Page 46 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

Sunlight cleaves open the clouds, leaving jagged stripes of blue across the sky. I shield my eyes, using my hand as a visor, and scan the grounds for him. My pulse ticks sickeningly against the base of my throat. I’m already spiralling, already catastrophising.

What if he didn’t hear me? Or worse, what if he did hear me and has made his choice? What if he’s fucked off to the pub or the cottage and isn’t coming back?

Over my mental caterwauling, the crowd chants, “OWEN BOSLEY, WHERE ARE YOU? OWEN BOSLEY, WHERE ARE YOU?”

I’m standing smack bang in the middle of the pitch, and although there are over seven hundred people here today, I’m completely alone.

Daisy’s filming the spectators. “It’s B roll,” she tells me, though she’s too distracted by her missing father to focus on getting any meaningful footage.

Molly’s running around asking every person with a vaguely familiar face, “Have you seen my dad?”

Lando’s insisting over and over that “Mr B’s probably just got the runs. Dicky tummy.” And then he assures everyone, “I’ve had six shits already this morning.” As though his IBS is a perfectly appropriate topic to discuss with complete strangers.

But even if it was a nervous stomach, that’s not Owen. Not my Owen. He doesn’t get anxious about this sort of thing. He’s a beacon of steadfastness and reliability and he’s always there for everybody, no matter what, and . . . this mess is entirely my fault.

I had an idea, a spur of the moment “hey, this’ll be a great way to show him how hard I’ve fallen,” but I didn’t think to consult anyone.

Didn’t reassure folk I wasn’t running away and would be back momentarily, and when I found Molly again, she had red-rimmed eyes and thick silver tear tracks down her cheeks.

And now I’ve blown it.

I wanted to tell Owen that people leaking photos of us holding hands or kissing doesn’t bother me.

That in fact I like seeing them. That I .

. . want them to know what we have is genuine, and regardless of what folk think of me—as the weird, awkward villain who ended Owen’s career—it’s not their opinion that matters any more.

It’s only his.

Owen Bosley’s.

The first adult man I ever had a crush on.

I was fourteen, and Mam and Dad took me to a live Cents versus Bengals game.

It was May, it was boiling, and we had tickets in the exposed section right at the front.

No shelter. I was hot and bothered, at sensory peak, but then I glimpsed Owen—already a rugby legend by this point—at the side of the pitch doing adductor stretches, and I had . . . an awakening.

And then I finally met him, ruined everything during that two-minute encounter, and spent the rest of my career avoiding him.

But things have changed.

I want to greet Owen the same way Dan Chelford greets his wife after games. I want to kiss him on the mouth in front of everyone, wrap myself up in his warmth, touch him in public without people snapping secret photos of us.

I wanted to tell him this, face to face, live on camera. But I have no fucking clue where he’s disappeared to, and it’s all my fault because I’m useless at communication.

I had no choice. Tell the world how much I love Owen and hope he hears me.

Only . . . I’m not sure he has, because he’s still nowhere to be seen.

“OWEN BOSLEY, WHERE ARE YOU?” the crowd shouts over and over. It’s like a battle cry, discordant but somehow one voice, and then someone yells, tearing a hole in the unity of the chant. People start pointing to one place—the gap between the bleachers.

Instantly Daisy’s beside me, directing the camera to the same spot.

Gatherings part, and Owen’s right there, barrelling through the centre. The chants morph into surprised “ohs” and then cheers. I abandon the PA system mic and jog towards him.

Owen’s face is beetroot red. He clutches his side as he lumbers over. I expect us to meet in the middle and hug it out, but he slows, and slows further still, until he’s barely placing one foot in front of the other. Then he’s doubled over, wheezing to catch his breath.

I close the rest of the distance between us. “Where have you been?”

“Pub,” he huffs out. “Ran . . . there. Ran . . . back.”

