Page 33 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

“When it’s Father’s Day, in June, you need to make your dad breakfast,” I tell Daisy after training. I’m sitting on one of the squishy leather bar stools, cradling the dregs of my cider.

It’s just gone six, and Owen is rushing around the pub like a fly trapped in a window, collecting glasses and taking food orders. Daisy stands behind the bar. Her hair is down today, and she’s wearing a tiny black vest top and an even tinier black skirt.

“What? Why? That’s such a weird thing to say.” She looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head.

“Because he’s your dad, and you love him, and this morning when I made him breakfast he almost cried. He said nobody’s made him breakfast in five years.”

She opens her mouth, no doubt ready with a snappy retort, but slams it shut again. “Oh. Okay, I can do that.” She busies herself behind the bar for a few moments, cutting limes and scooping and unscooping ice. I don’t think she even realises what she’s doing. “Another cider?”

“Sure,” I say. “Catesby, please. It’s the only thing in this pub that doesn’t taste like windscreen wash.”

Daisy laughs. A minute later, she plonks down a glass of golden liquid. “It’s not on the house, though. I know last time it was, but we can’t afford to feed and water a man your size any more.”

That’s not what Owen told me earlier via text, but I choose not to point it out. We . She said we. We can’t afford to feed you. Like it’s her pub as well as her dad’s, or that his financial problems are hers to bear too.

“So, you admit that Dad stayed the night with you? Since you made him breakfast. What happened? It’ll be less gross coming from you.”

I don’t answer her question. “Why are you all dressed up, anyway? Are you going out with Lando?”

“No, Lando’s coming here tonight. He says he wants to do the pub quiz, but I’m pretty sure he just wants to ogle the hottest new gay in town. And I’m going out. I have a date with this criminally hot top.”

“Congratulations,” I say.

She beams at me. “Do I look cute?”

“You look like Wednesday Addams in her slut phase.”

Daisy pokes her tongue out and flips her hair over her shoulder. “Nailed it, then. Do you have training tomorrow?”

I swallow down my mouthful of cider and shake my head. “Bank holiday, and thankfully we don’t have a match on Sunday like a lot of teams. But I am driving to Wales in the morning for the weekend, so probably best if I don’t drink too much. ”

Our next game isn’t until the twenty-sixth. I’ll be playing in the number ten shirt, or so Coach Eksteen tells me. Bad luck, Harry. Though it’s a little difficult to feel sorry for a guy who projects his own poor performance onto other people. Honestly, not my fault he can’t kick for shit.

“Aw cute. To see the fam?” Why does it sound so patronising when she says it like that?

“Yep. Mama Jones, Papa Jones, Nan, Gramps, my sister, aunts, uncles. And I get to see my dog.”

“Brian!” she says.

“Close. Brain. How do you know about my dog?”

“I’m a super sleuth,” she says, offers no further explanation. “What the fuck kind of dog name is Brain?”

“You know, like Brain from Inspector Gadget ? That’s the name of Inspector Gadget’s dog,” I say.

Daisy frowns at me, and at the same time somehow lifts a single brow. In all honesty, Inspector Gadget is even before my time, so it’s no wonder the eighteen-year-old hasn’t heard of the show.

I miss Brain, so much. He’s ten years old and is the stupidest, dopiest, most idiotic dog to have ever graced the planet.

He still lives with my parents because as soon as I went pro, I started travelling too often, and was out of the house for hours and hours at a time.

It wasn’t fair on the poor butthead. And now, of course, Mam has grown too fond of him to let him move to Wiltshire with me, and I’m pretty sure Brain would put up a fight if I forced him to leave the T-bones Mam cooks, or the custard creams Dad sneaks him under the table.

But I don’t want to talk about my dog. I hadn’t planned on unpacking any of those feelings today, so I keep them locked up.

“Is your sister coming back for the holidays?” I ask.

“She usually does, but I’m not sure this time. She has her exams next month, so she’s probably too focused on that right now.”

Daisy serves another customer—an older man I recognise from the quiz a couple of weeks ago but never caught his name. He orders two Old Boy’s Tackle shandies .

“You didn’t fancy going to uni?” I ask when the man leaves. “Or are you on a gap year?”

Daisy shrugs, then puffs all the air out of her mouth through flappy lips, like a horse. “Dad wants me to go to uni, but . . .”

I wait a few seconds but she doesn’t finish her thought. “What do you wanna do for work? After you leave here, of course.” I’m not sure how good my advice will be. I never went to uni. Went into professional sport at the age of eighteen instead.

I would have totally bossed uni, though.

“I literally have no idea. I like it here, in this pub. It’s the perfect job.

I’m surrounded by friends all day, every day.

I get to have a laugh. I get to watch the games on the screen.

I get to see people I love and care about being happy.

” She’s not even remotely abashed that she sounds so sappy.

“I enjoy being this involved in the community. Pretty sure Dad wants more for me, though. Like he wants me to be a doctor or an architect, or to have a career that lasts into old age. Not a sports career like him.” She picks at the label on an empty wine bottle, and doesn’t look at me.

“Do you want a sports career? You were great out there on the sevens pitch.” Not gonna lie, Daisy’s good. She’s fast and agile, and isn’t afraid of getting down and dirty, but her formidable no-bullshit attitude makes her an even better ref. “Tiny but ferocious.”

“I’m only tiny next to a giant like you. And Lan. Bet I could beat both of you in a fight, though,” she says.

“I don’t doubt it.” I down the rest of my pint, and an idea strikes me. Okay, less of an idea, more of a very loose notion. A wisp of a notion. A notion fart. I haven’t figured out any details. “Daisy, you said you love working here because of the community . . .”

