Page 34 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

I haven’t told any of the Cents boys about Owen and me, so on match day, when Owen appears in the locker room, everyone starts losing their shit.

Apparently, it’s not that uncommon for the ex-Bath superstar to pop his head in and wish the lads good luck.

He has season tickets after all, and I’m informed he never misses a home game.

He’s still held in the highest regard, and people seem genuinely pleased to see him, but they keep throwing me awkward glances as though I might spontaneously combust .

Owen waves to the room at large—to the twenty-three men in various phases of kitting up, to the physios taping and massaging us, and the coaches talking shop—and then beelines for Eksteen.

Dan elbows me, like there’s some microscopic chance I didn’t see the man I’m semi-secretly fucking walk in.

After a few moments, Eksteen gestures for me to join the pair.

I’m shirtless—waiting for my shoulder to be taped up—and Owen’s eyes snag on my bare chest, linger on my abs.

At the last moment he remembers to snap his jaw shut, cartoon style, but there’s no way some of the other boys didn’t catch that, since everyone is transfixed.

Well, everyone except Harry, who’s already in his twenty-three shirt and has angled his entire body away from me.

“So . . .” Owen starts. “The press know I’m here. They’re wondering if I could do a five-minute interview. I presume it’s mostly going to be about you, Mathias.” He looks at me. “And this fucking supposed rivalry between us.”

I’m shaking my head.

“They want to do something at half-time. Live stream it and play it on the big screens,” he continues.

“It could be a good opportunity to garner some support. Get people behind you,” Eksteen says.

It’s nice that he’s trying to help, but it’s pointless. “All they want is to push this narrative that there’s still beef between us. They want to make this villain out of me so they have more fucking click bait.”

Owen’s hand has found its way onto my lower back. I don’t move it. It’s soothing, but I know it’s not going unnoticed. “I’ll tell them I’ll talk, but only if they don’t mention what’s happening with me and Mathias. How’s that?”

“Why, what’s happening between you and Mathias?” Eksteen asks.

Owen’s eyes grow wide, but he recovers instantly.

“We’re neighbours.” He looks at me. “Listen, it’s not gonna stay secret for long .

. .” He’s no longer talking about living next door to each other, though Coach doesn’t know that.

“But we’ll try to keep them out of our private lives until the end of the season. ”

“Neighbours?” Eksteen repeats. “Is this going to be a problem? Yeah, nah, I like you and all, Bosley, but I don’t want any interference with my star kicker.”

“No, no, we’re good. We’re friends now, aren’t we?” Owen smiles at me. What he fails to notice is Eksteen’s gaze flitting over the hand that’s still on my back. “So, should I refuse the interview? I just think if I do that, they’ll spin it whichever way they like.”

They’re gonna spin it whatever way they like regardless, that’s what they do. They exist for clicks and ad revenues, and if they can drag out this historical drama, they’re going to milk it until folk are sick of it. Or until they find a better, more financially lucrative angle to hack at it from.

“Yes, do the thing, but don’t refuse to talk about Jones. They’ll know something is weird between you. Just say you’re happy he’s on the team, he’s a great asset, blah de blah. Big him up, okay?”

They both look to me for approval, but it’s superficial. I don’t have a say in anything.

Owen discreetly rubs his thumb down my spine, his way of saying goodbye, and leaves.

Coach Eksteen watches him go and then turns us one-eighty so our backs are to the locker room.

“I swear to god, if that man—I don’t care that it’s Owen fucking Bosley, it could be Lawrence Dallagio for all the fucks I give—if he breaks your heart, I’m going to rip up his season pass and kick him out of the county. ”

Suddenly my heart is beating a thousand miles a minute. Holy crap, what do I even say to that? Do I deny it? Laugh it off? Thank him? Luckily, I’m spared the impossible choice by someone yelling Eksteen’s name.

“Be with you now,” he calls back, and jogs off.

“What was that about?” Dan asks when I return to my cubby.

“Oh, nothing, just the press trying to rekindle this whole Jones v Bosley shit again.”

He nods and watches me quietly for a few moments.

I know he’s not buying what I’m selling, even though it’s the truth.

I’ve seen that look before on hundreds of people.

It’s a look that suggests they’re aware there’s more to the story, but if they have any hope of getting the full tea, they need to bide their time, gather more evidence. And that’s exactly what Dan’s doing.

The seating capacities of Bath and Exeter are pretty much the same, maybe a thousand in it if that, but the boos when they show my crossed-arm photo and name are infinitely louder. It’s thunder overhead, or the rushing water of a burst damn. Impossible to ignore.

I run out onto the pitch, but don’t wave like most of the other lads do.

I want to flip them off or wave passive aggressively or give a sarcastic thumbs up.

“Congratulations. You’re a big man with big feelings that you’re expressing.

Good for you. It’s important not to bottle this shit up. ” I don’t do any of those things.

Instead, I seek out Owen and find him almost immediately, right at the front above the home bench.

He has a pint in his hand. Beside him is an empty-handed Orlando.

I guess that means Daisy is running the pub again.

From this far away I can’t make out their expressions, but Lando is banging his hands together and whooping for me, and that gesture alone makes at least some dent in the booing.

That kid knows me—as well as anyone can know me—and he’s chosen to cheerlead and not get sucked into the “Mathias Jones, supervillain” rhetoric.

