Page 1 of Contested

|| Chapter One ||

Sebastian – “Are you fucking kidding?”

EARLY NOVEMBER

The slap of leather on skin cut through the early morning quiet.

Sebastian Nguyen pulled the football into his chest and held it there, fingers spread over the worn leather, boots planted in the wet grass of the Melbourne Mustangs’ training oval. Rain from the night before still clung to the surface. It darkened the turf and soaked through the sides of his boots when he shifted his weight, but he ignored the cold working its way in. He had played in worse. He had played through winter wind that pushed kicks sideways, through mud that clung to calves, through the kind of rain that made keeping your body clean almost impossible.

This was nothing.

This was just his first morning at a new club, after barely sleeping, standing on an oval that did not belong to him yet.

He tucked the ball under his arm and ran his free hand through his black hair. It fell back into place over his forehead anyway, dead straight.

The clouds sat low over the city, thick enough to hide the sun, but the sky had started to brighten at the edges. Almost six o’clock on a Monday in early November. Too early for most people to be anywhere except bed, but the Mustangs’ facility already had life in it. Not much. Not full-squad noise, not the proper return of a club waking up for another season. A few cars in the car park and a couple of staff crossing between the building and the oval, along with the faint scrape of someone dragging equipment out from storage.

The newer players were back first. That was how it worked. The first few years on a list meant shorter breaks, earlier testing, more chances for coaches to decide whether the off-season had been used properly or wasted. The older players could stretch their leave a little longer. They had the luxury of being known in the club.

Sebastian did not.

At the Geelong Rams, he had been a ruck. Before that, he had been a ruck in juniors, back when he was nine at his local club and barely understood the game beyond the bounce, the contest, and the satisfaction of getting his hands on the ball first.

The position had shaped him before he was old enough to know what that meant. But he had grown into it, built himself around it, and learned where his body belonged on the field. He had fought for contests, worn knees in his ribs, landed on his side, landed on other men, got up, and gone again. He had spent two years proving he could handle it.

Then the Mustangs had called.

The offer had been too good to refuse. Not because Geelong had been lacking or lesser. The Rams were a strong club, and Sebastian had known exactly what he was leaving behind when he signed the paperwork. But the Mustangs had offered more money, and more money meant something different when a person had grown up learning how thin a household budget could stretch before it snapped. It meant security and the chance to build a life for himself and his family.

While the offer hadn’t been for ruck, ruck-rover wasn’t bad. It was still in the centre and kept him around the contest. Close enough to prove the move had been worth it.

Ruck-rover was not an insult. He had told himself that several times already.

Sebastian bounced the ball once and caught it cleanly. Fifteen metres downfield, Randal had his hands planted on his hips, waiting.

Randal was the first player Sebastian had run into when he arrived, sitting on the hood of his car with a takeaway coffee balanced against his thigh. Blond hair tied back into a ponytail, boots already laced, easy grin in place. He was shorter than Sebastian, broader through the middle, and carried himself with a relaxed confidence.

They had decided to start kicking because standing around was too confining. It was easier to move and let his body do something familiar while the rest of him adjusted to the new colours, new facility, new oval, and the new names he would have to remember.

“You gonna kick it back?” Randal called, throwing his hands in the air. “Or you waiting on permission from Japan?”

“That doesn’t make sense!” Sebastian yelled back, kicking the ball directly into Randal’s chest. “Also, I’m Vietnamese.”

Randal caught it against his body and gave the smallest shrug. No shame or correction. No moment of realising he had been a dickhead. He just stepped back, lined up his kick, and punted the ball across the grass.

It curved wide enough that Sebastian had to jog left to mark it.

“Shit kick,” Sebastian said, tossing the ball to himself, then sending it back.

This one hit Randal exactly where it should have. Of course it did.

“Eh, I’m full-back. Don’t need to be perfect,” Randal replied.

His next kick skewed again.

Sebastian started across, but the ball dipped before he could get under it. It hit the grass and bounced away, spinning low over the wet surface. He exhaled through his nose and jogged after it, irritation already there because he had not slept, because the joke had landed badly, because his boots were wet, because the oval was not familiar yet, because he was still telling himself ruck-rover was not an insult.

A boot stopped the ball before he reached it.