Daisy peers at me from under furrowed brows. “Yeah?”

“I actually don’t have a point yet. I just need to ramble.

Bear with me,” I say, holding up a finger as though pinning the thought into place.

“I’m thinking we could do some kind of community led event to raise the roof money.

I mentioned organising a summer fair this morning, but your dad didn’t seem too enthusiastic about it. ”

“ Yeahhh ,” she says, stretching out the word.

There’s hesitation in her voice. “Dad already told me he doesn’t want the village getting involved.

He said it would feel like accepting charity because he’s the only person who benefits from it, and these are his problems and no one else’s, or whatever. ”

“But this is the community.” I’m still not entirely sure what point I’m trying to make, but I need to keep talking it through.

Maybe I’ll eventually arrive at it, maybe not.

“I checked, Mudford-upon-Hooke doesn’t have an official community centre.

All the local events are held here. This is where everyone comes to . . . come together.”

“That’s what she said,” Daisy says, winking, then immediately rearranges her face into something more befitting the seriousness of the conversation.

“So . . . like . . . I honestly have no idea what I’m trying to say here, but surely it benefits the entire village to keep the pub . . . pubbing.”

“That’s exactly what I told him! But he won’t hear it.” She slaps both hands to her hips like she’s bloody sick of it all. “He might listen to you, though. You just have to find the perfect moment.”

I mull this over for a second. “Or . . . we organise something and don’t tell him until—”

Daisy gets right up in my face. Leans across the bar in the foot-wide gap between the cider and beer taps, hands bracing herself on the rubber drip mat.

“Mathias Jones, you’re a devious bastard.

I love it. Let’s form a secret alliance.

Between you and me, I reckon we could figure this shit out.

Also, Molly’ll be coming home in like a month—after her exams—and she’s genius smart.

And Lando will wanna help too. I mean, he’ll hinder us more than anything, but his family name has a lot of weight around here. ”

“What are you two gossiping about?” says an Argentinian accent from right beside my other ear.

“Noth—” I start to say, but Daisy cuts me off.

“We’re arranging a secret summer fair to raise money for the roof, but you can’t tell Dad. ”

“Ooh, community espionage. Count us in,” Tom says.

I turn to Bryn.

“For real. Let us know how we can help. I’ll rally the troops,” he says.

“You guys should sort out the raffle,” Daisy says.

I’m on my feet. “Woah, no, I think we’re getting too far ahead of ourselves. It was a stupid throwaway idea, and I need to do more research.” A lot more research.

“Bit cosy in here, isn’t it?” Owen says, appearing from absolutely nowhere and making us all jump. “Why are you all looking so guilty?” He nudges his way between Tom and me and places a warm, possessive palm against my spine.

Nobody answers him, which makes us look even more suspicious.

“I don’t speak English, sorry—”

“What’s that, Viv? We’ll be right there—”

Tom and Bryn speak simultaneously, and Daisy’s suddenly very preoccupied mopping up non-existent spilled beer from the bar top.

Owen leans closer to me. His chest presses against my arm and his breath caresses my cheek. “They know about us?”

I can’t work out if it’s a question or a statement.

“Uh . . .” I start to say, but Daisy cuts in again.

“Lando saw you guys doing boy gay stuff in the showers, so naturally he’s told the entire village. I’m surprised you didn’t see the poster on the community board.”

“What?” Owen whips his head up to the corkboard next to the door. “Lol,” he deadpans when he realises she’s taking the piss.

“But yeah, everyone knows. Except Roger. We thought it’d be funny to let him figure that one out on his own. Ange knows, though.”

Owen puffs out a long, slow breath. “I guess we’ve only got ourselves to blame.” He doesn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by everyone knowing, and I decide to take his lead. Despite my reservations about . . . people, I like this little community of his.

“Daze, I’m going on my ten-minute ciggy break,” Owen says.

“You don’t smoke,” she replies, narrowing her eyes .

He ignores her. “Mathias, would you like a tour of my trophy room?”

I laugh. “Is that a euphemism?”

“Yes.” Owen’s face is almost completely impassive, except for the tiny glint in his eye.

“Gross!” Daisy shouts.

I’m already on my feet and marching behind the bar towards what I assume is the entrance to the flat upstairs.

As soon as Owen closes the door to his tiny bedsit behind us, he’s on me. Mouth claiming mine, pinning me against the wall. He whips his apron off and tosses it onto the cluttered coffee table.

“I’ve been thinking about this all—” I start.

Owen cuts me off. “No time for talking. Got ten minutes. You can text me whatever it is you need to say tomorrow from Wales.”

“Sure—” I begin to say, but Owen slams his mouth onto mine again.

“This needs to come off,” he says, fingering the buttons on my shirt and breaking his no talking rule. “I don’t want to make a mess.”

I don’t unbutton it; I just pull it off over my head.

Owen exhales in a rush. “Fuck, Wild Card, how are you so . . . How did I get so lucky?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer, not that I have anything to reply with, before kissing me again.

He pauses the kiss to whip off his own shirt, but our lips are on each other before it hits the floor, and he’s grappling in the general area of my belt. I mirror his movements, undoing his, neither of us are looking at what we’re doing.

Seconds later, my cock is in his hand, his is in mine. Our fingers knock together. Our mouths are connected, but we don’t kiss. It’s too frantic for kissing, so we just jerk each other and swallow down each other’s moans.

I’m already at breaking point. I wrap my hand around his nape and whine into his mouth as wet heat blossoms over my fist. Moments later, Owen follows me over that crest.

And then were laughing about how much mess we’ve made, and Owen has to change his jeans. I clean the waistband at my hip with a damp sponge and we head back downstairs with ruddy cheeks, messed-up hair, and pupils blown wide.