Page 37 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

“Isn’t this his fifth song in a row?” Daisy asks, leaning over the bar.

Harry Ellis, a.k.a. Abs, is standing on the makeshift stage in the centre of Owen’s pub. It’s an upturned half barrel, and must be one of those physics riddles where an item is stronger than it looks because it’s successfully held aloft a great number of oversized rugby lads.

Harry’s currently belting his absolute heart out to Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life.” He’s okay. Not as good as Pi’s “Man, I Feel Like a Woman,” not awful like Eggo’s rendition of “Shotgun,” but infinitely better than Dan’s “Teenage Dirtbag,” which I’m pretty sure caused my ears to haemorrhage.

“It is,” I say. “But I’m still recovering from Wheatus, or Weepus as I’m now going to refer to them, and honestly, I’m happy with anything so long as it takes the mic away from Dan. Plus, Lando seems to be enjoying himself.”

During training this week, I invited some of the Cents boys to Payday Karaoke. I even used the phrase, “the more the merrier,” despite that being a barefaced lie, but luckily only four of them could make it.

About halfway through the first round of songs, Lando, Viv, Tom, and Bryn decided they would hang up their singing shoes for the night and judge. Daisy gave them each a blank “specials” chalkboard, a chalk pen, and a wet dishrag. They have to share the rag.

As expected, Viv and Bryn are taking the whole thing semi-seriously and giving the lads scores out of ten. The same, however, cannot be said for Tom or Lando.

Tom writes full-blown messages on his, somewhere in the vein of:

“Blink twice if you need help.”

Or “I know the number of a good exorcist.”

And Lando’s started off fairly innocuous, but swiftly began edging into sexual harassment territory.

“Call me.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“I can host.”

I’m pretty sure he’s developed a thing for Harry.

“Has he pulled?” I ask Daisy.

She ping-pongs her gaze between her best friend and the now-reserve Cents’ fly-half. “Depends on how much they drink. I reckon if Abs has more than eight pints, and Lan has fewer than four, they’re in.”

I nod and take a big swig of my Catesby cider.

“What if we took a bet on it?” Daisy says.

“What? No, I don’t bet. Ever. Unless I know I’m right. And that’s not much of a gamble, is it?” I reply .

“Aw, come on. It’ll be fun. We can just pluck a random, completely arbitrary wager amount from thin air. Say thirty-five thousand pounds.” She winces and bites her thumbnail.

“The thatch cost?”

“It’s been playing on my mind recently,” she says.

I want to help so I say, “I’ve been doing some research, and I don’t think it would be impossible if we had some kind of fete, fair thing, with a big charity-type rugby match.”

“He’ll never go for it if you pitch it as charity,” Daisy argues.

“You know, when we moved to the cottage across the road, this pub was a wreck. It was horrible. Smelled like piss and stale cigarette smoke and it was falling apart. Dad gutted it and renovated the whole thing himself. He wouldn’t let anyone else help him—not financially, or physically.

Well, except Viv, in the end.” She goes quiet for a moment, caught up in a memory perhaps.

“He barely let Molly and me help paint the walls. He doesn’t like the feeling of owing people. ”

I twirl my glass on the bar top while I speed-think up a solution. I come up empty-handed, though I’m not bothered. It only means more research, and I’ll never complain when research is on the cards.

“My other idea,” I say, not taking my eyes away from the pint. “Is to get some of the Cents lads involved.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t think Dad would go for that either,” she says.

“What won’t I go for?” Owen appears beside me. He has a tray balanced on one hand, stacked with empty glasses from the beer garden.

It’s been boiling today, and despite the tone deaf warbling inside the pub, the outside seating areas have been rammed. Owen, Daisy, and the two Saturday bar girls have been rushed off their feet.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Daisy whines.

“Doing what?” Owen snakes his free hand over my shoulder and brushes my nape. I had a haircut on Wednesday and the hair at the back of my head is baby soft.

“Sneaking around. Creeping up on us while we’re having a private conversation. ”

“Daze, it’s my pub. I don’t sneak, I strut.”

“Ha ha ha,” Daisy says without any trace of humour.

Owen boops her on the nose. “Okay, but why are there private conversations happening between my daughter and my boyf—” He cuts himself off, but my heart is already in my throat.

Daisy’s hand is covering her open mouth, her eyes wide. Owen knows he’s fucked up. His eyes are as wide as Daisy’s, but they look worried. Panicked even.

“Oh, fuck, I’m . . . It slipped out. It doesn’t mean anything,” Owen says. He holds onto my arm like if he lets go, we both might drown.