“Oh, god.” I kneel beside him, move to wrap my arms around him, but he holds up a hand, stopping me. I’m only vaguely conscious of the hundreds of spectators, and the camera lens pointed at us .

“You . . . love me?” he asks. His breaths are laboured, his beautiful face contorted into a grimace. He’s already wearing his head guard and sweat streams from underneath.

“I do,” I reply.

He doesn’t say he loves me back, he simply flashes me a dopey, slightly drunk-looking smile. “And you’re . . . staying?”

“Yes. If that’s okay?”

“In Fernbank Cottage?”

“If that’s cool with you,” I say. “I’ll still pay rent, but . . .” Here goes nothing. The question I should have asked him this morning . . . last weekend . . . actually, weeks ago. “I was hoping maybe we could . . . move in together?”

Damn, this is such an intimate conversation to be having in front of seven hundred onlookers.

Oh, wait . . . I left the microphone in the middle of the pitch. They can’t hear us. They’re all watching, but it’s impossible for them to hear what we’re saying right now.

“Okay,” I continue. “So I know it all seems a bit sudden to be asking this. We’ve only been shagging for a couple of months, but I’ve just got a really good feeling about this .

. . us. I want to live with you, Owen. I’m .

. . in love with you, and this tiny little village, and this beautiful life we’ve created here. I want all in.”

Owen reaches out, brushes his thumb along my jaw. “I love that you don’t need to ask me whether I’m all in or if I love you too, that you just know that I am and I do.”

I nod, because I’ve known for some time.

Perhaps it was when he called me his boyfriend in front of his daughter, or when Daisy told me she falls in love easily and that it’s a family trait, or perhaps it was the accumulation of micro acts of service Owen does for me—always making sure he has my safe foods ready, looking after me when I’ve drunk too much, the hand he places on my back letting me know he’s beside me.

It’s in the little notes he leaves on my shopping-list pad, the way he understands instinctively when I need space and quiet, how he’ll bust me out of social situations when I’m at sensory overload .

It’s the way he sang “I Walk the Line,” to me. There were dozens of people in his pub that night, but it could have been just us two.

“How, though?” he asks. “How did you know I’m arse over tit for you? Am I that obvious?”

I decide to give him the most neuro-spicy answer I can think of. “It’s the feet.”

“Huh?” Whatever Owen had expected me to say, it wasn’t that. He half frowns, half laughs.

“Feet are the furthest parts of the body from the brain, so the parts we have the least conscious control over.” His frown deepens, and he tilts his head to the side like a puppy trying to understand its master’s commands.

“If you look at a person’s feet, they’ll tell you what they’re thinking.

For example, if you’re in a group, your feet will point to the person you find most interesting.

Or if you’re at a party and you want to leave, your feet will point towards the door.

Mine, unsurprisingly, always point towards the buffet.

But yeah, feet never fail to reveal what someone really wants. ”

Owen’s still crouching, but he looks down anyway. “My feet are pointing at you.”

“They always are,” I say. He doesn’t need to know how often I notice this, how often I glance down just to reassure myself.

Wherever we are, in whichever room or space, even if he’s engaged in conversation with another person, he’ll always have one foot aimed towards me.

Like he’s telling me there’s still a part of him that’s reserved for me.

“So, are you all in?” I ask. “If you need more time, I can wait until the end of my tenancy agreement? But . . . you already told Molly you’re moving back in next week, so maybe .

. . I just keep all my things where they are and put the empty boxes out for recycling, and maybe we carry all your things over from the flat to Fernbank? ”

Owen laughs. “Oh my god, yes. Yes, please. All in. Let’s move in together.” He grabs either side of my face and kisses me roughly.

Applause breaks out around us—clapping and whistling and whooping—and I suddenly remember we have an audience.

It doesn’t stop me from sliding my tongue along the crease of his lips until he opens for me and I’m searching his mouth for that familiar reward.

