Page 2 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

By nine p.m. I’d still only unpacked half of my boxes. My gadgets were the first things to find their new homes:

My consoles and my sixty-five inch OLED in the living room—I had to rejig the sofas to make a big enough gap against the wall—and my forty-two inch OLED in the master bedroom.

My assortment of cameras—my GoPro, my drone, my Instax— to the study.

My telescope at the window of the south-facing spare room, the Echos in the kitchen and the master bed for now, and my bedroom toys to, well, the bottom drawer in my bedroom.

The combination of being terminally single, a tech addict, and having a fair amount of disposable income means I’ve amassed a .

. . sizable collection of solo sexual aids.

Dildos, fleshlights, butt plugs . . . If it has some kind of remote control or companion iPhone app to sync it up with music, it would’ve already been “added to cart.”

There isn’t enough wardrobe capacity in my room at the front of the house, so I also commandeer the closet in the smaller guest bed at the rear. Not that it matters. I won’t be having guests over anyway.

At one point, this space had probably belonged to kids. Twin single beds sit against the far wall, the white and grey bobbled evidence of old, peeled-off stickers litters the wooden headboards.

I cross back to the master bedroom, puff out a long sigh, and begin dissasembling boxes. Another thing on my agenda is to find out when the bin days are; I’m gonna have so much recycling to dispose of. Though on second thoughts . . .

Maybe I should stash the empty boxes in the loft. I won’t be around in this stupid house in this stupid hamlet in this stupid part of England for much longer. The end of the season is only three months away. I’ll be gone long before my tenancy agreement’s over.

Hopefully for next year, my agent will negotiate a contract somewhere else. Preferably back to the Bengals, but it doesn’t have to be. Doesn’t even have to be Wales, I don’t care, I just need it to not be Bath.

Not be the Centurions.

The name Mathias Jones doesn’t carry the same veneration this side of the bridge.

Sim’ll get me a better gig. I’m certain of it. I’m not paying her all that money for nothing. I just need to finish the season in Bath to fulfil the contract. Half a season and I’m out .

Fernbank Cottage’s loft hatch is super inconveniently located directly above the master bed.

As in, I have to stand on the mattress to open it, and duck my head so it doesn’t smush against the ceiling.

No ladder awaits me, which I’m in equal measures annoyed by and thankful for.

I throw the empty, collapsed boxes into the dark space—definitely a ghost or two up there—puff out a sigh, and glance out the window.

From my elevated position, I can see into The Little Thatch opposite. Into the sash windows of the pub.

Well, sort of into the windows. The downstairs ones are fogged with what I assume is breath condensation, and some have those bumpy round bits in the middle—glass boobs as they’re technically known—but beyond that there are warm orange lights and the peach-coloured blobs of old white people’s faces.

Nothing distinct. Possibly the glow of a big screen TV.

Possibly the glass-warped lines of a bar.

The upstairs of the pub is an altogether different matter.

Someone’s left a couple of lamps on, and the windows there are newer—big PVC rimmed expanses of flat, unblemished panes.

An entire mini apartment is sitting right there in front of me like a scale model doll’s house or a Tracey Emin installation.

It’s more of a bedsit than an apartment.

There’s a two-seater sofa—a cuddler as Mam calls them—pointing toward a smallish flatscreen, a kitchenette with a fifties-style cream Smeg fridge, and through the window parallel with the one I’m currently gawping out of, a double bed.

The duvet has been dressed in a green-and-white-striped linen set and sits in a haphazard pile in the middle of the mattress, as though someone woke up that morning, tossed the covers off themselves, and immediately started their day.

It feels eerily intimate, almost voyeuristic. I tear my gaze away and glance at my Garmin watch—fuck, nearly nine thirty.

Daisy said it didn’t matter if I was late for food, and I have nothing else in the house, so pub tea it is. I jog down the stairs, grab my new key on the way, and—

THWACK !

“MOTHERFUCKER!”

Again!

Fuck this cottage! Fuck its stupid tiny doorways! Fuck its solid and highly longevous building structure! Fuck the idyllic, picturesque hamlet of fucking Mudford-upon-Hooke! Fuck staying here for the rest of the rugby season! Fuck emergency signings!

And fuck, fuck, fuck Bath fucking Centurions!

