Page 44 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Owen

The weather is perfect. Slightly overcast, which at least means the light won’t be in our eyes while we play, but it’s still warm.

The scent of coconut suncream and fried onions blows through the grounds on a gentle breeze.

The stands are filling up. People are milling about buying snacks and drinks, getting their faces painted, and snapping selfies with the Cents boys.

We’ve managed to wangle sponsorship from a few local businesses and had special kits made up with the sponsors’ logos printed on our chests and the seats of our shorts.

Team Boss are wearing moss-green shirts with “Pizza di Zia” written in white vinyl letters.

Honestly, we lucked out. Team Wild Card are in navy and white stripes and have been sponsored by Cluck & Crumb: Picnic Eggs .

It’s a little too wordy for one line and has therefore been spread over two.

The really unfortunate part is that the hems of Team Wild Card’s shirts cover the top line of text, and the only thing visible are the words PICNIC EGGS splayed across their ass cheeks.

Tom is on Mathias’s team and has not taken it well. He tried to “fall” into a patch of mud to hide the words, but now the lettering only shines out even brighter against the brown, and it looks like he’s shat himself. Bryn—on my team—is beside himself with glee.

We’ve made all the money we need to cover the roof, and then some.

Every physical ticket has sold out, and over eight thousand people signed up to stream the game.

Daisy and Lando have compiled a list of charities for us to donate the extra cash to, which makes me feel a lot better.

We’re not just doing it for my pub, we’re going to make a difference to a lot of other folk as well.

Ryan the Thatcher, as I think he’s officially known, is booked in for July and paid off in full.

It’s bittersweet. Though mostly bitter, because in a couple of days Mathias will be leaving Mudford-upon-Hooke. He’s not started packing yet, but he has brought all his moving boxes down from the loft in preparation.

I can’t compartmentalise like Mathias can. I can’t fucking put these thoughts to one side.

He’s leaving.

I love him, and he’s leaving.

Okay, fine, Mudford to Caerphilly is only an hour and a half’s drive.

An hour and a half! It’s not even that far, but I’m going to be missing out on so much.

Bengals have made an offer to sign him, so he’ll be in Wales all week and busy travelling and playing games on the weekends.

He won’t be able to spend Wednesday nights planning quizzes with me, or Thursday evenings emceeing.

He won’t be there for our sevens practices and karaoke parties, and everyone—not just me—is going to miss him .

If we agree to carry on with our relationship long distance, it’ll be on Sundays after his domestic games only. And those are always the busiest for me at the pub.

And that’s if he wants to continue at all. Long distance isn’t for everyone, and I still need to work up the courage to ask him.

Over the past three weeks, we’ve been sharing my old bed every night. I’ve been waking up next to him every morning. We’ve taken it in turns to make each other breakfast.

I won’t get any of that any more. I’m constantly reminding myself of the rules he drilled into me before we started sleeping together. He’d said, “I’m not looking for anything long term,” and “I can’t get into anything serious,” and “Eventually one of us is going to get hurt.”

I fucked about and now I’m finding out, and sweet baby Jesus, it hurts.

We’re warming up, running through a few drills to get us in the zone and loosen our muscles, and I need to push these thoughts aside. I need the match to be successful, need it to be entertaining for people. I need to provide value for money.

Folk have paid decent moolah to watch something that’s been eight years in the making. I would be so disappointed in myself if we didn’t put on a good show for them.

Team Boss are stretching near the goalpost when I spot Mathias walking off to the edge of the pitch. Damn those slutty Picnic Eggs shorts of his, they should not look as mouthwatering as they do. Molly’s there. She waves me over too.

“Carry on, boys,” I say to the lads and jog over as I pull my scrum hat on.

There’s something wrong. I know instantly from her stance, the way her brows knit together. She has her phone in her hand. All around me I notice people looking at their phones, showing their neighbours, then pointing at us.

Molly pulls us into the locker room. A few Cents and sevens guys loiter inside, some with their tops off as they tape themselves up.

“Relax, I’m not into dudes. Or girls for that matter,” Molly says, but I don’t think any of them are even slightly bothered she’s in there. She draws in close so she, Mathias, and I are in a huddle. “Somebody has posted pictures of you two online.”

