Page 22 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

Owen goes to bed between twelve thirty and one a.m. on school nights.

On non-school nights, it’s closer to two.

He’s still asleep when I leave for training in the mornings.

It’s messing up my schedule because I like to get up at five or six, go for a run, go about my day, and be in bed by ten p.m., to be asleep at eleven.

But the pub closes late, and sometimes people are still leaving right up until midnight. And I really shouldn’t be spying from my bedroom window and waiting for Owen to climb into his own bed and switch the lights off, but I’ve developed an addiction.

My new special interest.

I tell myself every night I won’t do it—I won’t watch him—but I do.

Every time. I’m half waiting for him to look out the window and catch me staring at him, but the odds of that happening are about as low as a chihuahua’s bollocks, since I switch all the upstairs lights off.

Even if he does glance over, he’ll see nothing but my blackened windows, and probably assume I’m asleep.

I can’t get the image of him in the shower out of my head.

Water cascading off his chest, tracking over his belly, sliding down his thighs.

The pervert inside me wants to catch another glimpse of him in his birthday suit, or stretched out on the top of his bed while he redecorates his own stomach, but I’m certain that spying on someone doing that in their own home is illegal.

And I’m a law-abiding coward. Every time I think he might take his cock in his hand, I look away.

Besides, if I was going to watch him wank, I’d rather he was aware of the situation and could consent. Maybe I could join in, and fuck, that might be the hottest thought I’ve ever had.

It’s seven o’clock on Saturday morning before my first game for the Cents, and yet again I’ve been thinking about a shower-wet Owen Bosley too much and need to knock another one out.

I’m just fixing myself a protein shake when I hear a percussive “She’ll be Coming Round the Mountain” against my front door.

“Good morning, Wild Card,” Owen booms as I open the front door. “Where were you on Thursday? Everyone was asking after you. Apparently, people are taking issue with me emceeing again now.”

“Uh . . . here. I was here,” I reply. I can’t very well tell him I had planned on coming over, but at the last minute I convinced myself that every single one of his regulars must undoubtedly hate my guts and if I burst through the doors of his pub, they’d laugh me out of Mudford-upon-Hooke.

“You wanna come in? I have to leave soon.”

“Oh, I know. I just came over to wish you luck. I’ll have the radio on so we can listen. You’re gonna smash it. ”

“Thanks.” I force a smile . . . don’t let my real emotions read on my features. Masking. Always masking.

Owen studies me for a moment. His arm shoots out to caress my bicep. “Mate, I’m not kidding. You’ll rock it.”

Oh. He thinks I’m nervous about the game, or my performance. I can’t explain to him that’s not the case, that my worries stem from something far more superficial. Especially since if it weren’t for him, for the accident in 2017, I wouldn’t be in this position.

I roll with his assumption and try to paste on a relieved expression. “Cheers.”

He’s not buying it. His face doesn’t soften, in fact his frown sets deeper, and I really, really need him not to press the matter right now.

He tightens his grip on my arm, and I close my eyes. Brace for impact. “So . . . how come you weren’t at my pub on Thursday, hmm?”

My breath rushes out all at once. When I open my eyes Owen is still frowning at me. “You didn’t invite me.”

He laughs, though stops himself when he sees I’m not joking. “Wait, for real? It’s a pub; you don’t need an invite. Everyone’s welcome. Ehhh . . . almost everyone. You really weren’t there because I didn’t ask you to come over?”

“Yep.” I add a shrug to emphasise my eloquent response.

“Are you a vampire?”

Now I’m smiling. I don’t know how he does this. “No, but I am autistic, so . . . similar, I guess, but I don’t drink blood. I bet it’s got a shit tonne of protein in it, though.”

I make a mental note to google the protein quantities in blood.

“Okay, sorry,” he says. “Consider this your official invitation to not only every single pub quiz from here until the end of time, but literally any night. Please don’t feel you’re not welcome here, because you are.

Bring the Cents boys if you like, make a whole thing of it.

Also, I’d love your help to plan the quiz again, because I tried to do the music round on my own and it was fucking terrible.

I got booed. Fucking booed. By Viv, of all people. ”

I’m snorting with laughter and trying not to hyperfixate on each of his words. Especially the part where he wants to write the quiz questions with me again.

“In fairness, your pub can only fit a maximum of thirty regular-sized people inside. What the fuck are you gonna do if I rock up with another thirty rugby players?”

