Page 3 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

Cardiff Bengals are winning twenty-eight to twenty-two with seventy-seven minutes on the clock. The first half was . . . wishy washy. Okay, it was a fucking mess. Bath dominated. Racked up four tries before the half-time whistle whilst we all stood around picking our shorts out of our asses.

Luckily for us, Bath’s kicker is a bag of shit and only converted two out of the four tries.

I say we and us like I was actually out there. I wasn’t. I watched from the bench, keeping my muscles warm by jogging on the spot any time there was a lull or stoppage.

It’s my first time on the Bengals’ roster.

First time wearing the famous orange-and-black Cardiff jersey.

Granted, it’s the number twenty-two, but I didn’t even expect to get rostered.

I’d dreamt about it for so long, though.

Since I was a boy, and every game, every training session is one step closer to realising my dream of professional rugby.

Just because I was good at school and college levels doesn’t mean I have what it takes to make it big time.

Yet I know I do. I feel it in every fibre of my being. In every individual component that makes me Mathias Jones.

Each part of me has been crafted, sculpted, shaped by my own willpower to be the best. To reach my full potential.

Especially my brain. I’m twenty-two—my birthday was three days ago—and I’ve turned myself into a rugby machine: six-five, strong, instinctive, and fast. So fucking fast. Ain’t nobody in that stadium today, Bath or Cardiff, faster than me, that’s for sure.

And I can aim well. I’ll be wearing the number ten soon.

That much I know. I just need to prove it to a few people first.

Half-time is the usual “get your shit together lads” and then we’re back on the pitch.

“Dylan, Stevens, Gregory, Jones, I want you to warm up,” Coach Campbell informs us.

I’m already on my feet.

Finally my shot. My chance to show the world I have what it takes to play rugby at pro level. Like all the greats before me.

That could be me. That will be me.

I’ve held those thoughts in my head. Repeated them over and over. Never let a shred of doubt or worry worm its way in. But as the clock ticks over into its seventieth minute, seventy-fifth, and I’m still dancing around like a tit on the side of the pitch, my confidence wanes a little.

Not my confidence in myself—that doesn’t falter—but my confidence in what Coach thinks of me, what my teammates think of me.

I need them to like me. I need them to be in awe of my abilities.

I want my name bounced around people’s homes accompanied by things like, “Can you believe last year he was playing for the under twenties?”

Or, “He’s the fastest player in Bengals’ history.”

Or, “Youngest player ever to reach one hundred caps.”

Bengals’ tactic for the past ten minutes has been to keep the ball as close to the Bengals’ white line as possible, and shut out any try attempts from the Cents.

They’ve had a few breakouts, but whatever magic Coach sprinkled over us during half-time is paying off, and Bath haven’t been able to even out the score.

They need a try plus the conversion to snatch the win from us, and with three minutes left on the clock, it doesn’t look likely to happen. It’s gonna take a miracle.

The Cardiff fans are already celebrating the victory.

“Jones, you’re going in,” Campbell says. “You have one job, and one job only—do not let Bath score. Under any circumstance.”

“Got it,” I reply.

And just like that, I’m on the pitch with my Bengals teammates—official teammates now—and some of the most formidable opposition I’ll ever face.

The Centurions are a big team, both in reputation and in physical, measurable size. They’re very heavy—pun a happy coincidence—on forwards, and much lighter on backs. The hits pack a punch, but they’re not as quick on their feet as they could be.

I’m playing fullback, and I’m eager, so fucking eager to prove to everyone and their nans that I belong here.

We’re fanned out near the Bengals’ goal posts when out of nowhere Owen Bosley makes a break for it. He’s wide open on the right side of the pitch. He knows this, and he sprints, his legs punching the turf, propelling him towards Bath’s half.

The crowd explodes with noise, shaking the entire stadium to the point where it feels like even the sky could collapse in on us.

The Bengals boys pivot like a switchblade—razor reflexes—and chase Bosley, but the hooker has nothing but green in front of him.

For the win they’ll need the try and the conversion, but the Cents’ kicker is useless.

Bosley’s going to get as close to the centre as possible.

That way his teammate won’t have to work as hard.

