Chapter Six
Sebastian – “What the fuck did you say?”
EARLY FEbrUARY
“Seb! Seb!”
“Here!”
“I’m open!”
Voices overlapped across the field, breaking through the wind that whipped around the oval and carried half the calls sideways before they reached him properly.
The ball was warm in Sebastian’s hands as he took a few steps back from the mark and scanned the ground ahead of him.
He had just marked from a kick deep in their fifty, the ball hitting his palms cleanly enough that for half a second everything narrowed to the feel of leather and the familiar pressure of needing to move it before the field changed.
It was midday on Thursday, and the Mustangs were running a mock game with the reserve team.
Everything was in full swing as they prepared for the start of the season.
More bodies. More voices. More senior players setting standards without needing to explain what they were doing. More eyes on every mistake.
It had been a week since the incident with Marcos, and so far, everything was normal.
Well, with everyone else on the team.
From what Sebastian could gather, they didn’t know anything, which meant Marcos hadn’t said anything. No one had looked at Sebastian differently in the locker room. No one had gone quiet when he walked in. No one had made a joke that landed too close to the truth and waited to see how he reacted.
Marcos himself, though, was the issue.
He’d barely said a word to Sebastian or even looked his way unless it was necessary.
If there was any chance that Sebastian and Marcos would be alone together, Marcos made sure to leave or bring someone else along, too.
At training, he called for the ball when he had to.
In drills, he did what the play required.
Outside of that, he gave Sebastian nothing.
It was not subtle, and the team had noticed the tension.
Thankfully, they seemed to think it was the normal kind dialled up a little higher.
For now, that was keeping Sebastian’s head level, but not by much.
Anger sat underneath his skin with every breath he took, and the more he tried to keep it pushed down, the more he felt it shoving back.
Sebastian took a sharp breath in and forced his attention downfield.
Andrew, a bulky redhead who’d been with the Mustangs for years, sprinted away from one of the reserve players into an opening on the right wing.
Sebastian acted before the gap could close, driving his boot through the ball and sending it in front of him.
The kick travelled low and clean, dropping directly into Andrew’s path.
Andrew marked it without breaking stride, the whistle blew, and players scrambled as he decided to play on.
Andrew bounced the ball once and sprinted down the wing toward the reserve’s fifty-metre mark, then handballed it to Parker as two reserve players closed in.
Sebastian had already shifted from where he’d kicked it, running through centre field to keep up with the play.
He wasn’t going to be the next option, but he needed to be close enough for the return, close enough to stop the reserves if they cut the ball off and turned it back through the middle.
That was how quickly the game could change.
One second the Mustangs could have the ball almost passing through goal, and less than five seconds later, the other team could have it right next to their own.
Jacob had drilled that into them for weeks.
Attack meant nothing if half the field switched off after a clean kick.
Players inside the fifty called for the ball, shoving each other and trying to get into open space.
Sebastian kept going, eyes on Parker as he pushed closer and sent the ball toward the cluster of players standing in front of the posts.
Kent’s voice came out above everyone else’s.
The ball dropped into the mass of hands, shoulders, and heads, then the whistle blew as Kent stepped out of the pack with the ball clutched to his chest.
The Mustangs cheered as the play settled. Players moved around the field while Kent walked back from where he’d marked it, a reserve player standing on the mark and waiting for an attempt to stop the kick.
Sebastian knew he wouldn’t be able to.
From all his time training with Kent, Sebastian knew it would take a lot for him to make a mistake and miss from there. Kent was nearly dead in the centre of the two largest posts. Sinking the ball between them and getting six points was going to be easy.
Even still, Sebastian readied himself. If Kent somehow got the ball on the other side of either large post and through for a behind, the ball would be back in play quickly and shooting up the field.
Kent spun the ball in his hands, took in the sight of the four posts in front of him, then slowly ran forward and booted the ball over the man on the mark.
It soared with ease between the goal posts, and the Mustangs cheered again, players running to congratulate him before shifting back to their starting positions.
Sebastian walked slowly, the reserve ruck-rover already in position for the reset.
Some players jogged back downfield. Others waited with their hands on their hips, breathing through the small break in play.
