Page 29 of Contested

Marcos felt too much all at once.

Both hands cupping Sebastian’s face, the warmth from his cheeks filling Marcos’ palms. His heart slamming against his ribs. The heat encompassing his whole body, still fresh from the run. The bruise on his cheek pulsing beneath his skin.

Then, there were Sebastian’s lips.

The pressure against his own, the way they moved in the same rhythm, the faintest feeling of Sebastian’s patchy stubble that refused to grow anymore.

Marcos didn’t feel Sebastian’s hands on him. In fact, Sebastian hadn’t moved at all, aside from his lips against Marcos’. Though, Marcos didn’t care. He let himself fall into Sebastian with everything he had, closing his eyes and not giving his brain a chance to catch up to his actions.

Then, Sebastian’s hands were on Marcos’ shoulders. Then there was distance.

The force Sebastian used to push Marcos away wasn’t a lot, but it was enough. Marcos didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t remove his hands from Sebastian’s face. He just stood there, heart and mind racing while he waited for whatever was to come.

The week that had passed since Sebastian had kissed Marcos had been one of the longest weeks in Marcos’ life. Every day seemed as though the sun was never going to set, and each night was sleepless frustration.

Nothing had lined up. Nothing made any sense. He had known Sebastian for more than ten years. They had played against each other for each of those, slamming their bodies into each other, throwing punches, trying to prove they were better. Marcos knew the way Sebastian moved before a contest, the way he shifted his weight before trying to cut around pressure, the way his jaw locked when he was about to say something sharp enough to turn the air between them ugly.

Even off the field, on the sidelines, before and after games, they were at each other’s throats. Snide remarks and cruel jokes. Always on the edge of a fight.

Yet Sebastian had kissed him.

Marcos could see the faint light dancing around behind his eyelids as Sebastian’s hands dropped from his shoulders, and one came to rest on Marcos’ wrist. Not pulling it away. Just sitting there.

“Marcos.” Sebastian’s voice was quiet. Fragile, even. His fingers twitched against Marcos’ wrist, but didn’t move. “What the fuck?”

A breath caught in Marcos’ chest as his eyes fluttered open. The first thing he saw was Sebastian’s eyes—brown, pupils wide, confused. Next was the fading bruise below his eye, the specks of hair trying to make themselves known, and his lips, still wet from Marcos’.

Suddenly, Marcos was too aware of his hands on Sebastian’s cheeks. Too aware of the way his own lips felt. Too aware that Sebastian wasn’t wearing a shirt. Too aware of how sweaty he was.

His hands slid from Sebastian’s face, falling to his side. His wrist, where Sebastian had been holding him, felt light in all the wrong ways as he kept his gaze on the other man.

Sebastian’s words sat between them, mixing with the melody playing throughout the apartment. Marcos’ mind took them and laid them out plainly.

What the fuck?

That was the biggest question that could have been asked. Marcos’ body had acted, and it was only now that his head was starting to grasp what had happened.

The next question should be, why the fuck?

Marcos wasn’t sure he had an answer to either of them.

He wasn’t gay. He never had been.

Of course, there had been times when he’d seen Sebastian stretching on the field or changing his jersey on the sideline and thought he looked good.

But that was normal. He was just admiring a good physique. Sebastian had grown into his body in his late teens, and Marcos had noticed.

It was normal.

Marcos liked women. Had one-night stands with them. Had girlfriends.

Never with a man. He’d never thought about kissing a man. Most of all Sebastian.

So, why the fuck?

“Marcos.” His name again in the same voice.

Marcos swallowed. His eyes slipped down to Sebastian’s lips, then back up again. “I’m sorry.”