Page 44 of Contested

His apartment. On his couch. Marcos’ hand on his chest and his breath on his lips. Sebastian on his knees between Marcos’ legs, tasting him and taking in his scent.

If people knew about that, what would happen? If cameras had seen that, what would happen?

Sebastian’s throat tensed before he could stop it. He could imagine the story forming around him. Not the fight, or the punch. Something that would take every part of his life he had kept separate and flatten it into one thing people could point at.

Footballer.

Gay footballer.

He pressed his thumb harder against the torn skin beside his nail.

Marcos mumbled something beside him, and Sebastian snapped out of his thoughts, looking up to see Jacob staring at him.

“Did you hear me?” Jacob asked, and Sebastian cleared his throat, looking toward Marcos, who still stared at the ground. “I said, you two need to learn to work together.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sebastian said quickly, nodding too fast, too many times.

Jacob stared at him, eyes sharp.

Sebastian stopped nodding.

“Good. Because from now on, until I say otherwise, you two will be practically holding hands whenever you’re training.” Jacob stood, pulling paper from his clipboard and handing it to Sebastian and Marcos. “Drills together. Stretches together. Gym together. Hell, I want you to have lunch together. You two are going to learn how to be on the same team. Or, so help me fucking God, this conversation is going to be very different next time.”

Sebastian dropped his gaze to the paper Jacob had handed him.

It was a schedule.

Drills, training, workouts. All laid out plainly with his and Marcos’ names next to each other. If they weren’t training with the team, they would be off doing drills together or in the gym together. Same time. Same space. Same expectation that they could stand beside each other without tearing the club’s morning apart.

Marcos’ copy shifted in his hand, the page bending slightly under his fingers.

“Zach has restructured your workout routines to line up with each other. Same exercises, same days.” Jacob tucked his clipboard under his arm again, letting out a sigh. “Alright. Now, get back out there.”

Once again, Marcos acted first, getting to his feet and stepping past Jacob.

The absence of contact on Sebastian’s thigh became far too obvious for his liking.

It had been nothing. Less than nothing, probably. A thigh pressed against his on a bench while their coach told them to stop behaving like dickheads. But the moment Marcos stood, the place he had been touching cooled too quickly, and Sebastian’s attention dropped there before he had a chance to catch himself.

He pushed off the bench and went to follow Marcos, but Jacob’s hand landed on his chest.

Sebastian stopped.

He watched Marcos leave through the doorway, paper still in hand, shoulders set in a way that told Sebastian whatever relaxed feeling Marcos had next to him was gone.

Then Marcos disappeared into the hall, and Sebastian was left with Jacob’s palm against his sternum and the faint, ridiculous awareness of where Marcos’ leg had been.

“While I am required to remind you of this, I’m also doing it because you’re a good kid and I’d hate to see you go down a bad path.” Jacob searched Sebastian’s eyes. “Dr Veech is available if you need her. We can organise something.”

Sebastian stared at him.

Dr Veech was the Mustangs’ psychologist. Most clubs had one, and if they didn’t, they outsourced the service. Usually, they were used to manage nerves or when players had been injured and were in their own head about whether they could play again or when they’d be back. Sometimes for grief. Sometimes for pressure. Sometimes because a player had started doing stupid things in ways the club couldn’t keep ignoring.

Sebastian knew that.

He also knew what it meant for Jacob to say it here, in the locker room, after the fight, after the warning, after dragging him aside when Marcos had already been sent out.

Jacob wasn’t asking because he knew anything.