“Alexa!” I yell, furiously massaging my forehead. “Order me a roll of caution tape and . . . a tonne of bubblewrap.”

The Echo whirs into life. A blue ring of light chases itself around the base.

“I found the following items in your previous orders,” Alexa begins.

“Hazard tape. Fifty millimetres by thirty metres. High visibility. Black and yellow diagonal stripes. Five pounds, ninety-nine pence. And jumbo roll of bubblewrap. Five hundred millimetres by one hundred and twenty-five metres. For shipping or storage. Fourteen pounds and ninety-nine pence. Would you like me to place the order?”

“Yes. Fuck yes.” I blink back the stars and jog across the road.

Chatter and laughter greet me outside the pub entrance, but it dies as soon as I push the door open, like a pair of noise cancelling headphones. The sudden silence seems heavy. Oppressive.

Faces turn to me. Someone whispers, “Well, fuck me sideways, it’s actually him.”

Someone else gives a low whistle.

Someone else says, “I thought you were taking the piss, Daze.”

At this, Daisy looks up from her position behind the bar.

Her ponytail swishes over her shoulder, and what I can only describe as a shit-eating grin splits her features in two.

She shoots a look behind her to an open door, which no doubt houses the pub’s kitchen.

Then she pats the bar top. “Take a seat, M. Jones.”

I meander through the tables, noticing that after Daisy I’m easily the youngest person in the pub. Probably the entire hamlet if the demographics here are anything to go by. Have I inadvertently moved into a retirement village ?

The pub itself is the archetypal British inn. White limewashed stone walls, flagstone floor with the occasional maroon rug scattered here and there, black painted wooden beams and struts are decorated with random horse brasses. Fairy lights blink overhead, and I guess it’s kind of pretty.

A supermassive flatscreen TV is fixed to the wall next to the bar, but switched off.

Instead, The Doors play quietly through a speaker system.

A disproportionately large fireplace—I could have climbed inside—sits against the other wall, and even though it’s March and getting pretty warm out, the embers of a nearly spent fire crackle gracefully in the grate.

Behind the bar, shiny silver taps stand proudly, each bearing a plate with a punny or ironic or sometimes just plain ridiculous name. They make me question whether the folks who run these indie breweries are ever sober.

The Ball Smasher.

Old Boy’s Tackle.

Loosehead’s Load.

Ruckin’ ’Ell.

I sense a theme. Rugby or dicks. Or perhaps both.

Either is cool with me. I take a seat at the bar, ignore the whispers that are gradually building, and Daisy places a menu in front of me.

An A4 chalkboard with a bunch of handwritten meals, all so stereotypically “British pub” you’d be forgiven for assuming this was the England section of Epcot.

The menu itself looks as though an American did a quick Google search on what Brits eat and slapped it down with a chalk pen.

“Drink?” she asks me, her smirk from earlier still firmly fixed in place.

“Guinness.”

“Don’t fancy a refreshing pint of Hooker’s Dribble?”

A couple of people behind me fail to hide their snorts. I suck my teeth and stare at the barmaid.

“Guinness it is. I’m gonna start a tab for you. You can pay up at the end of the month.” After a few moments, she places a perfect pint of black stout on the bar mat in front of me. The exact right amount of head. The girl has obviously been doing this for some time. “What d’you wanna eat, then? ”

“Fish ’n’ chips?”

“We’re out,” she says, no trace of an apology.

“Pie, then.”

Daisy leans over and shouts through the open kitchen door. “Dad, have we got any pies?”

“What kind?” a deep male voice booms back.

She looks at me, silently forwarding the question.

“This one,” I say.

“Steak,” she calls out.

“Chips or mash?” the man says.

“Chips,” I reply, which Daisy repeats.

Chips or mash, what sort of fucking question is that?

“’Bout twenty minutes, okay?” says the hidden chef.

“It’ll be about twenty minutes,” Daisy parrots, her smile sliding impossibly wider over her cheeks.

I blow out a long breath and nod, letting her—and the other patrons—know I’ve understood the wait time but am under no circumstances inviting further conversation.

Someone behind me clears their throat. These strangers are probably my new neighbours, but I’m not ready to meet any of them, let alone answer their questions. No doubt the very first thing they’ll bring up is Bath Centurion legend Owen Bosley and his leg. Or his seventeen year rugby career.

Or how I ended both those things in under two minutes.

