Page 35 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

At sixty-five minutes, we’re leading twenty-eight to seven. Eksteen pulls me and subs Harry. I go sit on the bench with the other guys who’ve retired from the game and the two lads still in their dry robes waiting to be called upon.

Owen is so close I can practically touch him.

He’s sitting with Orlando just over my right shoulder, and I wonder what’s an appropriate number of times I can glance behind at him before arousing suspicion.

I’m up to at least thirty, but when our eyes meet, which is pretty much every time I look over, he rewards me with a smile.

Half of those smiles are accompanied by a wink, and I start to feel a little giddy, like I’m on a sugar rush.

I decide fifty times is the limit and refocus my attention on the match.

When I was a kid, I had these spy glasses that had mirrored bands on the inside edges of the lenses so you could sneakily see behind yourself. I would kill for those right now.

Leicester score again, but Harry Ellis manages to sneak in another try and converts it. The stadium goes wild. Everyone’s out of their seats, horns are blowing, feet stamping, music blasting.

Eggo slams into me, crushing my spine in a vice grip whilst jumping and screaming along to the song, the lyrics painfully wrong. “HE’S GOT HIS TROMBOLESE!”

The full-time whistle blows and the boys flood onto the pitch to congratulate each other. Thirty-five to fourteen to the Cents. People scramble to hug me, to press their bodies flat against mine, but there’s only one person I want in my arms.

I wait until the initial rush of euphoria wanes and I jog over to him. Owen doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around my neck, and for one brain-falteringly long moment I think he’s going to kiss me.

Fuck, I want that so much.

The other lads are kissing their partners and babies. I’ve never had that, and now suddenly it’s all I want.

Because of the stand design, Owen is taller than me and reaching down. His hand is on my back again, and I need it to stay there forever.

“You were fucking unreal. Incredible,” he says—well, shouts because there’s still too much noise to have a proper conversation.

“I’m sorry I missed karaoke last night,” I say.

“You didn’t,” Lando chimes in. “We moved it to this Friday because of the bank holiday.”

It’s amazing news. We don’t have a game next weekend and I’m thinking maybe I could invite some of the boys.

Who the fuck have I become? I have friends? Plural? . . . Feels weird. So fucking weird .

Owen moves his hand from my spine to cup the back of my head. Jesus, I need to kiss him. “See you tonight, yeah?” He whispers the words, and I wouldn’t have heard him if I hadn’t been staring at his mouth.

He’s no longer smiling, and neither am I. In fact, I’m breathing harder, and the urge to push him down onto the plastic chair, climb the barrier and mount him is almost unquashable. I read the meaning in his look.

Tonight we fuck.

I am so ready for that.

Eksteen takes us to a fancy as hell Mexican restaurant in Bath to celebrate our win. It’s fucking loud, and I’m sandwiched between Dan and Harry, and opposite me are Eggo and Pi and Three-Hour.

I’ve ordered a salad. The other guys have gone for heaps of enchiladas, sizzling stacks of fajitas, and juicy oozing steaks, but I’m on a mission none of the other boys know about.

“Girl, just shit on him,” Harry says, watching me push leaves around on my plate. Dan screams with laughter.

Okay, maybe they have an inkling.

“Oh my god, you are fucking Owen Bosley!” Dan says. He’s had one too many frozen margaritas and his already floor-level inhibitions have been lowered.

My heart stops beating. Brain stops working. I don’t respond in time and I’ve missed any window of opportunity I had to deny it.

“Holy fuck!” Eggo is on his feet. Apparently the news is too much to process sitting down.

Pi tugs on Eggo’s sleeve until he sits again.

“ Shiiiiiit , man,” Dan says, drawing out the word. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to fucking out you.”

“It’s fine, you didn’t out me. There’s nothing going on between me and Owen . . .” My words slowly fade into obscurity. Like candyfloss in the rain, they just fizzle out.

“Does anyone else know?” he asks. Guys from the other end of the table crane their necks around their neighbours to look over at us .

“No,” I say, because what’s the point in hiding it any more? “Nobody else besides you five, Eksteen, and Owen’s entire village knows. Really appreciate it if no one told the press.”

“Not saying anything,” Pi says, and the other guys add similar statements.

“This is such a huge deal,” Dan says, and though he’s just assured me he won’t tell a soul, I’d bet a month’s salary he’s already planning on how he’ll break the news to his wife. “So, you seeing him tonight?”

I indicate towards my sparse dinner and my glass of mineral water.

Harry barks out a laugh. And from that moment, he’s less hostile with me.