I spot the moment he realises this. The moment his brain switches gears and he curves his trajectory inwards. I’m fresh on the pitch, I’m young, I’m fast, and I’m fucking eager, and Bosley’s nearly on his eightieth minute. We’ll cross paths. He’s going down.

I run, feet slamming onto the grass, driven by pure adrenaline and desperation. I don’t think about the poster I had of Bosley on my wall when I was younger. I don’t let doubts creep in. No what-ifs. No might nots. He’s mine.

Less than a quarter of the pitch to go. The gap between us closes. He’s fast. I’m faster.

I have this.

He’s right there.

I’m two metres from him. He’s four from the try line.

Bosley’s head ticks to the side. He knows I’m there, knows he’s been beat, but it’s too late. He’s not agile enough to shift his weight, not more agile than me. But he attempts to anyway.

It’s all too late for him. I launch myself, catch one last glance at his face before I wrap my arms around his waist and we both go down. He’s an antelope and I’m the wildcat.

We crash into the ground. The ball bounces off left. He doesn’t cling to it.

Instinct pulls me immediately to my feet, but I already know something’s wrong.

The crowd realises too, and the shouting and yelling and stomping dims, and then dies like someone’s put a glass cloche over me and Bosley. It’s just us, and the creeping doomsday realisation of what just happened.

Still Bosley doesn’t get up. Doesn’t even try to. He just grabs his leg. I think he says, “That hurts like a bugger.” But my mind is white noise.

“What the fuck have I done?”

I’m panicking, screaming for a medic, crying. Not Owen Bosley. I could have done this to anyone else, but not Owen Bosley .

Within seconds we’re surrounded by players, and moments later no fewer than five medics are beside him. They disperse us while they fuss over Bosley, placing blocks around his leg—fuck, his leg—and lifting him onto a stretcher. Double fuck.

“Jones! Jones!” Someone’s yelling. It’s one of Bosley’s teammates. He’s beckoning me over. I can’t hear properly. There’s a ringing in my ears like a bomb went off.

Bosley blinks up at me from the ground, shielding his eyes from the evening winter sun. “Mate, that was a fucking fantastic tackle.”

My brain freezes, and I stare at him.

What do you even say to that? I’ve most likely just broken the man’s leg—a man I’ve admired for years.

A man loved and adored by millions. Celebrated for not only his indomitable skill but his sportsmanlike attitude to everything.

Bosley’s one of the first openly queer players in history, and was essentially the reason I knew a guy like me, with all my differences, could fit into the world of rugby and be accepted for who I am.

Fuck.

He doesn’t seem bothered by my nonresponse. “You’re going to be huge,” he says, and then as he’s being lifted off the pitch and out of the grounds, he shoots me a thumbs up.

I want to cry, and I want to throw up, and I want to quit this sport right here and now.

There’s a minute left on the clock, but nobody has much enthusiasm. The game’s already over, it’s simply a case of waiting for the whistle.

I block everyone out on the coach ride back to Wales. I don’t mean to, but my body has gone into shutdown mode. My teammates try to comfort me, console me, tell me things they think I want to hear, but I just want to be by myself. Want them to shut the fuck up and leave me alone.

As soon as I get home to my little one-bed flat in Cardiff, I watch the footage on playback over and over .

The tackle was legal, clean, well executed. Bosley landed weirdly, that’s all. I’m not at fault, but I know it’ll get looked into. Investigated. The Bath coach will want answers, he’ll want someone to pay.

On my TV, the cameras cut to shots of the crowd looking horrified.

Mouths hang open, hands cover faces. A young teenager cries, her Bath shirt pulled up to her nose, and an older woman—presumably her mother—comforts her with an arm over the shoulder.

It flicks back to me. I have my fists in my hair like I’m trying to rip out chunks.

The commentators talk over the footage, but their voices are diminished. Hushed. Respectful.

“He was on the pitch for ninety seconds,” one guy says.

“He’s certainly going to be one to watch out for,” the other chimes in. “If people can look past this disastrous debut.”

“Absolutely. No one’s going to be forgetting this in a hurry.”

Mam rings me, but she has no words of comfort. She knows by now that I hate people lying just to make me feel better. Instead, she asks, “Isn’t that the lad you had a massive crush on?”

Yep. Yes, it is.