Page 27 of Contested

“Swap reserves. Switch for Tommy and Daniel. Continue play,” Jacob commanded, then another whistle blew.

Sebastian still had his hands balled into fists once he reached the bench. His eyes stayed on his feet as he sat down at one end of the seat, right on the edge. Marcos walked past him and sat at the other end. Neither of them spoke.

Jacob came to a halt between them.

His breathing was heavy, and every so often, he clicked his tongue. It stayed that way for a few minutes, the sound of the game continuing on the field breaking the silence between them. Tommy and Daniel were already in their spots, the gap Sebastian and Marcos had left covered faster than Sebastian wanted to think about.

Then Jacob spoke. “All you two have to do is get on the fucking field and play the game. Pass the ball. Kick the ball. Play. The fucking. Game.” He spat on the ground, turned toward the field, and shook his head. “We have a month until the season starts. If you two do not sort whatever this shit is out, I have plenty of reserves who can step in. For one or both of you.”

Sebastian loosened his fingers, letting his palms rest on his thighs. His right hand had started to ache as the red covering his knuckles darkened.

Jacob was right. Sebastian was replaceable. He didn’t even need Marcos to run his mouth to lose his position. He was capable of making that happen himself.

“I want you both out of my fucking sight,” Jacob continued, turning back to look at them. “Get off my field. Deal with whatever shit you need to and do not bring it back here again. Or shit will change very quickly for you.”

Jacob didn’t wait around for a response. He slapped the clipboard against his leg and strode away, farther down the boundary line, his focus back on the field.

Sebastian didn’t move. His hands gripped his thighs, and he closed his eyes. He tried to even out his breathing as it had become too shallow, too quick. But the deeper he tried to get the air, the more he wanted to take another swing at Marcos. The punch hadn’t settled anything. It had made things worse in every practical way possible.

He opened his eyes and focused on the field in front of him. His teammates were running across the grass, the game being played without him. Tommy was contesting the bounce with enough effort but not enough control. Daniel ran through the middle where Sebastian should have been, cutting toward a handball too late and recovering half a second after the opening had passed. Neither of them was better than Sebastian or Marcos.

They were still on the field.

“Chết tiệt,” he muttered, biting the inside of his cheek.

Marcos shifted. It was small. A movement to angle himself toward Sebastian. Then a deep breath. And another. Then, “Look, Seb—”

That was enough for Sebastian. He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to hear the softness in Marcos’ voice. Or the slight tremble when Marcos said his name. The uncertainty or confusion or whatever the hell it was.

He didn’t want to hear any of it.

Sebastian pushed to his feet and, without a glance back, marched toward the locker room.

He didn’t clean himself up or change. He didn’t want to risk Marcos walking in and having to deal with whatever came with that. The locker room was empty, and Sebastian passed through it fast, picked up his things, and walked out.

By the time he reached his car, his stomach was throbbing, and it hurt to stretch it out. By the time he was in his apartment, it was in competition with his knuckles to see which could be in more pain.

The shower didn’t help.

Not with the pain, or the feelings, or the thoughts.

He pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants, put his glasses on, and made his way to the kitchen. The week after Marcos had been there had not been kind to the apartment. Sebastian had lost the motivation to maintain. Plates sat in the sink and cups on the kitchen counter. The couch and coffee table had never been put back in place, and the first aid kit had only made it from the floor back onto the table.

Sebastian had cleaned up the glass. Everything else stayed.

He sighed at the sight of it all before taking some pain medication. Then took his aching body to the couch—grabbing his PlayStation controller on the way—and slumped down onto it. One leg hung over the armrest, and he propped himself up on his elbow as the television came to life.

The racing game loaded slowly, its menu filling the screen with polished cars and soft music that sounded too neat for the apartment around it. He started a race. Finished it. Started another. Won. Tuned his car. And repeated.

The pain started to die down, and Sebastian didn’t even notice the room around him fall into darkness as the hours passed and the sun disappeared behind the cityscape. The windows turned reflective, catching the crooked shape of the room behind him. The only real light came from the television, blue and silver washing over the coffee table, the first aid kit, the cups on the counter, and his bare chest.

Then there was a knock at his door.

Sebastian blinked hard as his eyes started to sting. He was flicking through his collection of cars when he checked around the apartment, then toward the hallway. For a moment, he didn’t move. The knock had been firm enough to hear over the game, but not urgent enough for him to care.

He doubted it was anyone important. No one he cared about lived close enough to drop by for a nighttime visit.

He brought his attention back to the screen before it dipped to his chest. The light slid against the faint scar that had formed, the bump rising slightly above his skin. His finger came up and ran along it without much thought.