Chapter Twenty-One
Sebastian – “Good boy”
LATE JUNE
“Mister fucking Reyes!” Parker’s voice was drowned out by the cheers of his teammates as Marcos was shaken, his drink spilling.
He swore as beer sloshed over the side of the glass and down his hand, but Parker had already wrapped an arm around his shoulders and dragged him halfway out of his seat. Around them, the rest of the Mustangs made enough noise to fill the bar twice over.
It was Friday night, and the Mustangs had come from the MCG after beating the Sydney Storm by fifty points.
Sydney had made him work for it early. Every bounce came with a body under him, a shove at his ribs, someone trying to drag the contest low before he could get clean hands to it.
Marcos had stopped chasing clean by the second quarter.
Instead, he knocked the ball forward when he couldn’t palm it clean.
Followed up when the tap died under bodies.
Hit blocks hard enough to give Sebastian half a step, which was all Sebastian seemed to need.
By the final siren, Marcos felt the win in every sore part of himself.
Marcos had dominated the centre for most of the match.
That was what the reporters had said afterward, anyway. He’d heard enough of it from the edge of the rooms, microphones pushed toward him while sweat cooled on his skin and his shoulder ached from a second-quarter hit.
Dominated the centre.
Controlled the tap.
Gave Melbourne first use.
He had nodded through it, answered as cleanly as he could, and tried not to look too often toward Sebastian, who stood a few metres away with his own microphones pointed at him.
It had been their fourth win in five weeks.
Forster Foresters first, at home, the match tighter than it should have been until the last quarter.
Then Essendon Strikers away, where the Strikers had spent half the game trying to slow every stoppage until Melbourne finally broke it open through hard running and cleaner hands.
Northern Titans after that, another home win, sharper and louder because the crowd had started believing again.
The Penrith Thunder had ruined the streak the week before Sydney, dragging them into a wet, ugly loss.
Then Sydney.
Fifty points.
The kind of win that made players loud afterward, even the ones who usually kept themselves contained.
“I’m pretty sure the best player has to buy the next round,” Harry said, clapping Marcos on the back before pulling him to his feet.
“I don’t think—” Marcos started, but Andrew cut him off.
“Don’t back chat the captain. Off you go.”
The team jeered as Marcos waved them off and walked to the bar, weaving between stools, shoulders, and supporters who had recognised enough of the team to start treating the whole corner like a second celebration.
He ordered more drinks, and the bartender told him she’d bring them over when they were ready.
Marcos turned, eyes sweeping the crowded bar until they landed on Sebastian sitting next to Phetmany and Darcy.
Sebastian had changed out of his team gear into dark jeans and a black jacket, his hair still damp enough in places to show he hadn’t done much more than run a hand through it after the showers. He was leaning back into the booth, one arm along the seat, eyes lifted toward Phetmany.
Marcos took a deep breath and walked over, threading through everyone who wanted to clasp his shoulders.
The music was loud, thumping through the venue, which the Mustangs’ players seemed to take as a challenge to talk louder.
Bodies moved around him. Glasses knocked against each other.
Someone near the bar yelled his name, and Marcos lifted a hand without stopping.
He slid into the booth next to Darcy, eyes flicking to Sebastian as he did.
“There he is!” Phetmany called, words slurring together. “We’re making the top eight. boys!”
“Oi, Marcos,” Darcy said quietly, barely heard over the music, and Marcos leaned in. “This is how you hustle.” Darcy then turned to Phetmany, raising his voice. “Phet, fifty bucks I can beat you at darts.”
“Fuck. You’re on, cunt.”
Darcy winked at Marcos before sliding past him and dragging Phetmany toward the darts on the other side of the room, leaving Marcos alone with Sebastian.
Marcos shuffled across the booth, coming to rest so his knee knocked into Sebastian’s.
It had been better since May.
Not fixed, because Marcos was starting to understand that ‘fixed’ was the wrong word for something like this.
Sebastian didn’t need one conversation and a hug to stop being careful.