The ball had been kicked far enough that someone had only just reached it and torpedoed it back toward the centre as hard as they could.
Marcos was nearby, feet kicking at the grass, body close to the reserve ruck. He wasn’t breathing heavily, even though he’d been running as much as Sebastian. Sweat dripped off his hair, and his jersey stuck to his back, darkened between his shoulders and along his spine.
Sebastian shook his head and focused on the painted lines at his feet.
He didn’t want to look at Marcos. Didn’t want to think about him. Didn’t want to notice the way Marcos kept his eyes somewhere else now, as though staring at Sebastian directly would restart the exact thing he had spent a week avoiding.
The reserve ruck’s voice broke through the noise. Sebastian didn’t catch all of it. Something about weak players, maybe. The usual match-sim rubbish that got thrown around when bodies were tired.
Then Marcos’ voice. Fucking Marcos’ voice.
Not everything. Not every word. But enough. Enough to make Sebastian’s blood run like lava and his head snap up.
“No…we have…the fag.”
Sebastian’s ears rang.
He couldn’t hear the world around him properly.
The voices blurred. The whistle in the distance flattened.
The ground under his boots was too hard, too open, too public, and his legs moved before he realised what he was doing.
His hands balled into fists at his sides as the space between him and Marcos disappeared.
He was barely two metres from Marcos when he spoke.
“What the fuck did you say?”
Marcos turned, brow furrowed, before he saw the look on Sebastian’s face. Then his eyes widened. He raised his hands and opened his mouth to speak, but Sebastian didn’t wait for him.
His right fist had already left his side and was swinging for Marcos’ face.
Marcos reacted as best he could, leaning a little, but it wasn’t enough.
The connection was good, and the crack of bone on bone could be heard across the field.
Marcos didn’t go down, though. His head turned with the punch, and he shifted his leg out and planted his foot, grounding himself, before ducking underneath Sebastian’s arms and tackling him.
His shoulder lodged into Sebastian’s gut, hard enough to send the air out of him as they hit the ground.
Yells and shouts ran around both teams as everyone close enough to do anything rushed forward.
Sebastian tried to twist, tried to get a knee beneath him, tried to make Marcos let go, but the bodies arrived too fast. Marcos’ arms were grabbed, and he was hauled back before either of them could do any more damage.
Other teammates hooked their hands under Sebastian’s armpits and pulled him off the ground.
A whistle echoed through the ground, but it wasn’t from Jeremy, who had been umpiring. It came from off the field.
Sebastian struggled against his teammates and finally yanked himself free from their grasp, turning toward the sound. Jacob was striding across the field, hat low, clipboard tucked under his arm, and an expression on his face that looked like pure fury.
“Bench. Now.” He pointed at Marcos and Sebastian.
Sebastian flexed his jaw once, but he didn’t argue.
He shoved past whoever had been holding him and didn’t check who it was.
He could hear footsteps behind him, could feel his anger rising again with every step, and had to keep his eyes fixed on the boundary line so he didn’t turn back and do something worse.
“Swap reserves. Switch for Tommy and Daniel. Continue play,” Jacob commanded, then another whistle blew.
Sebastian still had his hands balled into fists once he reached the bench. His eyes stayed on his feet as he sat down at one end of the seat, right on the edge. Marcos walked past him and sat at the other end. Neither of them spoke.
Jacob came to a halt between them.
His breathing was heavy, and every so often, he clicked his tongue.
It stayed that way for a few minutes, the sound of the game continuing on the field breaking the silence between them.
Tommy and Daniel were already in their spots, the gap Sebastian and Marcos had left covered faster than Sebastian wanted to think about.
Then Jacob spoke. “All you two have to do is get on the fucking field and play the game. Pass the ball. Kick the ball. Play. The fucking. Game.” He spat on the ground, turned toward the field, and shook his head.
“We have a month until the season starts. If you two do not sort whatever this shit is out, I have plenty of reserves who can step in. For one or both of you.”
Sebastian loosened his fingers, letting his palms rest on his thighs. His right hand had started to ache as the red covering his knuckles darkened.