Page 42 of Contested

No one else would understand why, though. Even if Marcos had said what Sebastian thought he had, most of the team wouldn’t have heard it. Most of the team probably wouldn’t have cared. Worse things had been said on fields and in changing rooms with less consequence than a bad look across the benches. They would have called it heat, or banter, or a line crossed by half a step then quietly walked back.

How could Sebastian explain why he did what he did without them looking at him differently? Without someone piecing it together?

“For the record,” Randal started, eyes following Sebastian’s movement, “I reckon you could take him.”

“Thanks,” Sebastian murmured, letting his back fall to the ground and spreading his arms out.

Randal got to his feet and held out his hand. Sebastian took it, letting Randal haul him up. His stomach tightened as he stood, the muscles protesting from the exercise and the rest of him protesting from everything else. He brushed grass from his shirt just as a whistle ripped across the ground.

“Laps! Everyone!” Jacob strode across the oval, Jeremy a few steps behind him. “Jeremy will set up some drills, and everyone will listen to him when they’re ready.”

The team pulled in closer to catch Jacob’s words, a loose agreement filtering through them before they started to break away. Players turned on their heels and jogged toward the boundary line, toward those already running, conversation picking back up almost immediately. Boots shifted. Someone groaned about the heat, while someone else laughed and shoved him toward the line.

Sebastian’s eye caught Marcos off to the side with Parker.

Parker had one hand clasped on Marcos’ shoulder, leaning in as he said something Sebastian couldn’t hear. Marcos nodded, or maybe only moved because Parker’s hand made him. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t looking across the field. He seemed smaller from this distance, which was ridiculous because Marcos Reyes had never been small.

They were just about to follow the others when Jacob’s voice cut through the air again.

“Not you.” He pointed at Marcos, gesturing for him to come closer. Jacob then turned to face Sebastian. “Or you.”

A prickling sensation ran up the back of Sebastian’s neck as his gaze shifted between Marcos and Jacob. He clicked his tongue and dragged in a deep breath before stepping toward both of them.

“With me,” Jacob said shortly, pivoting toward the club’s building, the grass stiff under his boots.

Marcos fell in line after him first. Head down, eyes on the ground. Sebastian watched him, letting the distance build before he followed. His boots didn’t lift properly, scuffing against the grass with every step. The sound irritated him, but he didn’t correct it.

He wanted Marcos to look back.

That was the stupid part. Not the only stupid part, but the one currently making his jaw ache. After last night, after Marcos had left without being able to look at him, Sebastian shouldn’t have wanted anything from him. He should have been relieved Marcos was keeping his head down and his mouth shut. He should have been grateful no one had looked at either of them and seen the shape of what had happened.

Instead, he wanted Marcos to turn.

He didn’t.

The grass gave way to the narrow strip of concrete at the boundary, then the rubber matting outside the players’ entrance. Sebastian’s boots changed sound beneath him, studs dragging against the surface before he stepped through the side door and into the cooler air of the club building.

The hallway inside wasn’t made for spectators. No polished front desk, no framed welcome sign, no careful version of the Mustangs built for sponsors or family days. This was the working part of the club. White walls marked in places by shoulders, bags, and boots. A row of hooks held spare bibs and resistance bands. A whiteboard near the gym doors still had the morning’s blocks written in black marker, half rubbed away by someone’s forearm. Through the glass, Sebastian could see the weights area sitting empty, racks loaded and benches pushed back into place after the earlier group had finished.

They passed the physio rooms next. One door sat open, showing a treatment table, rolls of tape stacked on a trolley, and a player’s hoodie thrown over the back of a chair. Farther down, the recovery area opened briefly on their left, ice baths covered, towels folded on a bench, and stationary bikes lined up against the wall for rehab work.

Sebastian kept his eyes on the back of Marcos’ neck.

Not because he wanted to. Because there wasn’t much else to look at that didn’t make him feel worse. The corridor had too many reminders of where they were and what he had nearly cost them. Team schedules. Injury boards. A laminated sheet about media obligations pinned crooked near the meeting room. The Mustangs’ logos printed across walls, doors, and training gear, each one a reminder that this place didn’t belong to either of them individually.

They were assets here. Talented ones, maybe. But still replaceable enough for Jacob to drag them inside while the rest of the team kept running laps.

Jacob pushed through the locker room door and stepped in first.

The room was larger than the one Sebastian had left behind at Geelong, though not by much. Lockers ran along three walls, each with a nameplate, shelf space, hanging rail, and the usual mess players made. Boots sat under benches. Tape, spare socks, drink bottles, towels, and training tops were already spread across the room. A mounted screen sat black on the far wall, with a tactics board beside it marked up from the previous meeting.

The locker room was empty aside from them, which somehow made it worse. Too many benches. Too many lockers. Too much space for Jacob’s irritation to fill.

He threw his hand out in a loose gesture toward the benches. “Sit.”

Marcos lowered himself near the far corner, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together, eyes on the floor.

Sebastian let his gaze settle on him. Marcos hadn’t looked at him once since Jacob pulled them off the oval. Not in the hallway. Not when he sat. Not now.