You’re awake #3
Marcos went up too hard.
He knew it the second his feet left the ground. His angle was wrong, and his body slammed awkwardly into Laurence, his fingers barely touching the ball.
The play moved on, and Marcos was left in the centre trying to shake the knock from his body.
By the middle of the third quarter, Marcos could feel Bendigo’s pressure building around him.
Every stoppage had hands on him. A block from one side.
Laurence on the other. A body landing late enough to hurt.
The game had turned into a series of collisions stitched together by brief flashes of football.
The Mustangs still moved when they got the chance. Still got the ball through the Bandits’ defences, and started to stretch their lead again.
But Marcos was starting to feel each hit.
Not badly enough to stop. Though, he knew he would be seeing each and every one of them when he got off the field.
His ribs, shoulders, and his hip. The place above his knee where someone’s boot had caught him when he went down near the boundary.
He could already feel the heat of a bruise building under his jaw from a stray elbow.
At the next centre bounce after a Bendigo goal, Laurence leaned in. “You’re looking beat up. You need your little ruck-rover to kiss it all better?”
Marcos’ breath went still.
The ball rose, and for a second, he didn’t move, then instinct took over too late.
He launched, but Laurence had the better position, shoulder already under him, body already driving through. Marcos twisted mid-air to reach the ball, fingertips brushing it without control, and landed awkwardly. The impact jolted through his leg and up into his back.
The ball spilled Bendigo’s way.
Sebastian chased.
Marcos forced himself after it, anger making his legs move even though his body had started to feel slightly out of rhythm. The ball came loose near the edge of the square. Sebastian bent to gather, but a Bendigo player hit him from the side, knocking him off balance. The ball skidded forward.
Marcos got there first.
He grabbed it off the damp grass, took one step, and was wrapped up almost immediately. Laurence’s arm came around him high, another body hit low, and Marcos went down under both of them. The tackle drove him into the turf, shoulder first, breath punching out of him.
The umpire blew the whistle. “Holding the ball.”
Marcos lay there for a moment, staring at the grass, before he pushed himself to his knees.
His chest was heaving now. Mud streaked one forearm, and his mouth tasted metallic, though he didn’t know if it was blood or not.
Sebastian appeared in front of him, hand half-extended.
Marcos didn’t take it, and he stood without help. “I’m fine.”
Sebastian’s eyes flicked over him once, then turned away, running downfield.
Marcos rolled his shoulders, pain rippling through his back as he did, but he shook it off and stood on the mark while Bendigo prepared to keep the play moving.
The third quarter time kept ticking down, and the score stayed static as both teams locked the ball down hard and barely gave the other any chance to move.
Chants from the crowd rose even higher, and Marcos’ ears rang with each cheer that circled the stadium. He tried to keep his head down. Focus only on the ball. Ignore all the pain growing throughout his entire body.
When the Bandits managed to get the ball toward their goals and kicked it through for a behind, Marcos keeled over, a long hiss coming through gritted teeth. He blinked hard, then dragged a ragged breath into his lungs before straightening.
The ball came back into play, kicked in by Randal. No one marked it. It skidded along the ground near the left wing, and bodies collapsed onto it. Marcos rushed through the centre, each step taxing on his body.
Someone managed to knock the ball free with enough force it bounced near the centre box. Marcos was the closest Mustang player to it. Three Bendigo players were nearby, too, but Marcos paid no mind to them.
He pushed his legs as hard as he could, sprinting toward the ball as it slid across the wet grass. His body bent as he reached it, scooping it up and pulling it close to his chest. His eyes snapped up, trying to find somewhere to send the ball.
That was when he saw the first Bendigo player right in front of him, head down, ready to tackle. Marcos planted his feet and stepped to the side. A hand gripped his jersey, and he tried to pull away, hearing the material rip as he did.
The next Bendigo player, he didn’t see, but he felt him. A shoulder landing hard against his own and arms wrapping around him. He heard something was wrong before his body had moved an inch. A deafening crack sounded, followed by an intense pain wrapping around his shoulder.
His whole body moved with the impact, carried toward the ground with too much speed. The third Bendigo player was there, too, running in too fast and with too much purpose to stop or get out of the way.
The side of Marcos’ head slammed into his knee, and everything went black.