Page 41 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

The next few weeks pass in a haze. I’m so focused on the end of the season and the premiership, I barely contribute anything besides research to the rematch fundraiser event.

All I do is look things up and forward the details to Daisy.

She and Lando have taken care of the actual organising.

I feel guilty, but I trust them, and I have more time-sensitive issues at hand.

Cents have had two more games, both wins, and the final match of the season will commence in . . . approximately seven minutes. We’re playing Bristol at home, and I’m nervous.

Not about my game. I never suffer pre-game nerves.

That’s just not how my brain works. I train hard and I study harder.

I’ve analysed the other team and their weaknesses.

I don’t gamble unless I have a foolproof strategy to win, and I know my plan of attack.

Bristol are good, but they’re not unbeatable.

No, the nerves stem from something else.

Owen has somehow wangled another half-time interview with the press, and though I’ve forbidden him from saying anything about our relationship, he’s going to reveal the rematch game.

This is it . . . the big announcement.

The youngsters have held back from posting on social media until now. And then ticket sales will go live. There are thirty-four thousand pounds to raise, not including expenses and licences and such. It’ll be tough going, that’s for sure, but I know we can do this. I feel it at a cell-deep level.

Daisy’s sitting in the stands with Lando. There’s a sandwich board outside The Little Thatch, and in looping writing it reads: CLOSED FOR A FAMILY EVENT.

Family. My fucking heart.

She has my superfast laptop open on her knees to keep track of ticket sales when they go live in just under an hour.

We’ve figured out that with the portable bleachers we’ve rented, and standing room, there are seven hundred physical tickets up for grabs plus unlimited streaming passes.

We also have plans to set up a projector in the beer garden, and pool beanbags and secondhand sofas and picnic blankets and all sorts to make a festival-style viewing area for those who don’t secure tickets.

Aside from event planning, training, and games, Owen and I have barely spent a minute apart, and if we haven’t been shoving our hands down each other’s pants, we’ve been at the club grounds doing our own training.

Owen’s been working hard to bring his fitness level back up to .

. . an approximation of his heyday. He’s determined that the rematch won’t be a washout.

“I’m not letting you steamroller me in front of thousands of people,” he’d said.

I expected nothing less. He wouldn’t have become my Owen if he didn’t give it his absolute all .

It helps that he’s never missed a sevens session, and mostly, he’s able to keep up with me.

Right up until that one time when we all did the beep test in Hepton’s school hall.

Owen flaked out at level four. I maxed out at twelve point seven.

Lando surprisingly made it all the way to fifteen, and then promptly vomited into a nearby wheely mop bucket.

Not sure that boy knows how to do anything in manageable chunks.

Off the pitch and out of the gym, Owen and I bring our cuddle record up to eleven minutes—which, frankly, I’m fucking proud of myself for.

I’ve never been a cuddler, but it’s comfortable in Owen’s arms, and he smells .

. . right, and it’s only when I think about it too much that I struggle to breathe and have to push away.

But he never seems to mind, he just gives me a sloppy smile and lays his hand on whichever part of my body is closest to him—my feet, my back, my butt.

Owen continues to cook for me at every opportunity, or gets Tyler to, and I’ve eaten so many potatoes made in so many ways he reckons I’ll become potatoed out, but that’s an impossibility.

The potato limit does not exist.

Over the past three weeks, the boos have consistently decreased.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re still there.

Still a few unforgiving types who insist on reminding me I’m the cunt.

I’m the one who cost Owen Bosley his career, and they’ll never forget that.

But they’re not as adamant as they were the last game, or the game before that.

Dan and Eksteen reckon there’ll come a point when they stop heckling me altogether. “They’re shutting up because they realise you’re winning us—them—games. Simple as.”

I’m not sure they’ll stop indefinitely, especially after our little rematch stunt we’re about to pull.

There’s potential for me to reignite that hatred, because I don’t plan on going easy on Owen, or any of the other guys from Team Boss.

That would be unfair to them, to me, to my squad, and the viewers.

Team Wild Card plays to win. Not sure the ’tism would let me do it any other way .

The first half of the Bristol game is incredible. Bristol are shit hot. And clean. And it’s the kind of hard-fought match that makes me remember why I love playing this sport. Cents come away from the first half seven points down, but buoyed. A win is totally within our reach.

