Page 42 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

The interviewer takes back his microphone. “Obviously the last time you played against Jones—the only time—it ended pretty badly for you. How do you think it’ll go down in this match?”

Owen stares straight into the camera. He pauses, a smile ticks the corner of his mouth, but he stops it from forming all the way. “Mathias Jones is going to get his butt handed to him.”

“Something’s gonna happen to his butt,” Dan wails, slapping my ass.

“Well, there we go, Cents exclusive,” the interviewer says. “Sounds like a fabulous day out. Keep your eyes posted on the Cents’ website for those details if you’re looking to nab yourself tickets.”

Then the screen cuts to an ad from our sponsors, and the guys are all round me—arms over my shoulders, around my waist, against my stomach. It went as well as expected. Exactly as I knew it would.

Five minutes later, when we run out onto the pitch for the start of the second half, the crowd is wild. There are no boos—either they’ve forgotten to, or are too stunned. Like always, I look for Owen in the stands. He waves, and points to a sign Lando’s holding up.

He’s obviously snatched someone’s handmade GO CENTS board, flipped it over, and in massive black lettering he’s written:

W E

SOLD

OUT!!!

Holy shit!

I’m laughing. “We’ve already sold out of tickets,” I tell Dan as Bristol run on and we line up. I have to smother my dopey as fuck grin with my palm.

“Already? Fuck.” He watches me for a couple of seconds that stretch into an eternity. “You love him.”

I don’t know if it’s a question.

I answer anyway. “Yes.”

“Mate,” is all he says in reply. His face is impassive.

We do as Owen predicted, pulling ahead early by scoring two tries—me at forty-six minutes and Eggo at fifty—but it’s not long before Bristol even it out.

Almost. They miss their corner conversion and are only a couple of points behind.

We spend the rest of the second half scrambling for a bigger advantage.

It gets a little messy and desperate and there are so many subs and stoppages.

I’ve got one eye on the clock. Ten minutes left of the game.

It’s hot. The sun bakes the exposed skin on my face, arms, and legs, and periodically stabs me in the eyes.

I have crusted blood on my eyebrow—my own.

Someone else’s on my forearm. Other guys’ sweat in my mouth, at the back of my throat, singeing the hairs in my nostrils.

There’s mud in places only rugby can put mud.

We’re dancing dangerously near to Bristol’s try line, edging closer and closer with each ruck and maul. The ball is on the ground more often than it’s in arms. We need to hold them back a little longer. I risk a glance at the clock. Four minutes left.

A Bristol prop breaks free, passes the ball back, passes it again to one of their flankers.

The flanker drops his shoulder and smashes through the centre, but he’s met with my fifteen stone of pure adrenaline.

Then Pi’s, then Dan’s, and then the Bristol boys throw their weight into it and walk it step by agonising step closer still.

Two minutes left and there’s still only two points in it.

They only need one try .

And they’re so fucking close.

One of my guys—quick check tells me it’s Harry—slams into the maul and the flanker is on the ground, and now were in a ruck. But not for long. The ball is knocked out by a clumsy Bristol foot and I pounce on it, dropping then booting it into the middle of the pitch.

It soars up and up and into the sun in a perfect arch.

Bristol’s fullback, Jude Weston or whatever the fuck his name is, is the first to reach it.

One minute on the clock.

Weston runs. Dodges Ollie. Somehow dodges Dan.

The crowd swells with excitement and anxiety. They scream and stomp, drums get smashed, horns blasted tunelessly. It’s skull-crushingly loud.

Thirty seconds.

He’s too far away; he’ll never make it. There’ll be extra time, but he’ll still never make it.

I don’t let myself relax. I make my move, tearing up the pitch in my desperation to reach him.

Fifteen seconds.

I’m too far away from him, but he’s too far away from the white line. I still launch myself at him.

He doesn’t dodge me.

Instead, Weston drop kicks the ball. I collide into him a millisecond too late.

Everything gets really fucking loud. Then deathly quiet as the ball arches through the sky towards the Bristol goal post. And we all just watch.

Nobody can do anything except watch. Time slows.

The stands are motionless. It feels as though the wind howling through the stadium is an attempt to replace the vacuum of noise.

The big screens show only the ball soaring up in a neat curve, through the air and right over the bar.

Goal for Bristol .

The full-time whistle blows. I can’t hear it. The sky has just been blown apart by the screaming from the stands. Both Bristol and Bath supporters cheer, because let’s be fair, that was epic.

Winning a game on a field goal literally at the last second. Fucking fair play.

FULL-TIME flashes over the big screens, and Bristol wins twenty-nine to twenty-eight. I’m pulled into hugs from every direction—Bristol players, Bath players, I don’t know who and I don’t give a fuck.

People sing, yell in my ear, grab my flesh, and move on to the next player.

When the euphoria dies down a little and the boys are running to the stands to hug their family members, I jog over to Owen, Daisy, and Lando.

Owen wraps his arms around me. I feel cameras pointing at us from every direction.

“I want to kiss you,” he says right into my ear. “But you know . . .”

“I can’t believe we’ve already sold out of tickets,” I shout.

“And,” Daisy adds. “We’ve sold three hundred streaming passes.”

“Holy shit!”

I give Daisy a hug, and then Lando even though he tries to sniff my armpit. Then because I also spot Tom and Bryn and their kids, I wait for them to scramble down to the barrier for a hug too.

Strangers are climbing over themselves to get a high-five from me, and though this happened at Bengals, it’s the first time I’ve felt so welcomed at the Cents. Nobody boos, and honestly, I don’t care how the press decide to spin this one. I’m fucking happy and they can’t take that away from me.

And if they do, well, I’ve always got Owen’s arms to find comfort in.

I’m getting dressed after my ice bath and shower when Eksteen finds me and comes jogging over. “Absolutely bloody brilliant game there, Jones. One point in it! But it was fucking thrilling . . . hard fought. They’ll be talking about that one for a long, long time.”

“Thanks,” I say, doing the buttons up on my evening shirt. We’re going out for dinner later, Eksteen’s treat, and I’ve told Owen I’m ordering a steak with cheese and every single variety of potato on the menu, so it’ll be side stuff only for us tonight .

Eksteen places a warm hand on my shoulder, and it’s probably just the comedown from the adrenaline, but I feel .

. . emotional. Like I’m edging tears. “I wanted to say, I think you’re an incredible player, Jones.

I don’t understand how your brain does that thing where you seem to switch shit off, but it’s phenomenal.

I’m letting you know before you find out through your agent that I’ve put in an offer for you for next season.

I want you to stay with us, your new family at the Cents.

No pressure.” He holds up his hands. “But I will need your answer by the end of June.”

I nod. Whatever part of my brain I activate to shut out the boos has automatically kicked in. I have no response. I don’t even know if I’m happy about the offer, about being given the choice. “Okay, thanks. I’ll let you know,” I eventually say.

As we’re sitting ourselves down for our meal at Casks, a Michelin star restaurant in the centre of Bath, I check my phone.

There’s an email from Sim, and a WhatsApp message summarising the email.

Bengals want you back in Sept.