He’s smiling. He knows he’s won. “Then we take it to the beer garden. I’ve got a pretty nifty PA system.”

“Fine. Thank you. I’ll come over on Thursday,” I say.

“Nah, mate. I’ll see you before then. I’ll be round Wednesday night after kick-out so we can write these questions together.”

“Sounds . . .” Perfect. “Good.”

“Hey,” Owen says. “You get to watch me walk away now.”

I have to place my fingers over my lips to stop them from spreading in an embarrassingly large grin. With my other hand, I make a shooing gesture. “Off you fuck, then.”

He’s smothering his own grin, and it makes my insides feel both heavy and light all at once.

He turns to leave, but then spins back. “By the way, I have not stopped thinking about Sunday. I thought you should know.” And then he’s gone, and I’m so stunned by his comment I forget to watch his ass in those jeans.

I force my breath to come out slowly, to calm my sudden erratic heartbeat. I grab my bag, chuck it in the passenger side of my Range Rover, and head to the Cents grounds to board the team bus to Exeter.

It’s a two-hour coach trip to the away stadium.

I sit beside the window, and Dan sits in the seat next to me, but he has his back to me the entire ride.

His legs are spread out in the aisle as though it’s his mission to take up as much space as humanly possible, and he chats loudly to anyone who’ll listen.

He’s talking about the betrayal he feels at his kid taking up football instead of rugby, his upcoming Mediterranean cruise with the family, and the Deadpool movies.

I put my headphones on and replay Owen Bosley facts and quotes inside my brain, as though I’m revising for an exam .

He drinks Hooker’s Dribble, a frankly disgusting pseudo IPA. It tastes like someone took a piss in a plant pot and mixed it with warm, flat lemonade.

He calls me “Wild Card.”

He drives a 2017 plate white Citroen C4 Picasso, which I’m certain hasn’t seen the interior of a car wash since rolling off the forecourt.

He can’t sing.

He has phenomenal taste in mattresses and sofas. Both are criminally comfortable.

His birthday was at the beginning of March, a couple of weeks before I moved here.

He said, “I’d love your help to plan the quiz again.”

He also said, “You can stay here as long as you like. You’ll always be welcome here.”

And, “By the way, I have not stopped thinking about Sunday. I thought you should know.”

The thoughts carry me through the journey. They help numb the knowledge of what’s to come. The inevitability.

I take out my phone and glance unseeingly at the screen for the fiftieth time.

There are a couple of WhatsApps from Sim.

Attached are two Rightmove links for rental houses.

She’s captioned them: These went online this morning.

They won’t be on there for long. Let me know ASAP if you want me to arrange a viewing.

I reply with a curt, “No good, sorry,” without opening the links.

Today I’m wearing the number twenty-two shirt. It’s strange. I haven’t worn this number since my early days of rugby. It’s also the number I wore when I smashed up Owen’s leg, and I’m sure that will not go unnoticed by the hardcore Cents fans .

The good news is that I probably won’t play the first half. The bad news is that they’re gonna show my face on a giant screen and everyone will boo me.

Well, not everyone. Only the Centurions’ fans. My own fucking team.

Why the fuck I signed up for this, I have no idea. I could have had an entire season off. Gone back to Cardiff in September after taking a year’s break.

It’s bullshit, though. That would never have happened. I needed something to keep me occupied and relevant. I’ve seen it before. One season missed because of this injury or that, and that’s it. Before you know it, you’re announcing your retirement.

I puff out a breath and stand beside the bench, half jogging on the spot to keep my muscles warm. Me and a few other guys are wearing dry robes to trap the heat. We’re not starting, and we have no idea when we’ll be called upon.

The Bath lads are running onto the pitch one by one. There’s cheering, but it’s never as loud as the home crowd. Always how it is for away games. I can’t make out any of the announcer’s words, and the closest screen is slightly obscured from my view. This is not good. I don’t know when it’s coming.

I start pacing. They run out of starters. They’re announcing the subs now. They’ll call my name any moment. I might not be able to hear it, but I’ll know the boos are for me.

“Jones!” Coach Eksteen steps in front of me, hiding what’s left of the screen. “Unless something dramatic happens before then, I’ll be playing you at the start of second half.”

I nod to show I’m listening. Try not to lean around him to look at the screen.

“Ellis is great at starting, but he’s like a firework. A burst of energy, but lacks the stamina to keep up the pa—”