Page 10 of Contested

Marcos dropped his gaze to his plate. “I didn’t really beat him out. It just got offered.”

“Deserved as well. You’re a much better player.”

Becca made a noise into her glass. “His head is big enough, Dad,” she muttered, swirling the food on her plate.

“Becca,” Diana cautioned. “We are all proud of your brother.”

“As long as he keeps training and pushing himself and doesn’t slack off,” Greg added, which Marcos had expected.

There could never be a compliment without a caveat. Not from his father.

A good game came with a reminder to keep his head down. A nice mark came with a warning not to get cocky. Pride came with another push to train harder.

Marcos signed the exchange for Paula, though she had caught enough from faces and timing to know most of it already. She kept her eyes on him a little longer.

He gave her a small shrug.

Then, for no reason he wanted to keep, his mind flicked to Sebastian.

He wondered if Sebastian’s family talked about football at dinner. If they spoke about the Mustangs, or Geelong, or the position he had lost. Then he remembered Sebastian’s face on the oval, the sharp line of his mouth, the way he had held himself when he realised Marcos had ruck, and decided that was none of his business.

He shook it away and focused on where the conversation had turned, glancing at Paula, who was waiting expectantly. He caught her up.

Once dinner was done and the kitchen was cleaned, Marcos leaned against the counter as his family idled in small conversation around him.

Greg stood with one hip against the sink, arms crossed, watching Becca talk with her whole body about something that had happened at school. Paula stood at the door, half in the kitchen and half out of it, attention drifting between faces.

Marcos caught her eye.

‘Another game?’ she asked, nodding back toward the family room.

“Maybe later. I’m gonna go for a run,” Marcos said aloud, to let the others know as well.

“Don’t get stabbed,” Becca said, and Greg jumped in instantly.

“Rebecca!”

“Sorry,” she murmured with a grimace.

Marcos looked at her. “Perdedora,” he said, then he tussled Paula’s hair and walked out of the kitchen.

His bedroom sat toward the front of the house, in the older section. It had not changed as much as it should have for someone who played professional football now. The same narrow bookshelf stood beside the wardrobe, and the same old posters stayed on the walls. Training gear spilled from one laundry basket because he had run out of energy to sort it. A PlayStation controller sat on his desk under the television, beside a half-empty bottle of water.

He grabbed his headphones from beside his nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his runners. Standing, Marcos rolled his shoulders, and left the room. He gave a quick wave to his family as he walked back through the kitchen and headed out the front door, breaking into a light jog as soon as he was on the footpath.

The evening had cooled. Cars rolled along the nearby streets in uneven bursts, headlights sliding over the sidewalk, low fences, and bins left too close to the kerb. Warm light sat behind front windows.

Marcos put his music on and let it fill the space his family usually occupied.

This was something he did most nights when training did not ruin him completely. He liked the quiet after dark. He liked the space it gave him.

His stride had settled by the time he reached the next main road. His breath came steady. Shoes hit concrete, then the softer edge of grass where the footpath narrowed near a tree root. He crossed at the lights with two cyclists and an old man carrying groceries in both hands, then turned down a quieter street where the houses sat close to the road and front gardens pressed against fences.

His father’s words worked their way into his thoughts through the music.

“You’re a much better player.”

Marcos rolled his neck once and kept running.