Chapter Three
Marcos – “You’re so fucking weird”
MID DECEMBER
“You know what you need?” Parker asked, coming to stand next to Marcos, breathing hard with his hands on his hips.
Friday morning had already dragged itself long past the point where it felt reasonable for anyone to be dragging their feet with tiredness, though it didn’t stop some people.
The sun had climbed high enough to sit bright over the Mustangs’ oval, though the air still held a bit of early-summer cool whenever the wind cut through.
Training had been going all morning. Small-sided drills first, then kicking under pressure, then more drills, which mainly consisted of Jacob being too picky with how everyone was performing.
The whole team still wasn’t training together every day. Some of the older players were in and out around modified training blocks, rehab, meetings, or the kind of pre-season programs Marcos didn’t have enough years behind him to question properly.
They were split into groups now, working through an agility course that ran in crooked lines across one side of the oval.
Cones marked out sharp turns, short bursts, lateral steps, and a final acceleration to the finish line.
The assistant trainers had set up three versions of it, all slightly different.
Marcos had been with Parker for most of the morning.
Which he didn’t mind. They got along well enough, and Parker was easy to talk to.
Mainly because he struggled to keep his mouth shut.
If there was a silence surrounding them, he felt the need to fill it.
Unfortunately, most of the things he had filled it with were questions about Sebastian.
How long had Marcos known him? Had they always hated each other? How often had they gotten into a fight on the field? Had it ever happened off the field? And too many more.
Marcos had answered them all because he didn’t see the point in not answering them.
Of course, Parker kept going.
“What?” Marcos stared at him, eyebrow raised.
“One of those finger traps.” Parker placed the tips of his index fingers together, bouncing them off each other. “So you and little Seb can get along.”
Marcos’ mouth dropped open, his hand coming to his chest to feign shock. “How could you? We get along great.”
“He called you a weasel yesterday.”
“Pet name. Watch.” Marcos turned, eyes landing on Sebastian as he ran his hand through his black hair. “Hey, Seb. I’ll spot you at the gym later. I hear you’re finally putting plates on the bar, and I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
Sebastian shot Marcos a look he couldn’t quite see from a distance. Though, the following middle finger was enough to go on.
“Clearly, he doesn’t want a spot.” Marcos shrugged, facing Parker.
He laughed. “You know, niceness doesn’t cost a dollar.”
“Yeah, but I can’t all of a sudden be nice to him. What if he thinks I want to be his friend?”
“That’s why the finger trap is good.”
“Eh, then I’d have to watch him pee.”
“You look like someone who’d be into that.”
Marcos’ mouth pulled tight, and his brow knotted. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Parker laughed again before shoving Marcos’ shoulder and starting the course again as their assistant trainer blew their whistle.
Marcos watched him go, arms loose at his sides while Parker hit the first cone too wide and had to correct with a stuttering step. He was quick when he got moving, but his turns were messy.
Marcos glanced back at Sebastian.
He was running through his own course now, head slightly lowered, body tight and controlled without looking stiff.
He hit the first marker cleanly, planted his right foot, shifted left, and drove through the next section without losing speed.
The assistant trainer at his station had his clipboard tucked against his chest, watching closely.
By the time Sebastian circled back to the start, the trainer was nodding.
Marcos pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek.
That was annoying.
“Alright, everyone.” Jacob’s voice cut through the air. “One more run through your courses, then we’re moving onto sprints.”
Parker came jogging back, sweat darkening his shirt and a grin still sitting on his face. Marcos stepped past him without waiting for another comment.
His own run through the course started clean.
He took the first turn hard enough to make his studs tear slightly at the turf, corrected his balance, then pushed through the lateral steps with his arms driving low and controlled.
The course was built for smaller players.
That was what he told himself when the second tight turn came too quickly and forced him to cut his stride short.
Still, he got through it without clipping a cone, which already put him above Parker.
On the final sprint, he was able to open up. He crossed the line, slowed with a few heavy steps, and turned back toward the group.
The assistant trainer gave him a small nod, and Marcos clicked his tongue.
That wasn’t good enough.
Jacob blew his whistle and called everyone off the courses and to gather near him.
Players started heading toward the far stretch of grass where the sprint lanes had been set up.
Three lanes were marked out with cones, with tape laid out over the start and finish.
Another assistant stood with a stopwatch, while Jeremy checked something on a clipboard beside him.
