Page 97 of Contested

“Mister fucking Reyes!” Parker’s voice was drowned out by the cheers of his teammates as Marcos was shaken, his drink spilling.

He swore as beer sloshed over the side of the glass and down his hand, but Parker had already wrapped an arm around his shoulders and dragged him halfway out of his seat. Around them, the rest of the Mustangs made enough noise to fill the bar twice over.

It was Friday night, and the Mustangs had come from the MCG after beating the Sydney Storm by fifty points.

Sydney had made him work for it early. Every bounce came with a body under him, a shove at his ribs, someone trying to drag the contest low before he could get clean hands to it. Marcos had stopped chasing clean by the second quarter. Instead, he knocked the ball forward when he couldn’t palm it clean. Followed up when the tap died under bodies. Hit blocks hard enough to give Sebastian half a step, which was all Sebastian seemed to need.

By the final siren, Marcos felt the win in every sore part of himself.

Marcos had dominated the centre for most of the match.

That was what the reporters had said afterward, anyway. He’d heard enough of it from the edge of the rooms, microphones pushed toward him while sweat cooled on his skin and his shoulder ached from a second-quarter hit.

Dominated the centre.

Controlled the tap.

Gave Melbourne first use.

He had nodded through it, answered as cleanly as he could, and tried not to look too often toward Sebastian, who stood a few metres away with his own microphones pointed at him.

It had been their fourth win in five weeks.

Forster Foresters first, at home, the match tighter than it should have been until the last quarter. Then Essendon Strikers away, where the Strikers had spent half the game trying to slow every stoppage until Melbourne finally broke it open through hard running and cleaner hands. Northern Titans after that, another home win, sharper and louder because the crowd had started believing again. The Penrith Thunder had ruined the streak the week before Sydney, dragging them into a wet, ugly loss.

Then Sydney.

Fifty points.

The kind of win that made players loud afterward, even the ones who usually kept themselves contained.

“I’m pretty sure the best player has to buy the next round,” Harry said, clapping Marcos on the back before pulling him to his feet.

“I don’t think—” Marcos started, but Andrew cut him off.

“Don’t back chat the captain. Off you go.”

The team jeered as Marcos waved them off and walked to the bar, weaving between stools, shoulders, and supporters who had recognised enough of the team to start treating the whole corner like a second celebration. He ordered more drinks, and the bartender told him she’d bring them over when they were ready.

Marcos turned, eyes sweeping the crowded bar until they landed on Sebastian sitting next to Phetmany and Darcy.

Sebastian had changed out of his team gear into dark jeans and a black jacket, his hair still damp enough in places to show he hadn’t done much more than run a hand through it after the showers. He was leaning back into the booth, one arm along the seat, eyes lifted toward Phetmany.

Marcos took a deep breath and walked over, threading through everyone who wanted to clasp his shoulders.

The music was loud, thumping through the venue, which the Mustangs’ players seemed to take as a challenge to talk louder. Bodies moved around him. Glasses knocked against each other. Someone near the bar yelled his name, and Marcos lifted a hand without stopping. He slid into the booth next to Darcy, eyes flicking to Sebastian as he did.

“There he is!” Phetmany called, words slurring together. “We’re making the top eight. boys!”

“Oi, Marcos,” Darcy said quietly, barely heard over the music, and Marcos leaned in. “This is how you hustle.” Darcy then turned to Phetmany, raising his voice. “Phet, fifty bucks I can beat you at darts.”

“Fuck. You’re on, cunt.”

Darcy winked at Marcos before sliding past him and dragging Phetmany toward the darts on the other side of the room, leaving Marcos alone with Sebastian.

Marcos shuffled across the booth, coming to rest so his knee knocked into Sebastian’s.

It had been better since May.