The buzz from the win dies the second I get back to Fernbank Cottage and google the game. I know I shouldn’t—never read the comments and all—but I have to know.

There’s a compulsion in me, and I need to know what Owen said during his interview. I need to know what the new “spin” on the public’s perception of me is.

I instantly wish I’d never bothered. All the sports news sites and Instagram pages have run with one of two photos and a variation of the same baity headline.

“What is Mathias Jones’s problem with Owen Bosley?”

“Mathias Jones argues with Owen Bosley at latest Centurions game.”

“What is Mathias Jones saying to Owen Bosley that has him all worked up?”

“Mathias Jones rude to Owen Bosley after rugby legend defended him during a live game.”

There are also a couple of “Is Johan Eksteen losing his touch?” You know, for balance.

I don’t read all the articles, I only skim over the ones from BBC Sport and Sky Sports, but they all say the same and yet nothing at all.

Offer no real information. The picture they have accompanying the article is one of me at the stands leaning over to speak with Owen.

His hand is on my neck, his face pinched into a frown.

His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, and I guess to an outsider it reads like he’s saying the word “fuck,” like he’s telling me to “fuck off,” but I recognise it immediately as his promise to rearrange my internal organs after he finishes his pub shift tonight.

The other photo they’re running with is one of me sitting on the bench.

My hands are balled into fists and my face is contorted with a scream.

I don’t remember what I’m yelling, or who I’m yelling at, or at which part of the match.

I can’t even tell if I’m cheering or jeering, but again, it looks like I’m spitting mad.

And just over my shoulder in the left of the picture is Owen.

He’s looking at me, his face passive and serene. In contrast, he looks angelic.

I find the catch-up stream of the game, fast forward to half-time, and watch Owen’s interview four times in succession.

“I’m standing here with the great Owen Bosley, Bath Centurions’ hooker from two thousand to twenty seventeen. I’m gonna go straight in and ask you the question we’re all desperate to know. What are your thoughts on the signing of Mathias Jones?” the out-of-shot interviewer asks.

Owen’s eyes roll subtly towards the sky, and he looks off to the left of the camera before refocusing a few moments later. I realise how absolutely useless Owen is at masking his emotions.

“I’m a huge Mathias Jones fan. What can I say? I love the guy. I know people want there to be this . . . ongoing feud between us, but it’s impossible not to recognise the man’s talents. His ball skills are incomparable. Honestly, you can’t watch a match and not be a fan of the lad.”

“So, you’re a fan?” the interviewer says, laughing.

“Mate, did you watch that first half? That wasn’t a Cents game, it was a Mathias Jones one-oh-one on how to play rugby.”

“Do you think Eksteen will come to regret his decision to sign Jones? It’s probably one of, if not the most controversial appointment in Cents history.”

“No,” Owen says simply. Obviously the interviewer is pushing for more because Owen adds. “Cents finally have a really strong team all round. Why would he throw that away? Eksteen’s been in the business longer than any of us—hell, he was even my coach. In my opinion, he’s made a smart move there.”

Apparently, that was enough talking about me. The reporter moves on, but I keep watching every time .

“And how’s life outside of rugby treating you? Are you getting out much in this glorious weather we’re having? Meant to get even warmer next week.”

“Weather’s been great, hasn’t it? Living my best life, as my daughter would say. Might crack out the paddling pool.”

“Barbeques for sure,” the interviewer says. Owen laughs along as though it’s the funniest joke ever told and he hasn’t received years of media training.

I love the guy. I love the guy. I love the guy.

His words play over and over in my thoughts.

Love. I. Love. The guy.

I sit next to the open window in the living room and listen to people in the pub.

I can’t see the beer garden from Fernbank Cottage, but I hear the busy chatter.

Every now and then, Owen’s distinct booming laugh cuts through the noise.

The wisteria is starting to bloom and its perfume floods the room.

Grilling meat and onions invade my nostrils, and occasionally, the breeze carries over the coconut scent of someone’s suncream. It feels like summer.

At precisely one a.m. I get a text message.

Owen:

Still alright for me to come over?

I respond with a nude selfie, but I cut the photo off just before my cock is visible. Since I’m already hard from thinking about what might transpire tonight, I have to pull it down out of the frame. My pecs are bunched together and the veins that track down my happy valley to my dick are bulging.

Owen:

Jesus. I’ll be there in 10. Quick shower. I stink.

Mathias:

No, come over sweaty.

No more than thirty seconds later, the door knocker bangs against the metal.