Suddenly Lando is beside us. “Shit, did you just say Mathias and you are boyfriends?”

Owen’s shaking his head, silently pleading with his surrogate son to shut the fuck up.

Lando twigs. “ Nooo . . . actually you definitely didn’t. I must have heard something else. Boyf . . .” He laughs, but his lips are pulled down into a Wallace-like grimace. “That’s just Gen Z slang for dude, right?”

Daisy simply slaps herself in the face.

“Mate.” Owen puts his tray on the bar and turns to me. “It wasn’t . . . Literally doesn’t mean anything.”

“Okay,” I say, but suddenly the room feels very small. The walls are too close. It’s too hot and humid. Who’s idea was it to cram five hundred rugby players into a building with a maximum occupancy of negative one? “I need air.”

I don’t know how I get outside. All I know is that one second I’m sitting in that stuffy, cramped pub, and the next I’m standing at the edge of the field beside a style.

It’s overgrown with weeds. Dandelions and nettles crowd up around the posts, making it impossible to climb without getting your ankles attacked.

Someone has carved D+L into the old splintered wood. Daisy and Lando maybe ?

It’s times like this I wish I smoked. I’d at least have a neurotypical-friendly reason to leave. Something they can understand. Not “Sorry, I’m having real trouble regulating my emotions right now.”

It’s dark out, and I can’t make out the RFC club building, except for a tiny blinking red light, which I assume is the security alarm. Between the trees, the goal posts cast enormous H silhouettes against the sky.

Behind me, a twig snaps. There’s rustling and the soft padding of cautious steps slowly growing closer.

I know without turning that the tread of those footsteps belongs to a pair of black New Balance trainers.

Have I spent so long with Owen that I’ve memorised the sound of his gait? Or . . . is it something else?

Words were never my friends, so I wait for him to speak.

He doesn’t. He knows I know he’s there, and he doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t try to defend his almost use of “boyfriend,” or deny it.

Eventually Owen pulls up next to me, and we’re both silent, facing forward, staring into the never-ending darkness.

I play his words over and over in my mind.

“It doesn’t mean anything. Literally doesn’t mean anything.”

He doesn’t want to be my boyfriend? Does it really not mean anything? Do I not mean anything?

And why are those the bits I’ve homed in on? Why should I care? I’ve got a couple of months tops left in this village and with the Cents, and then I’ll be back in Wales. I shouldn’t want it to mean anything.

But . . . I do.

Without saying a word or making a sound, I reach my left hand out until it makes contact with Owen’s right-hand knuckles, and I wrap my fingers around his, holding them tight, as though I’m anchoring myself.

I don’t turn to look at him, but I feel him smile. I sense it.

Owen inhales like he’s going to say something, but I interrupt him before he even has a chance.

“I’ve never been someone’s boyfriend before.”

Owen stills, turns towards me. I remain facing forward.

“I . . . I . . .” I begin, but can’t quite gather my thoughts .

I need to organise my feelings. Need more time.

I never finish my sentence.

After a few more minutes, he moves his hand from mine up to my shoulder. “I have to get back to the pub. Are you coming with, or do you want a while longer?”

“I’m coming.” I may have reached social capacity, but I was the one who invited my teammates tonight, so I’m at least partially responsible for their enjoyment. Plus, I don’t want them to think I’m weird—weirder. “Wait, Owen.”

He stops in his tracks, pivots on the spot to face me again.

I don’t want to go back in just yet. “Kiss me?”

The briefest smile cracks Owen’s face before he crashes his mouth onto mine.

Turns out a quick snog and an even quicker BJ in a field at the back of a busy pub’s beer garden does wonders for the mood.

Owen returns with dirt on the knees of his jeans, and once the lads spot the brown patches, they’re cheering and lifting him up like we just won the Six Nations. How much have they drunk while we were out there? Daisy pretends to gag. No, wait . . . she’s actually gagging.

Thankfully, no one notices the jizz on my shoes.

Owen sings his “Walk the Line,” and I swear by the end of his set, everyone in that room is a little bit in love with him. He’s awful, really truly shite at singing, but he gives it his all.

I’m finally persuaded to have a go on the mic and sing Bruno Mars’s “Grenade.”

Viv boos me. “You lied to us! I knew you could sing. You’re no fun. ”

Ordinarily I would take these words at face value, but I know Viv is messing around, so I force a laugh.

“She loves you, really,” Daisy says to me when I occupy my usual seat at the bar.

I need to remember Daisy doesn’t mean that literally either. Or does she? I don’t fucking know.

“Viv asked me the other day if you were staying in Mudford,” Daisy said.