Page 62 of Contested

Sebastian shook his head quickly. “Nah. Not really. I’ve already popped some pills.”

“Guess the pills don’t help with you looking like shit.”

Sebastian snorted. “Yeah. The blood isn’t really coming off. And I think some got on my nipple.” He pulled the collar of his jersey out and looked down at his chest.

Marcos almost laughed at the comment. “Warm water and soap. Gotta let it kinda soak for a bit before you scrub it.”

“What?” Sebastian raised his eyebrow.

Marcos sighed. “To get the blood off. I can give you a hand if you want?”

“Are you sure?”

The question landed too softly. Sebastian was still holding the collar of his jersey, still watching him with blood dried at the corner of his mouth and something guarded behind his eyes.

Marcos’ pulse pounded hard through his throat. “Just come to the showers.”

He grabbed his towel and stepped past Sebastian before his body could decide anything else. The corridor into the showers was cooler, the tiles marked with water from everyone who had already passed through. Marcos stopped near the wall without turning any of the showers on and leaned back against it, towel gripped in one hand, and listened to the ringing in his ears.

This isn’t a good idea.

The thought came in plainly. It was the same thought that had been sitting with him for weeks, only now there was no training drill, no team meeting, no full changing room, and no match pressure to put between him and it.

He flexed his fingers around the towel until the fabric bunched in his palm.

Sebastian soon walked in, only in his underwear, holding his towel. He walked slowly, eyes not leaving Marcos. His mouth twitched, then his brow furrowed.

“You don’t have to…do this,” Sebastian said, stopping a few steps short of Marcos, gaze flicking to the floor.

“Do what?” Marcos asked, arms folding across his chest, eyes fighting to stay on Sebastian’s face.

“You’ve barely said a word to me in, like, two months off the field.” Sebastian sighed. “And look, I get it. I do. But…if this is, like, an apology or whatever…we can just forget it. All of it. Nothing happened.”

Marcos watched Sebastian.

The waterless shower room amplified every small movement. Sebastian’s fingers tightened around the towel at his leg, then loosened. His chest rose and fell quicker with each breath, even though he had just played a full match and should have been too tired for nerves to find him this easily. Dried blood sat at his lip, and his tongue touched near it once before he stopped himself. His eyes kept shifting, landing on Marcos, dropping away, then coming back.

Sebastian was giving him an out.

After everything, after what happened in his apartment and the way Marcos had left, after two months of words cut short and eyes dragged away and bodies forced together when football made it impossible to avoid, Sebastian would still let him step back. He would let Marcos call it nothing. He would let him leave it there.

Marcos gripped his bicep hard, fingers digging into muscle.

He couldn’t walk away from what happened. He had already tried that. He had tried silence. Tried going home to his family and being normal at the dinner table while Paula watched him for too long. Tried standing beside Sebastian in drills with a ball between them and pretending that fixed anything.

None of it had worked.

The heat stayed under his skin whenever he thought about it. The heaviness in his gut stayed too, dragging at him whenever he remembered Sebastian’s mouth on his, Sebastian’s hand on him, his own body answering before his head had caught up.

No. He had to face it.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Marcos finally said, his arms dropping back to his sides. “I just felt…wrong after.”

“I know.” Sebastian took a step forward. “I’ve been there.” He took in a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have kept going.”

“No.” Marcos pushed off the wall. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Marcos stepped closer to Sebastian, his hand extending to rest on his shoulder, and he nodded toward the shower. “Go sit down there.”

Sebastian raised his eyebrow but didn’t argue. He stepped around Marcos and lowered himself to the floor beneath one of the showerheads, back resting against the tile.