Page 8 of Contested

“‘Need’ is a strong word.”

Marcos took the plate she shoved at him and wiped water from the edge.

He did have enough money to move out. More than enough, in fact. Sometimes he looked at the old couch, the taped remote, the rice cooker with its crooked lid, and the pan Diana refused to throw out, and thought about ordering replacements just to see what would happen.

Even though he already knew.

Greg would find the receipt, or the delivery docket, or the box at the door, and his face would close over. Then Diana would try to smooth it over. Then Marcos would feel like he was twelve years old again, getting yelled at by his father.

The money stayed in his account, and the old things stayed where they were.

“Marcos, can you get the bowl from the top shelf, please?” Diana asked, and Becca raised her eyebrow.

He slipped by his mum, reached up, and grabbed the bowl, placing it on the counter. “There you go, Ma. See, Bec. Needed.”

Becca hummed and rolled her eyes, handing a plate to Marcos for him to dry. “So, how is the new team going?”

“It’s good. It’s been a few weeks, and I mostly see them in the gym, but they seem chill.”

That was mostly true. They were better organised than he had expected in some ways, stranger in others, because every club had its own rhythms and he was still learning where to stand without someone telling him to move.

He had learned names. He had learned who lifted too hard too early, who complained through every mobility block, who wanted to be first in sprints, and who pretended not to care when they were. He had learned that the Mustangs’ gym had better equipment than Bendigo’s, but the drinks in the vending machine were much worse.

“So, you’re actually going to do good this season?”

Marcos glanced at Becca. “Me specifically?”

“Yeah. ‘Cause you’re bad.”

“No, no. I got that part.” Marcos clicked his tongue, then turned to his mum. “See what I mean? So cruel.”

Diana waved him off as she focused on cooking, muttering something under her breath that he didn’t catch.

Marcos dried another plate and set it on the bench. Becca washed with too much water and not enough care, getting the front of her shirt wet. Outside, a tram bell sounded faintly through the evening traffic, softened by distance and the closed back door.

“Have you hit that Seb guy yet?” Becca asked. “You complain about him enough.”

“I have not hit him. Yet.”

“My baby would never hit anyone. He is too precious,” Diana said, shifting behind Marcos and giving him a quick kiss on the shoulder, then rushing out of the kitchen.

Marcos watched her disappear with the towel still in his hand.

“Since when did Mum lie?” Becca whispered, and Marcos shoved her.

“You understood all that?”

“No. But ‘precious’ is not a word I’d use to describe you.”

“You’re as bad as Dad.”

“What did I do?” Marcos’ dad’s voice came into the kitchen before he did.

Greg Reyes filled doorways even when he was not trying to. He was almost as tall as Marcos and broader through the middle. He had no hair left on his head and had grown a moustache to compensate. He wore work pants still marked from the day and a dark shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.

“Aye, Greg,” Becca said, and gave a salute.

Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that.”