And then there’s Owen. I squint in his direction. He’s smiling at me, I think, and it’s as though he’s taken noise-cancelling headphones and popped them over my ears because the booing is no longer as loud or present or compressing as it was.

It stops altogether as number eleven, Finnley Eggington, is called out.

And just like that, people forget I’m the bad guy.

Gameplay starts, and there’s no room not to support your team, at least while they’re winning—which we are.

Leicester scores the first try at seven minutes in, but the Cents immediately pull the Uno Reverse card and score two tries back to back.

Dan at twelve minutes and Eggo at sixteen.

I convert both, including one from the far edge. Nobody boos. Or if they do, I don’t hear. I’m not listening out for it. For a brief moment, I revel in being the hero. The guy to take his team and the legions of fans one fraction closer to victory. I look for Owen after each kick.

At this point, seeking him out has become something of a compulsion. Something I’m not consciously doing, but I do it anyway. He’s smiling, but that’s about all I can make out. Beside him, Lando blows me kisses or makes heart hands, and I find myself smiling too.

Leicester are playing well, but today we’re better—more instinctive, more fluid, and a fuck tonne faster. And they’re in catch-up mode, reacting to our attacks rather than making any of their own, relying too heavily on defence.

“Gadget!” Dan screams. He glances over his shoulder and I’m exactly where he expects me to be. He tosses me the ball.

I’m wide open with only a third of the pitch to cover, so I do what I’m known for, and without checking to see who’s free to take the pass, I run.

The adrenaline drowns out any muscle fatigue.

It crowds out the searing ache in my lungs.

It blocks out the noise from the stands, though I know instinctively they aren’t booing.

Not now. Not when I could carve out such a huge point deficit for Leicester.

I feel their guys closing in, but they’re too far away, and I’m too quick.

Caden Fallon, Leicester’s full-back, is my biggest threat, and he’s been on me all game.

But one swift check to my left places me beyond his reach.

He’s fast, I’ll give him that, but not fast enough.

At ten feet from the try line, he panics and throws himself at me.

Fallon’s hand fixes around my shorts, tugging them slightly askew but doing little else, and he drops to the ground like a fat sack of turnips—because potatoes are too good.

I cross the white line, giddy, laughing, and casually walk between the goal posts before grounding the ball dead centre. Might as well make the next step as easy as possible for myself.

Suddenly, I hear the crowd. They’re screaming and cheering and stamping their feet on the stands.

But there are no boos. Not that I’d give a flying fuck right now if there were any.

Dan wraps his arms around me and squeezes me tight enough to restrict my airways.

He ruffles his fingers through my sweaty hair.

More arms grab me from behind, crushing me, almost toppling me.

I have no idea who they belong to, and I don’t care.

The conversion is so easy the speakers are blasting “Freed from Desire” before my foot even leaves the ball.

We’re in the locker room when Owen does his half-time interview. There’s a small TV playing the live feed, so I know when he’s on, but there’s too much commotion to hear what’s being said.

Dan catches me staring at the screen and I avert my eyes, but like a cat on a ledge with an unguarded glass, I can’t resist for too long.

I want to know what he’s saying. Is he telling everyone we live next to each other?

That I emcee his pub quiz on Thursdays? That I sucked his cock?

That I broke his leg eight years ago and he’ll never quite forgive me for it?

“What’s up?” Dan asks, throwing an arm over me.

I go with the truth, but not the truth I feel in my gut. “I broke his leg.”

“Fuck that,” he says, puffing out a breath. “You didn’t break his leg. His leg broke during the game. Shit like that happens all the time. Tell me you never had a fucking broken bone or serious injury from rugby . . .”

There’s nothing to counter with; I had two fractured ribs just last year.

“Exactly,” he goes on. “It’s not like you targeted him. Not like you fucking Nancy Kerriganed him.”

“Nice reference,” I say, impressed by his random trivia drop. There might be a spot for him in Owen’s pub on a Thursday night.

I do something completely unheard of, so out of character I could have been possessed; I offer unsolicited personal information about myself. “We live next to each other. Owen and me. Well, temporarily, I guess. I’m renting out a place in the village he lives in, right opposite his pub.”

“Oh?” Dan raises an eyebrow. No doubt in his head he’s congratulating himself on calling it.

“We’ve become . . . mates. I like him. He’s a good guy.

” I want to say more. I want to gush about Owen Bosley, tell Dan all the Owen facts I’ve been hoarding.

Tell him what an amazing, caring, loving, generous, helpful person Owen is.

That he makes me feel seen and heard without me saying anything.

That his moans have the ability to ignite my entire body.

That the best part of my day is right after The Little Thatch’s kick-out when I get to see him.

That I’ve started taking power naps during the afternoon so I get even more time with Owen during the night.

I feel my cheeks pulling into an involuntary—and no doubt lovesick—smile. I force a neutral expression.

“So . . .” Dan says after a few moments of observing me. “He’s forgiven you?”

I shrug. “I think so.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

Dan places a hand on my shoulder. It’s a fatherly gesture even though the guy’s younger than me and at least eight inches shorter. “But the important thing is . . . have you forgiven yourself?”

I open my mouth to respond. Close it again.

What difference does it make if I’ve forgiven myself, but the rest of the stadium hasn’t? If I’ve forgiven myself, but the people of Bath won’t?

I don’t have to answer. Eksteen is calling us all into the pre-second-half dressing down pep talk.

“I’m up,” says Dan.