Page 128 of Contested

The second quarter opened harder.

The Bandits came at him through Laurence and through anyone else close enough to make contact count. A half-forward blocked his run at a boundary throw-in, stepping across him just as Marcos moved to the drop. The contact wasn’t much, but it cost him position, and Laurence got enough of the ball to knock it down to the Bandits’ Rover. Two minutes later, at another stoppage, someone caught Marcos across the back of the shoulder after the ball had spilled loose.

He turned, saw no one watching him, and kept going.

The umpires weren’t missing everything. They paid one hold against Laurence halfway through the quarter after he dragged Marcos back by the front of his jersey, fingers hooked in the maroon and gold while pretending he didn’t know Marcos had already offloaded the ball. Marcos took the free kick, sent it short to Darcy, and watched the Mustangs move forward through the corridor.

Most of it, though, the umpires missed.

A late elbow in a skirmish. A knee landing after a contest. A shoulder through Marcos’ ribs when the play had already moved on.

At the next bounce, Laurence pressed his forearm into Marcos’ chest before the ball had even left the umpire’s hands. Marcos shoved him off.

The whistle came, and both of them froze.

The umpire pointed at Marcos. “Free for Bendigo.”

The Bandits’ crowd roared like they had earned it.

Marcos stared at the umpire, then turned away before his mouth cost the team more.

Laurence brushed past him, shoulder knocking his arm. “Easy.”

The Bandits managed to get a goal from the free kick. A punt down into their fifty, a handball from that, and then it went through the posts.

Marcos kicked at the ground and breathed hard before resetting.

The umpire prepared the ball, and Marcos cracked his fingers, eyes set on Laurence.

The ball went up.

This time, Marcos’ gaze snapped to it, and he watched nothing but the ball.

He won the tap clean, Sebastian took it, and Melbourne scored within thirty seconds.

That was how the quarter shifted back. It wasn’t easy, and the Bandits still hit hard and did everything they could to stop the Mustangs from running through the centre and getting the ball into their fifty.

It didn’t work, and by half-time, the Mustangs were up by four.

In the rooms, the air felt close and damp. Players moved around each other, sitting, standing, drinking, stretching, getting worked on by trainers. Marcos sat on the bench, towel over his shoulders, listening as Jacob spoke. His ribs ached where Laurence had driven into him. His left hip was tight from landing badly after a throw-in. None of it mattered enough to mention.

Across the room, Sebastian sat with his elbows on his knees, listening with his head down. His hair was damp and pushed away from his forehead.

Marcos looked away before he was caught staring.

Parker dropped onto the bench beside him. “Old mates playing nice?” he asked, reaching for his bottle.

Marcos wiped his face with the towel. “Not really.”

“Didn’t think so.” Parker took a drink, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “They’re getting into you?”

“They’re trying.”

Parker hummed. “Well, fuck them. Give ‘em hell.”

Those words settled into him, and he held them close as the third quarter started.

The first five minutes were worse than anything the Bandits had done in the first half.