We run back to the locker room to get ready for the second half—refuel, pee, get aching muscles rubbed down, chat to the coaches and the physios, strategize. We bandy about peppy phrases like “We got this,” and “We can turn this around,” and “Bristol won’t know what hit them.”

Owen appears on the small TV screen, and the chatter instantly quietens. Almost everyone in this room has a vested interest in what he’s about to say. Dan turns up the volume, but we’ve already missed the first part of his interview.

“—lads are doing great. It could absolutely go either way,” Owen says. He’s smiling, and my heart aches just looking at his pink puffed-out cheeks.

Harry jams his elbow into my ribs, but I don’t spare him any attention.

“What would you say our boys need to do in the second half to take the win?” the interviewer asks Owen, tilting the mic under his chin.

“Honestly . . . continue what they’re doing. Keep attacking, keep owning that ball. If we pull ahead early on, it’ll put Bristol on the back foot playing catch up. We’ve got a great team, really strong. We can definitely do it,” Owen replies.

“I agree. I think the boys can pull it back.” The interviewer shifts his weight, subtly letting the audience know he’s changing the topic.

Here it comes. The big announcement. I swallow down a sudden case of dry mouth and breathe through my adrenaline spike.

“Now Bosley, you haven’t just come here to talk about today’s game, have you? ”

Owen smiles, but waits for the interviewer to finish speaking.

“I’ve heard a little rumour that you and Mathias Jones—Mathias Jones of all people—have a . . . surprise up your sleeves?”

He finally moves the microphone towards Owen. Owen laughs. “We do. We do. We’ve been planning something for a while. Some might not like this . . . or even believe us, but Mathias Jones and I have become good friends. ”

Beside me, Harry snorts with laughter. I hold my breath.

The interviewer raises a suggestive eyebrow at the camera. “So, you’re saying there are no hard feelings between you now?”

Oh, god. I see the thought flit through Owen’s dirty mind. His eyes sparkle. “Not at all. There are still plenty of . . . hard feelings.”

Now Dan’s in fits.

Owen continues. “So we’ve decided the only logical solution to deal with these . . . hard feelings is to have a . . .”

He pauses, building the tension, years of media training coming in handy right now.

The locker room silences. Everybody knows what he’s going to announce.

Most of them are playing in the game, and if they’re not on the roster because they’re leaving town, they’ve helped in some other way.

The PTA at Dan’s kid’s primary school will face paint, a few of the medics will set up a first aid station for the fair as well as provide separate medics for the match, and even Eksteen has thrown in a one-to-one coaching session as a raffle prize.

But the suspense we feel is real. This could be a disaster. Could be.

Though I know deep down, it won’t be. I’ve done too much risk assessment to know it can’t be anything but successful. I don’t take those kind of gambles.

“We’re going to have a . . . rematch,” Owen finishes after keeping everyone waiting for what felt like a decade. “Team Owen Bosley verses Team Mathias Jones!”

The Cents boys cheer. Beyond the walls we hear the fans stomping in their seats. On camera, Owen glances about the stadium, smiling.

The interviewer waits until the crowd has calmed a little. “Tell us more. When can we expect to see this rematch? Where? And are you selling tickets?”

“Saturday the twenty-first of June. Kick-off’s at two p.m. Mudford-upon-Hooke RFC club.

Limited tickets will be available to buy online .

. . uh, right now. I . . . don’t actually know the web address.

Sorry, Daze.” Owen pulls an eek face, looking off to the stands to where I assume Daisy is sitting .

“That’s fine,” the interviewer reassures. “We’ll get the address and we’ll link it to the catch-up stream. What else can you tell us about the event? Will any other Cents boys be playing?”

“It’s gonna be a mix of old boys and pros. Lots of Cents lads will be there.”

In the locker room, the guys slap each other’s shoulders. I cannot stop my smile from taking over.

Owen continues. “There’s gonna be all manner of entertainment.

Face painting, bouncy castles, a raffle, food trucks.

It’s going to be a real family event . .

.” He pauses, looks over in Daisy’s direction, nods, and gives her a thumbs up.

“Oh, and for anyone who can’t be there on the day we’re selling passes to watch it live on the internet. ”

Damn, that is such a cute old man thing to say.