper words for.

The rest of the team had moulded around it, too, catching up to each play without missing a beat.

It all worked.