“What? What do you mean? What kind of pictures?” Mathias grabs Molly’s phone before she can hand it over. His mouth drops open as he stares down. “Oh . . . fuck.” He pivots the screen so I can see.

It’s an Instagram carousel . . . I think that’s the right word.

The top photo shows Mathias and me in the pub.

We’re standing in front of the bar, our backs facing the camera.

My arm is looped around Mathias’s waist and my hand rests on his hip.

No, not rests, squeezes. I’m squeezing his flesh.

He’s looking away, but I’m staring at him and there is nothing but unadulterated love in my eyes.

My first thought is, “Okay, now I don’t need to tell Mathias how much I love him. He can see it for himself.” My second thought is, “Holy crap, everyone else knows too.”

The caption below the photo reads: Find someone who looks at you the way Owen Bosley looks at Mathias Jones.

The rest of the pictures have been snapped from the same angle and feature some of me smiling, and there’s one of Mathias’s hand cupping my jaw. I don’t recognise the account name.

“Who posted them?” I ask Molly.

She shrugs. “Some tourists, I think.” She takes her phone back and opens a different thread. “There’s more.”

It’s a single photo, thankfully not an entire ream of them, and shows the interior hallways of Bath’s stadium.

At first glance, it looks as though Mathias and I are chatting, but someone has very helpfully applied this little zoomy magnifying glass thing over our hands and you can see our fingers are threaded together.

I feel my blood pressure rising because okay, we could have been a lot more careful, but this is from the staff only area of the building.

“And then there’s this one,” she says, bringing up something else.

Not a photo, but a TikTok video. A bold-lettered caption reads: #Bones! New evidence Bosley and Jones are a couple.

A young man with bleached white hair is superimposed over a picture of Mathias and me.

It’s the same one from the Bath grounds.

He raises an eyebrow while the cutout of him sort of floats about on the screen.

Then the background changes to the photo in the pub with Mathias’s hand on my face, and the guy hmms. Then it transitions to a new picture and the annoying fucker gasps and slaps a palm over his mouth.

It shows us in the carpark of the club grounds, and had to have been taken this morning because Mathias has his Picnic Eggs shorts balled up in one fist.

“Tom’s livid,” Mathias had said, holding up the offending item. “It literally says picnic eggs right over our asses.”

“Okay, but why are your picnic eggs the most adorable thing ever?” I’d replied. We were alone, or at least I’d thought we were alone. It was even before the mobile bleacher guy had turned up.

“I’d love to put my picnic eggs in your mouth,” Mathias said, or tried to say, but he’d been laughing too much to get the words out.

It was in that moment I’d grabbed him by the collar, pulled him towards me, and kissed him. And it also seemed to be that moment someone hiding in the locker room snapped a photo of us.

“Fuck,” I say.

I don’t want anything to jeopardize the fundraiser game, everyone’s spent so long organising it and people have come from far and wide to watch, but right now all I care about is Mathias.

He’s quiet. It’s not unusual for him, but this feels like a bad quiet. Ominous. A zoning out because his emotions are overwhelming him kind of quiet.

Eventually he lifts his head and looks at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, though I know it’s neither of our faults. I’m more worried about Mathias than the situation. He hates not being in control of the narrative, and this is one of the worst what-ifs to have happened.

During his endless hours of risk assessment, I wonder if this scenario ever presented itself.

“Owen?” Mathias side-eyes Molly, like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to say it in front of her.

“Molly, could you give us a minute?” I ask .

I have no idea what to do—how to proceed, or smooth this out, or even what to say next—but I need a few moments alone with Mathias. I need to feel the solid warmth of his body under my palms. Remind myself he’s real. This is real. It’s not some sweaty, cheese-induced fever dream.

And I need to hold onto him because . . . I’m terrified he might run.

“Sure.” Molly turns to leave.

“No, wait, Molly,” Mathias says, and she stops in her tracks.

Mathias looks at me. His expression is unreadable, or at least it would be to an outsider, but I know him well enough to place the panic, and sadness, and sheer desperation in those impassive brown eyes.

“I’m really sorry, Owen,” he says, and then without another word, he’s gone. Out the door.

I follow him, but he’s already jogging across the pitch, through the gap in the bleachers, and he’s gone.

Gone gone.

He didn’t turn to look at me. His stuff is still on the benches in the locker room.