Page 119 of Contested

Marcos wasn’t much better.

The one time they actually got everything right, Sebastian’s knee hit his shoulder, the ball came down exactly where it needed to, and the shot should have worked.

Marcos lost his composure just before the mark and ruined the shot.

Sebastian slid down his back and landed heavily behind him, already laughing. Marcos turned and pointed at him before anyone could blame him properly.

Sebastian only laughed harder.

The director put both hands on his hips and looked toward the sky.

Eventually, after too many attempts, they got it.

The ball came in clean. Marcos set himself under it, shoulders braced, body still enough to give Sebastian a proper platform without making it look too easy. Sebastian timed the run properly for once, knee hitting Marcos’ shoulder, his weight moving over Marcos in a sharp, controlled burst. Marcos absorbed it, teeth clenching with the impact, and Sebastian rose above him, hands closing around the ball at the highest point.

Then Sebastian came down with the ball tucked in, landing beside Marcos instead of on him, and the director yelled that they had it before either of them could ruin it by speaking.

They were dismissed right away and sent off the field so the crew could start working on other shots.

Marcos walked beside Sebastian toward the rooms, their shoulders brushing once before they both shifted apart.

Marcos glanced at him. “Little legs got there in the end.”

Sebastian looked across at him, eyes narrowing, but a smile grew on his face. “I hate you.”

“Look at you two.”

Harry’s voice met them as they reached the boundary line. He was sweating hard, hair a mess, training shirt clinging to his chest like he had just come straight from the gym. He slowed as he reached them, eyes shifting from Sebastian to Marcos, then back again with the kind of grin that usually meant someone was about to make himself annoying.

“What exactly are we looking at?” Sebastian asked, raising his eyebrow.

“I mean, come on.” Harry chuckled. “They chose the pretty boys for the promo.”

“Are you coming onto us?” Marcos joked, and Harry’s face contorted sharply.

“Damn, bro, get that faggy shit outta here.” He laughed, pushing past Marcos and heading toward the drills downfield. “We’ll meet you out here, yeah.”

The words landed and kept going.

That was what made it worse.

Harry didn’t stop or look back. Didn’t seem to think anything had happened at all. He kept jogging toward the far end of the oval, lifting one hand to someone waiting near the drill setup, already past it. Already onto the next thing.

Marcos stayed where he was, glancing at Sebastian.

Sebastian was staring after Harry, shoulders dropped a little, back shifting as he drew in a breath deeper than usual. Marcos watched as Sebastian pulled himself back into the shape he used at the club. The lightness from the promotional shoot dissipated before it even settled.

Sebastian turned to look at Marcos, his mouth pulled tight, before he lifted his eyebrows, his face saying what words couldn’t.

Marcos felt the look under his ribs. He didn’t know what to say. There was probably nothing to say out here anyway, with crew members still moving and working behind them and players scattered across the oval, with Harry jogging away like he had only made a normal joke.

They continued off the field.

Neither of them spoke. The wind moved behind them, carrying fragments of voices from the film crew and the thud of a football being kicked at the far end of the ground. Marcos could still hear Harry’s laugh in his head, too easy and casual, the phrase thrown out like it didn’t have weight because the person saying it had never had to carry it.

Inside, the locker room was quieter than usual. A few players were there, getting changed or passing through before heading back out. Someone nodded at them as they passed. Sebastian nodded back, quick and automatic, while Marcos lifted a hand.

They settled beside each other on a bench.