I ignore them. I ignore Daisy too, who seems to be having a silent conversation over my shoulder.

“’Ere, Daze, can we get another two pints?” A heavyset man in his fifties approaches the bar. He’s wearing Barbour wellies and a gillet, and he smells like musty once-wet parka jackets.

Daisy salutes the newcomer and begins filling up glasses from the Loosehead’s Load tap—a 4.5% ABV pale ale.

He turns to me. “You must be the new Fernbank Cottage tenant?”

I nod and take a swig of my pint to avoid talking to him. Instead, I train my focus on the open doorway.

There’s some kind of chest-height storage thing or oven or whatever, with the front panelled in darkened glass. A pair of jean-clad legs cross in front of its reflection and then disappear.

Presumably, the leg owner is “Dad.” My new landlord, and the man who Daisy said she couldn’t wait to tell about me. I wonder if she already has. Wonder if he’s spitting into my gravy right now.

The older man continues as though I’m not pointedly ignoring him. “Heard about the contract. Couldn’t’ve come at a better time. Cents have had nothing but a string of shit kickers for years.” He grabs his drinks, one in each hand. “Daze, does Boss know?” he asks, jerking his head towards me.

Daisy’s smile reappears. Bigger than ever. “No,” she says, practically giddy with what I can only assume is excitement. “He’s in for such a treat.”

Oh, god.

“Hey, Daisy, can I get another round too?” someone else behind me says. A masculine woman in her fifties with a gorgeous Irish setter at her feet. “I’m not missing this for the world.”

Daisy continues pulling pints, and I continue to keep my gaze trained forward. I have no plans to get to know anyone in this tiny cluster of hobbit houses. I’m simply here to eat and sleep, maybe watch YouTube while I’m not at training.

The legs still dance in front of the reflective panel. Thick legs, slim-cut jeans. The owner of said legs and jeans has a black pinny on that covers his crotch . . . but his ass . . .

Damn, that’s a good ass.

A rugby ass, for sure.

The thighs are top tier too.

I remember Simone saying something about my new landlord running a local sevens team and it all makes sense now .

My mind is already wandering. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to get to know a couple of my new neighbours. One in particular. Maybe this guy could be the saving grace of this whole Centurions emergency-signing shit soup.

“Did someone call my name?” comes the chef’s voice, each word louder than the last as he moves from the hidden kitchen into the bar area. I get a decent look at him from the chest up this time and—

This can’t be . . .

My half-drunk pint of stout slips through my fingers. Hits the edge of the bar. Rolls. Falls to the floor. Smashes.

I’m on my feet. My mind whirring. Mouth gaping. No sound coming out.

The pub is deathly quiet. Even the music seems to have stopped.

No.

How did this happen?

How could Simone have sent me here?

“Daisy wasn’t lying,” says the newcomer, his voice barely above a whisper, clearly as shocked as me. “Mathias Jones. Mathias Jones,” he repeats, like he’s glitching. “Holy shit.”

Daisy’s smile drops in an instant.

I open my mouth to speak, but there are no words. There aren’t even any thoughts. Because the man in front of me is . . . breathtaking. In more ways than one.

He’s in his mid-forties and stands at about five-eleven.

His head is mostly shaved except for a thin, reddish-blonde stripe down the middle.

A low-mo—low maintenance mohawk. A full auburn beard and moustache decorate his face, which is distressingly handsome and kind.

His hazel eyes are crinkled even though he’s not smiling, and he’s wearing those slim-cut jeans, a black apron, and a pale-green, long-sleeved polo neck.

Only his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and his thick hairy forearms are exposed.

He still has his hooker’s figure, but it’s been softened around the edges. Most likely from age and fatherhood, and from years spent away from the pitch and in a pub. His belly pokes at the front of his pinny and his growing smile fattens his cheeks .

I immediately think about every time I’ve held this man’s perfect image in my mind as I fucked my own hand.

Both before and after I broke his leg.

I need to get out of here. My feet are already walking me out of the building.

“Wait! Mathias, wait!” Owen Bosley calls out.

Owen fucking Bosley.

The man whose leg I broke eight years ago is my new landlord. Daisy’s dad. The mysterious chef with the fabulous ass.

Not happening. No way.

I don’t answer. I’m already gone, already pulling my phone out of my pocket and dialling Simone’s number.