Page 129 of Contested

It wasn’t only Laurence now. That became clear almost immediately. The Bandits had come out of half-time with a plan, and the plan was Marcos.

At the first centre bounce, Laurence bodied him under the ball while the Bandits’ Rover blocked Sebastian’s run. Marcos adjusted, got a hand to it, and knocked the ball sideways, but a Bendigo midfielder came through late and clipped him across the shoulder as he landed. Marcos staggered, recovered, and chased the ball down.

The next contest, a half-forward stepped into his path as he chased the ball, shouldering him out of the contest before he got the chance to join it.

This time, Laurence smiled at him.

Marcos said nothing.

The ball went up again. Marcos jumped, met Laurence in the air, and got the tap down toward Lachie. As he landed, someone caught his side hard enough to knock the breath loose, and he turned too late to see who it was. By the time he recovered, the Bandits had already surged forward.

Sebastian went after the ball, got taken in a tackle, and was forced to get it out quickly. Harry cleaned it up at half back and sent it wide.

Marcos bent slightly, hands on his knees for half a second, pulling air into his lungs. His side burned, his ribs throbbed, and his jaw ached from how hard he had clenched it.

The game didn’t wait for Marcos to catch his breath.

The next passage went Melbourne’s way. Corey took a mark on the wing, moved it quickly to Phetmany, and Phetmany hit Andrew on the lead. Andrew went back, kicked the goal, and the Mustangs’ end erupted hard enough to shake the air.

They were up by ten. They could win this.

That should have been the only thing in his head, but Laurence didn’t let it be.

At the reset, he stepped in close enough that the umpire told them both to separate.

Marcos stepped back. Laurence did too, hands lifted as if he had done nothing.

“You seem a bit worn out,” Laurence said, voice low. “Maybe you should get the reject to step in.” He nodded at Sebastian.

“Do you ever shut up?” Marcos asked, eyes forward.

“Hey, I’m just waiting for you to actually put up a challenge.”

Marcos’ jaw worked once.

The umpire bounced the ball.

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.