Page 99 of Contested

“I don’t lose at pool,” Seb said, nudging Marcos one more time before following Lachie toward the pool tables.

Marcos watched them.

Sebastian threaded through the bar easily, shoulders loose, head turned toward Lachie as he said something Marcos couldn’t hear. He looked normal. Happy, even. The kind of normal that made Marcos want to believe the rest of it could be simple if they just kept being careful enough.

Then Sebastian reached the pool table, and Lachie threw an arm around his shoulders from behind, dragging him into some argument with Harry about who got first shot.

Marcos eye’s fell to his drink.

He wasn’t jealous.

That was not what sat under his ribs.

If Marcos put his arm around Sebastian after a centre clearance, no one looked twice. If he grabbed the back of Sebastian’s jersey and hauled him up from the ground, it was teamwork. If they collided chest to chest after a goal and shouted into each other’s faces, it was passion. The sport allowed all of that.

It just didn’t allow the rest.

Marcos scanned the room, at Parker laughing too loudly, Harry leaning over the pool table, Darcy and Phetmany shouting by the darts, Andrew posing for a photo with two supporters near the bar. His team. Men he trusted on the field.

He wondered what they would do if they knew.

What they would actually do if Marcos stood up right now, walked across the room, put his hand on Sebastian’s waist, and kissed him in front of everyone.

The image came too clearly.

Silence first, maybe. Or laughter because people thought it had to be a joke until it lasted too long. Parker’s face changing, and Harry going still. Phetmany blinking through the alcohol to work out what he had seen. The supporters nearby getting their phones up before either Marcos or Sebastian could breathe.

Then the rest.

The posts online. The clips. The comments. The questions at training. The little moments in the locker room where someone went quiet too quickly. The next opponent who leaned in at a stoppage with something ready to say because sports had always been good at finding whatever hurt.

Marcos took another drink.

He understood Sebastian better than he had before.

Still not enough.

But more.

At the pool table, Sebastian bent over to line up a shot. Lachie said something near his ear, and Sebastian laughed without looking away from the table. He looked like he belonged there, under the low bar lights, with teammates around him and the win still sitting bright on everyone’s faces.

More drinks arrived, and Marcos dragged his attention back as Parker yelled for him again from across the bar. The night continued to move around him, loud and bright.

He stood near the pool tables and watched Sebastian beat Lachie with too much smugness sitting on his face. He let two supporters take a photo with him near the bar and answered a question about the centre work with the same harmless lines he had given the reporters.

Later, when the night had started to loosen at the edges and the team had split into smaller groups, Marcos saw Sebastian near the exit.

Not leaving yet. Just standing there with his phone in his hand, head slightly lowered, the glow of the screen catching his face. He glanced up before Marcos could decide whether to move toward him.

Their eyes met.

Sebastian didn’t smile. He only held Marcos’ gaze for a moment, then dropped his gaze to his phone again and slipped it into his pocket. A minute later, he said something to Harry, lifted a hand to the group, and headed out into the cold.

Marcos stayed where he was.

The team loosened more, people following Sebastian out into the night, heading home. That was when Marcos decided he’d leave too.

“I’m heading out,” he said to no one in particular.