He hadn’t suddenly become easy with the jokes or the way the media kept putting their names beside each other.
He still watched rooms. Still pulled back if a touch lasted too long in the wrong place.
Still read the comments online even though Marcos had told him not to, which had earned him a look sharp enough to end the conversation before he could make it worse.
But it was better.
Marcos tried more now. He still missed things until Sebastian went quiet, or until something in his face shifted and Marcos had to trace the moment backward to work out what had landed badly.
But he tried. He stopped laughing automatically when the team threw certain jokes around.
He noticed when crowd noise changed shape near the boundary.
He noticed the way Sebastian’s shoulders locked if an opponent said something low at a stoppage.
Marcos had started hearing more once he knew what to listen for.
That was the worst part.
The words had always been there, threaded through football like dirt in grass.
Soft. Weak. Gay. Princess.
A hundred versions of the same thing, thrown from crowds, muttered by players, turned into jokes in comment sections by people who thought saying something with a laughing emoji made it harmless.
Marcos had heard it before and let most of it pass over him, because it had never felt aimed at the centre of his own body.
Now it caught.
Not every time. But enough that he understood Sebastian a little better than he had in May.
Only a little.
Maybe that was all he had earned.
“Man of the hour,” Sebastian said, bumping his shoulder against Marcos. “How’s it feel?”
“Feels like my groin is ripping,” Marcos said, and Sebastian snorted. “What? I think I landed weird one too many times.”
“You weren’t doing the splits.”
“May as well have been. Thought my ball sack was gonna split open.”
“Come back to mine after, and I can fix that,” Sebastian whispered, leaning in so his lips almost pressed against Marcos’ ear.
Heat ran through Marcos so quickly it almost annoyed him.
He pulled away, raising his eyebrow. “Lot of people around.”
“I’m not allowed to try to talk to my teammate in a loud bar?”
“Alright, alright.” Marcos raised his hand, a wide grin slipping on his face. “How would you fix it?”
“I give great massages,” Sebastian offered with a shrug, looking around the bar.
There was enough space around them now to pretend the booth was private.
The rest of the team had scattered—half toward the dartboards, a few still near the bar, others caught in loud conversations with supporters.
Darcy was already lining up a dart while Phetmany shouted something to throw him off.
Parker had one foot on a chair and was gesturing with his whole body, probably lying about something he had done during the match.
Everyone else in the bar seemed to have joined in on the festivities as well, egging Darcy and Phetmany on, asking for selfies, shouting congratulations, treating the Mustangs’ win like it belonged to the whole room.
Marcos hummed at the thought of Sebastian’s hands on him again.
They hadn’t been with each other like that since April.
Football had occupied too much of their time, and Marcos’ family had taken up most of what was left.
Especially since Becca had cornered him at the end of May and demanded he help her with Spanish to surprise their mother for her birthday in October.
Between matches, training, recovery, family, and the quiet caution that still sat around whatever he and Sebastian were doing, weeks had passed without Marcos standing in Sebastian’s apartment again.
“What kind of payment do you take?” Marcos asked, his leg pressing firmer against Sebastian’s.
“I’m sure we can think of something.” Sebastian smirked, then turned away as Lachie came to sit with them.
“Seb, I offer you the opportunity to lose to me in pool,” he said, holding his hands out, palms up.
“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.
Parker heard enough to point at him. “Weak.”
Marcos raised two fingers without turning back and walked out.
The cold hit him as soon as he stepped onto the street. Melbourne had sharpened around midnight, now that winter had truly settled in. The sound from the bar dulled behind him when the door shut, leaving the city in pieces—traffic, footsteps, the distant bell of a tram.
Sebastian was already halfway down the block.
Marcos followed the same path, nodding at a few people walking by him, though his eyes stayed on Sebastian’s back.
As Sebastian reached the corner, he paused, glanced back, and saw Marcos.
This time, he did smile. Marcos barely caught it at a distance, but it was there. Small, private, and gone quickly.
Then Sebastian turned and kept walking, and Marcos followed him toward the rest of their night.