Marcos rolled his shoulders as they crossed over, feeling the morning’s work settle into his calves.
As they strode over to the starting line, the team were split into three groups of three.
Marcos and Parker were put together. Then Sebastian joined them. The three of them ended up near the middle lane, waiting while the first group took their positions.
Sebastian was stretching out his thighs and rolling his neck when Marcos came to stand beside him.
“Oh, hey, Marcos,” Sebastian said, straightening himself and pulling his shoulders back. “In case you didn’t see before.” He held up his middle finger and shoved it close enough to Marcos’ face that it got slapped away.
“Yeah, it was kinda tough to see.” Marcos dropped his gaze to Sebastian’s hands. “You’ve got such dainty hands. I’m surprised they can hold onto the ball.”
“Is ‘dainty’ really the word you want to use?”
“Pretty sure.” Marcos nodded. “I learned it from a book.”
“Yeah. Like you can read,” Sebastian muttered, staring ahead at the path they’d be running down.
“Disculpe, pequeno Seb.” Marcos kept his eyes on Sebastian. “I’ll have you know I’m very good at reading. For example, your face is saying… ‘Damn, Marcos is so much better than me at ruck and deserved that position more than me’.”
“K? ng?c.” Sebastian shook his head. “Would you like to know what my fist is about to say?”
“Is it something in Japanese?”
“I’m—”
“Vietnamese,” Marcos finished with a grin. “Conozco a mi dulce nino.”
“Get a room. Jesus,” Parker said with a chuckle. “I said be nice, not try to fuck.”
“Jealous?” Marcos nudged him, and Parker pushed him away.
“Uncomfortable,” he corrected. “If this fucking guy doesn’t blow this whistle soon, I’m gonna lobotomise myself.”
“Lob—lobotomise?” Marcos questioned.
Sebastian scoffed. “Ironic you don’t know what that word means.”
Marcos turned his head slowly.
Sebastian was still facing forward, but his mouth had pulled into the smallest smirk, one he seemed to be trying to kill before it became too obvious.
Parker made a sound beside them, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, then he mumbled, “Finger trap.”
“What?” Sebastian asked, eyes snapping to Parker.
“He wants us to…” Marcos mimicked Parker’s finger moment, and Sebastian’s face contorted, and he turned away.
Parker shrugged at Marcos as the first whistle blew.
The first group launched.
Marcos watched them take off, boots digging into the grass, arms driving hard.
Corey started well, then slowed halfway through and lost ground.
Phetmany ran quickly enough that he looked like he was barely touching the grass.
Randal came last by a step and complained loudly that he slipped at the start.
Jacob barely reacted. He stood near the finish with his arms folded, cap pulled low, watching each player in a way that made Marcos wonder if the man ever blinked during training.
Another whistle. The next group went.
Marcos shook out his legs once and stepped toward the line, and Sebastian did the same beside him. Parker took the outside lane.
Marcos looked down the stretch of grass.
It was about twenty metres. An easy sprint. One that he intended to win, even though that wasn’t exactly the point of the exercise.
“I guess I’ll see you at the finish,” Marcos murmured.
Sebastian scoffed. “Yeah, I’ll be waiting for you.”
“You think you can beat me with those little legs?”
“Please, blow the fucking whistle,” Parker muttered.
The assistant lifted his hand, and Marcos dropped forward slightly, ready.
The whistle blew.
He drove off hard.
For the first few strides, he had it. Longer legs, stronger push, more power through the ground. He could feel Parker fall away almost immediately on the outside, but Sebastian stayed close. Marcos kept his eyes forward, arms pumping, breath sharp in his chest as he tried to stretch the gap.
Then Sebastian found his footing. He lifted cleaner through his knees, his stride opened more, and then he was at Marcos’ shoulder.
The finish rushed toward them.
They crossed almost together.
Marcos took another few steps to slow, turning sharply. Sebastian had one hand on his hip, chest rising and falling, eyes fixed on the assistant.
They checked the times, then called them out.
Sebastian had him by a fraction.
Sebastian’s smirk came slowly this time, and Marcos immediately wanted to slap it off him.
“Little legs, huh?” Sebastian asked.
Marcos rolled his neck. “You have less weight to carry.”
“You calling yourself fat?”
“Wha—no. I’m calling you small.”
“Not what I heard.” Sebastian’s smirk grew wider, and Marcos’ jaw flexed.