Page 21 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

“Lando’s bathrooms are better than five-star hotels. Daisy almost always goes to his to shower after sevens or get ready for a night out,” Owen tells me.

“Alright for some,” I reply, because I can’t figure out anything else to add. Instead, I pass Owen the bag of bibs.

He’s slotting pads into the storage shed as though they’re Tetris blocks. “There’s a knack. A certain way they go in, and I seem to be the only person who can remember how they fit.”

“Sounds like weaponised incompetence to me,” I say.

“It does, doesn’t it?” he agrees. “But it does mean that by the time I’m finished tidying up, I have the showers all to myself.” His eyes flick from the top of my head down to my boots. “Almost to myself.”

My heart rate picks up again, the earlier adrenaline from all that exercise spiking once more like a revving engine. I’m going to shower next to Owen Bosley.

Owen Bosley and I will be naked together, and alone.

Over the course of my life, I must have showered with hundreds, thousands of other dudes and thought nothing of it. A dick is a dick. I mean, I’ve looked before, of course I’ve looked. Everyone looks.

But this is . . . different somehow.

I try to keep casual on the outside, like I would at any other post-game cleanse. “How come you didn’t play today? Why’d you ref?”

After my mediocre coaching session, we split into two teams and had a mini-match.

Owen and Daisy both opted to ref. It was fun, even if I did have secret, unrealised hopes of getting tackled by the Boss.

Tom and Bryn had tried and failed to convince him to play, but he’d refused each time, saying there were too many people.

There weren’t. The other girls Daisy’s age had sat out, meaning Owen could have chosen either team to join.

There was obviously another reason for his abstention.

We enter the hut, our studs clicking on the tiles which are now smeared with mud and clumps of grass. It’s empty of people and their belongings, and only two small mounds of clothes remain. Mine in a neat little pile near the entrance, and Owen’s in a less neat jumble nearer the showers.

“I always ref,” he says. He peels his jersey off and turns his back to me, either to give himself privacy while he undresses, or to hide the emotion on his face as he says his next words. “I dunno, I just . . . feel weird about playing sometimes.”

“How so?” I turn my back to him too and start stripping off my own clothes .

Owen’s quiet for a moment. I imagine him shrugging, but I don’t turn to look. The paranoid part of my brain is already telling me it’s all my fault. You ruined this for him. You took away the thing he loves the most. His joy for the game. You did this.

“It’s fine,” he eventually says. “I love reffing these games. Daisy does too, and it means I get to spend more time with her.”

“She’s a great kid. I hope one day my kids turn out as . . . tenacious as Daisy May Bosley,” I say. Owen laughs. “You’ve done a good job there.”

“All Kirsty’s doing,” he replies.

The mention of her name sits oddly inside my stomach. I want to ask him about his relationship with his daughters’ mum, but I don’t. It’s really none of my business.

“Hot tip for the showers. The second one from the right is the choicest shower. For some reason, the water is always the exact perfect temperature. The furthest one on the right is always scalding, and the one on the left by the window is fucked. It’ll drip ice cubes on your back and then stop halfway through your wash. ”

And then I hear Owen’s bare feet slapping the floor tiles as he moves to the showers.

I slip my own feet into sliders, grab my towel, and follow him.

The shower block is an extension of the locker room, with the same tiles and the same orange overhead lighting.

There’s an opaque window at the far end.

The air is steamy, the floor is wet, and frothy puddles of shampoo spume and soap scud linger around the central and back drains. It smells of shower gel and mildew.

There are four showers in a row. Owen is standing under the stream from the third faucet along. Meaning he left the “choicest” shower for me. I’m not sure how that makes me feel, and I also wish I wasn’t the type of person to overanalyse every minute action like it means something deep.

He’s just being accommodating. He’s a friendly sort of guy. A dad, and everyone loves him. Another selfless act of micro-service from Owen Bosley .

He stands with his back to me again, face under the stream. I hang my towel up and slide into the space next to him. There’s a helpful little shelf under the on button, so I place my products there.

Owen turns his head towards me, but keeps his body angled in the other direction. His gaze homes in on my face, but from the slight furrow of his brow and the way he bites the inside of his lip, I can tell he’s trying his absolute darnedest not to look down.

I want to look at him, though. Want to spin him around so he’s facing me. Want to track each curve and line of his body. Memorise them.

His single bottle of five-in-one and a washcloth sits on his shelf. By contrast, I have so many products I keep them in a clear zip-up pouch. I hit the on switch. It’s one of those big flat silver types that you have to smash every minute or two to maintain the water flow.

Owen doesn’t turn towards me, and I don’t know if he’s being self-conscious or self-restraining, but I need him to stop. Need him to be neither of those things. I want his eyes all over me. I’m a manor house peacock and I need him to look at my fucking plumage.

