Page 56 of Contested

Sebastian listened. He was calm by the time they left the rooms.

Sound built beyond the walls until the whole stadium seemed to breathe above them.

Then they ran out, and the MCG opened around them.

Eighty thousand people didn’t sound like a number. It sounded like a storm. Noise sliding over the grass, filling the stands, rolling from one side of the ground to the other before crashing back in the middle. Maroon and gold filled most of the lower section, but the Wolves’ purple, black, and red still protruded enough to make the noise split in places. The grass stretched wide under the afternoon light, clean and huge, the centre square sitting ahead like the point everything would keep returning to.

Sebastian ran through the banner and onto the field with the others, legs moving easily now that there was somewhere to put the pressure.

The game started faster than he wanted.

The Wolves came in with the sort of pressure teams used against winless sides when they wanted doubt to do half the work for them. Every time the Mustangs touched the ball, the Wolves had a body near it. Every mark was made to feel rushed. Every loose ball had two players arriving at once.

The first centre bounce went up, and Marcos got a hand to it, but the tap came off the side of his palm and landed in too many people. Phetmany fought it forward, the ball spilled, and Sebastian got half a handball away before being driven into the ground.

They got nowhere.

He pushed himself up and reset.

For most of the first quarter, the Mustangs fought themselves as much as the Wolves. A kick inside fifty went over Darcy’s head when the shorter option was open. Corey got caught holding the ball after trying to do too much near the boundary. Harry saved them twice across half-back, reading the incoming kick and cutting it off.

The quarter ended with the Mustangs down by nine.

The second quarter was better because Marcos made it better.

Sebastian felt the shift before the scoreboard did. Marcos started moving the Wolves’ ruck around, taking body early, then slipping away late. His taps became less ambitious and more useful. He stopped trying to create perfect exits and started creating contests the Mustangs could win. The ball came to ground in places Sebastian could reach. If not him, then Phetmany. If not Phetmany, then Parker folding in from the wing.

The first goal of the quarter came from ugly football.

Marcos tapped to ground. Sebastian took the loose ball, got wrapped, and forced it out by hand before his knee hit the grass. Andrew hacked it forward. Corey chased, tackled, and won a free kick when the Wolves defender dragged it in. Corey’s set shot went through, and the MCG lifted around them, Mustangs supporters finding their voice in a way that made Sebastian’s skin tighten.

By halftime, the Mustangs were down by one.

The rooms felt alive in a way they hadn’t for weeks. Not loose or satisfied. But there was something under the noise now. They had played a good quarter. They had corrected. They had absorbed pressure and pushed back. They were not waiting for the game to turn for them.

Jacob made sure they knew that wasn’t enough.

Sebastian sat forward, towel over his shoulders, listening.

Marcos stood across from him with one foot on the bench, forearm resting on his thigh, head slightly lowered as he took in the same words. Sweat ran down the side of his face. His jersey clung to his chest. He looked tired in the way everyone looked tired, but his eyes were clear.

The third quarter went badly enough to test every part of them.

The Wolves adjusted. They blocked Sebastian more aggressively and brought a spare around the defensive side to cut off the exit Marcos and Sebastian had used twice already. They slowed the game after marks, chipped the ball around half-back, and forced the Mustangs to defend for longer stretches.

The margin reached eighteen before the Mustangs steadied.

Marcos was the one who dragged them back to the contest again. He stopped letting the Wolves ruck control where the ball fell. He tapped it. Scrapped. Followed up. Took contact and held his feet. Gave Sebastian half a chance instead of waiting for a perfect one.

Half a chance was enough.

At three-quarter time, they were down by ten.

Jacob’s message was simple because the game had become simple. Ten points. One quarter. No room for error.

Sebastian barely heard the words as words. He felt them in the bodies around him. Players breathing hard, nodding, taking water, shifting weight from one leg to the other because standing still made fatigue heavier. He looked out toward the ground, the MCG spread huge around them, noise moving even during the break.

The last quarter became the kind of football Sebastian hated and loved in equal measure.