Page 98 of Contested

Not fixed, because Marcos was starting to understand that ‘fixed’ was the wrong word for something like this. Sebastian didn’t need one conversation and a hug to stop being careful. He hadn’t suddenly become easy with the jokes or the way the media kept putting their names beside each other. He still watched rooms. Still pulled back if a touch lasted too long in the wrong place. Still read the comments online even though Marcos had told him not to, which had earned him a look sharp enough to end the conversation before he could make it worse.

But it was better.

Marcos tried more now. He still missed things until Sebastian went quiet, or until something in his face shifted and Marcos had to trace the moment backward to work out what had landed badly. But he tried. He stopped laughing automatically when the team threw certain jokes around. He noticed when crowd noise changed shape near the boundary. He noticed the way Sebastian’s shoulders locked if an opponent said something low at a stoppage.

Marcos had started hearing more once he knew what to listen for.

That was the worst part.

The words had always been there, threaded through football like dirt in grass.

Soft. Weak. Gay. Princess.

A hundred versions of the same thing, thrown from crowds, muttered by players, turned into jokes in comment sections by people who thought saying something with a laughing emoji made it harmless. Marcos had heard it before and let most of it pass over him, because it had never felt aimed at the centre of his own body.

Now it caught.

Not every time. But enough that he understood Sebastian a little better than he had in May.

Only a little.

Maybe that was all he had earned.

“Man of the hour,” Sebastian said, bumping his shoulder against Marcos. “How’s it feel?”

“Feels like my groin is ripping,” Marcos said, and Sebastian snorted. “What? I think I landed weird one too many times.”

“You weren’t doing the splits.”

“May as well have been. Thought my ball sack was gonna split open.”

“Come back to mine after, and I can fix that,” Sebastian whispered, leaning in so his lips almost pressed against Marcos’ ear.

Heat ran through Marcos so quickly it almost annoyed him.

He pulled away, raising his eyebrow. “Lot of people around.”

“I’m not allowed to try to talk to my teammate in a loud bar?”

“Alright, alright.” Marcos raised his hand, a wide grin slipping on his face. “How would you fix it?”

“I give great massages,” Sebastian offered with a shrug, looking around the bar.

There was enough space around them now to pretend the booth was private. The rest of the team had scattered—half toward the dartboards, a few still near the bar, others caught in loud conversations with supporters. Darcy was already lining up a dart while Phetmany shouted something to throw him off. Parker had one foot on a chair and was gesturing with his whole body, probably lying about something he had done during the match.

Everyone else in the bar seemed to have joined in on the festivities as well, egging Darcy and Phetmany on, asking for selfies, shouting congratulations, treating the Mustangs’ win like it belonged to the whole room.

Marcos hummed at the thought of Sebastian’s hands on him again.

They hadn’t been with each other like that since April. Football had occupied too much of their time, and Marcos’ family had taken up most of what was left. Especially since Becca had cornered him at the end of May and demanded he help her with Spanish to surprise their mother for her birthday in October.

Between matches, training, recovery, family, and the quiet caution that still sat around whatever he and Sebastian were doing, weeks had passed without Marcos standing in Sebastian’s apartment again.

“What kind of payment do you take?” Marcos asked, his leg pressing firmer against Sebastian’s.

“I’m sure we can think of something.” Sebastian smirked, then turned away as Lachie came to sit with them.

“Seb, I offer you the opportunity to lose to me in pool,” he said, holding his hands out, palms up.