An idea suddenly materialises. Well, less of an idea, more of a this could be disastrous, but I’m gonna do it anyway notion. “So . . . I’m going to wash my hair,” I say.

Owen tilts his head to the side, silently asking me why I’m telling him this.

I pour shampoo into my palm and pop the bottle back on the shelf. “I’ll have my eyes closed for at least thirty seconds.”

His frown disappears. “ Oh. ” He understands. It’s my invitation for him to look. Get his fill of my naked body without the encumbrance of me watching him and knowing where his eyes wander.

I don’t say anything else, I simply move my fingers to my hair, tilt my head up, and close my eyes.

Water of the exact perfect temperature hits my back, and my fingertips work lather into my crown.

Owen is silent, but I feel his gaze on me.

It’s a caress . . . respectful, like everything else he does.

I pivot my body, taking a step both backwards and turning towards him.

Water now cascades over my shoulders and sluices down my chest.

I know from countless hours spent in front of the mirror working out that I look good right now. Better than good, with my arms above my head. My stomach muscles will be lengthened, my biceps and triceps flexed, pectorals bulging. I trimmed yesterday too. Everything is neat and inviting.

I want to open my eyes to see if he’s enjoying my display, but I don’t. I give him all the privacy he needs. I want him to take his time, take care to memorise me. Catalogue me. Think of me tonight when he climbs under those striped covers and fucks his own hand.

I shake the thought before I start to chub up, and let the water rinse the suds from my hair.

“Gonna open my eyes now,” I announce, so Owen knows his time is up.

“That’s cool,” he says, his voice breathier than a moment ago. His chest seems to be rising and falling a little quicker too. “Need to wash my hair. Won’t take me as long; there’s not as much.” He smirks at me and leans past me, grabbing my shampoo.

I watch him, let him fill his palm, even though he literally only has a two-inch-wide strip of hair and my shampoo cost thirty pounds a bottle. Then he blows out a steadying breath, closes his eyes, reaches up to his scalp, and angles himself towards me.

And I do what I’ve been desperate to do since the moment I figured out we’d be showering together. I take in everything that is Owen Bosley, naked and dripping.

He’s glorious. Sheer perfection, and in every possible way, supremely average.

His skin is pale white, turned pink in places by the hot water.

He’s hairy, just like he said he was, though not quite yeti-extreme.

It’s more like a reddish-blonde dusting.

He has constellations of freckles and moles scattered across his shoulders and arms, and an ancient two-inch silver scar above his right hip.

An appendectomy, most likely. He has a big round belly and a meaty chest and a very regular-sized—if not slightly small—cock.

He’s wonderful, and I could waste the entire day staring at the way the water tumbles over his curves.

His is a body hewn from love, and from generosity, and from soul-deep self-care.

From years of rugby, of playing the sport we’re both obsessed with.

From past-life strength training, and more recently from rest. From feeding it the foods he loves while feeding others and loving in return.

From being a father, and no doubt messing about with his kids, eating ice cream with them, taking them to the pool, and the beach, and all the other seemingly small actions that have helped mould the guy before me.

I don’t really know how to describe it in any other words, but it’s the body of a very happy man.

The thought pulls at something deep within me, and I have the crashing realisation I want to be included in that . . . in the happiness that helps shape him.

But I have no idea in what capacity. I don’t do relationships; I barely do friendships. And I’ll be leaving before the end of the season anyway, so even—

“I’m . . . finished washing my hair now,” Owen says, snapping me out of my thoughts. I drag my eyes to his face again just as he opens his own.

We both giggle, but don’t say anything. Owen purses his lips closed and grabs his wash cloth and five-in-one. I soap up my loofah and start furiously scrubbing the skin on my thighs to distract myself.

“Did you look?” he asks eventually, his voice quiet.

I nod. “Did you?”

Owen nods too. “Did you . . .” He gives his head a little shake, as though mustering the courage to finish his question. “Did you . . . enjoy what you saw?”

I let my eyes search his face. He’s holding his breath. His chest doesn’t rise or fall, but otherwise his expression reveals nothing.

“Yes,” I say.

His mouth parts, relief rushing out.

“Did you?” I ask.

“You already know the answer to that. ”

His shower stops. A few seconds later, mine does too. Silence envelops the concrete hut, except for the steady, echoing dripdripdrip of the faucets behind us.

Owen rings out his washcloth, grabs his five-in-one. “I . . . haven’t seen the view from the back, though . . .”

“Sure,” I say. I collect my bits from the little shelf and walk out of the shower area to the locker room, grabbing my towel on the way but not wrapping it around myself, making sure Owen gets a decent look at my ass.

My wet feet in my wet sliders on the wet tiles make the least sexiest crunching slapping sound I think I’ve ever heard.