I find it when he moans. It’s all I can do not to mount him here in front of everybody.

I return with my own groan as I ignore the sudden urgency for friction.

Hopefully the tent I’m pitching isn’t too obvious.

Don’t fail me now Picnic Eggs shorts.

From beside us, Daisy coughs. “Guys? Dad? Matt’s still miked up. Just warning you in case you’ve forgotten.”

Fuck, I had forgotten. Owen and I break apart like someone’s thrown a bucket of ice over us. Spectators laugh, and in a horrific moment of clarity, I realise some of the fans have their phones in their hands.

We’re being live-streamed to thousands of people. I’m wearing a mic. They heard and saw everything. My little speech about feet. Me begging Owen to move in together. Our sex moans.

“Okay . . .” My face is flushed, and I’m pretty sure I’m having heart palpitations. Not sure whether it’s from the libido spike or the embarrassment of knowing hordes of people know what I sound like when I’m turned on. “I . . . I just wanted to tell you I love you.”

“I love you too,” Owen says, and kisses me again, but with a lot more restraint this time. There’s no whining involved. It’s soft and sweet, bordering on chaste.

“Though . . . I am gonna have to ask you to give up your side of the bed,” I tell him. The need for some breathing space whilst everything . . . deflates and flattens itself is suddenly the most pressing issue at hand. “I can’t get used to sleeping on the other side. It feels wrong.”

“Anything you want. You know I can fall asleep anywhere.” Owen glances down the front of my body. His eyes snag on my shorts, and he obviously decides we need more time. “So, what should we have for tea tonight?”

The crowd laugh again. I hear the phrase echo throughout the stands as people regale it to one another.

“Actually, I quite fancy some gnocchi,” I say .

“Holy shit. Oh, Jesus. That word in your accent is the most perfect thing I’ve ever heard.” Owen places a hand on my chest, steading himself.

“Gnocchi,” I repeat, slower this time, overenunciating the syllables.

He grins at me, wide and derpy, as though he’s just received an injection of dopamine straight to the brain.

“Can you stand yet?” he asks.

As subtly as possible, I shake my head. It does not go unnoticed by the live-streamers in the audience, who holler.

“Can you?” I ask him in a whisper.

“Nope,” Owen replies.

“Ew, no. Spare me, please.” Daisy pretends to weep, then she clears her throat. “Sarasi, can we play one of our adverts?” The next second, she lowers the camera and holds out her palm towards me. “Mic.”

I unclip the device and place it in her hand.

“I don’t think anyone expected love confessions on their feed tonight. Okay, there’s about ten minutes till kick-off. I’m gonna do some vox pops or some shit,” she says, then turns away and leaves us in the middle of the pitch.

“I’m so happy you’re staying,” Owen whispers.

It’s just for me, just for my ears. There’s no camera, no mic, and there’s no possibility the crowd can overhear us.

“Me too.” I grab his hand in mine, drag my thumb across his knuckles. “I really love you, by the way.”

Owen leans closer, pulls me down a little so that his lips are brushing my ear. “I’m obsessed with you.”

Team Boss wins the coin toss, so at kick-off Harry Ellis boots the ball over the ten metre line. It’s a textbook drop kick with a shit tonne of hang time, and puts us all chasing it down. Lando’s on Owen’s team and he’s fucking fast, probably because his legs are three miles long a piece.

I’m the one to snatch the ball from the air, but Lando is already here, throwing his gym-hewn muscles and his never-do-anything-by-halves attitude into bringing me down. Which he does.

The crowd is on its feet, cheering, singing, sloshing their pints. Some of them wave Welsh flags, some have hand-painted signs. The sun has seen off any wisp of cloud, and there’s nothing but an expanse of picture-perfect summer blue overhead.

It’s a knock-on and Daisy calls a scrum.

“Out of my way, Picnic Eggs,” Owen says as he passes me with his adorable green head guard on. “The big boys will take it from here.”