Chapter Twelve #2
The Storm player saw him coming and fumbled, the ball slipping loose under the pressure. Marcos collected it cleanly, swung his body through the turn, and caught Sebastian next to him, free.
He handballed to him.
Sebastian took it without breaking stride and slipped through the midfield before kicking the ball toward Parker, who had pushed high and marked square in his chest just inside fifty.
The travelling pocket of Mustangs supporters behind that end erupted, their noise briefly cutting through the heavier Storm crowd.
Parker moved quickly, turning before the Storm’s defence fully settled. He centred the ball and sent it deeper inside fifty, where Darcy had slipped away from the Storm defenders and caught the ball overhead.
The SCG noise shifted. Storm supporters shouting to create pressure. Mustangs fans trying to rise over them. Darcy walked back, spun the ball once in his hands, then set himself.
Marcos stood near centre with hands on hips, chest moving hard, eyes fixed on the forward line.
Darcy kicked.
The ball went straight through.
And for the first time that night, the Mustangs’ noise felt like it belonged in the stadium.
By halftime, the Mustangs had pulled the game back to something manageable.
Inside the locker rooms, the difference between the clubs felt sharper.
The SCG away room was professional, but it didn’t feel like theirs.
The benches sat wrong. The walls were too bare in places, temporarily dressed with Mustangs’ bags, towels, water bottles, and staff equipment.
The floor already had grass and tape across it.
Players dropped onto benches or stayed standing with hands on hips, breathing hard while sweat cooled too quickly in the room’s air.
Jacob’s halftime address held the same controlled edge.
He didn’t soften the first-quarter mistakes because they had clawed back some ground.
He pointed to the improvement around the contest, to the way the Storm’s clean exits had slowed once the Mustangs stopped overcommitting to the noise and started holding better.
Then he pulled the focus to forward entries, where they still wasted too many chances by kicking to the Storm’s advantage rather than their own.
Marcos sat forward, elbows on his knees, water bottle loose between his hands.
His legs felt good enough. Heavy, but not gone.
His shoulder had taken a few hits from Hart, and one elbow had clipped him near the ribs in a boundary contest, but none of it sat outside the usual shape of a game. He could carry that.
Sebastian stood across the room with Randal and Phetmany, listening to one of the assistant coaches. He looked locked in, the smile from the second quarter completely gone now, and his face returned to focus.
Marcos drank and looked down before he could be caught staring.
The third quarter was where Sydney made them pay.
It started with a behind from the Mustangs after Darcy marked hard on the lead but pushed the shot across the face.
The Storm set up for the kick-in, and the Mustangs tried to lock them in, but the Storm moved the ball out with a clean short kick to the pocket, then a second to the flank, and then a hard switch that opened the far side of the ground.
Marcos ran back through the middle, watching the play stretch away from him.
The Storm carried it down the wing and sent the ball inside fifty to a forward who had found space between Harry and the next defender.
Goal.
The Storm’s crowd hit full voice again.
The ball reset to centre, and Hart walked back with more bounce in his step than Marcos appreciated.
“Long quarter, mate,” Hart said, rolling his shoulders as he set up.
Marcos slid his mouthguard between his teeth and didn’t answer.
The three-quarter-time siren came with the Storm still ahead by seven points.
Jacob gathered them on the field again, and this time there was more heat in his address.
Not yelling for the sake of yelling. Sharper than that.
He made it clear the third-quarter damage came from the same places he had warned them about: sloppy exits, fumbled chances inside fifty, and letting the Storm dictate where the ball travelled after kick-ins.
He told them the game was still close enough to take, but only if they stopped giving in to the Storm’s pressure.
Marcos listened with his hands on his hips and his chest rising hard.
The crowd moved around them. People standing, sitting, shouting across rows, leaving briefly for drinks, returning with trays and scarves and opinions.
The Storm’s supporters near the fence were loud now, knowing the game was in their favour.
A Mustangs supporter in one pocket kept waving a flag anyway, stubborn against the noise.
The last quarter opened with the Mustangs playing like a team that knew they were running out of time.
They pushed harder through the contest. Tackles stuck.
Randal came off his line to spoil and sent the ball into the boundary hard enough that three players went over with it.
Harry intercepted twice in five minutes, each mark pulling a frustrated groan from the Storm’s crowd.
Parker ran until his shoulders sagged between efforts.
Phetmany took contact through the middle and kept his feet just long enough to release a handball to Andrew, who scored a goal.
The Mustangs pocket lifted again, smaller than the Sydney sound but still clear.
The margin tightened.