Page 47 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Owen

Mathias is unrelenting. He’d already told me he wouldn’t go easy on me, and boy has he kept his promise.

Every time I get even a whiff of the ball, he’s on me.

And I know this is supposed to be a team effort, but I’m desperate to get in one last try.

The rest of Team Boss also seems to want the same.

I’m passed the ball more often than any other player, and the guys are positioning themselves to facilitate this.

But Mathias Jones is always there. Always ready to stop me.

We did captains’ interviews at half-time for the live-streamers, and Mathias came right out to tell the world that under no circumstance would he entertain the idea of “letting” me win. Not that he could even if he wanted to.

That’s simply not in his nature. He doesn’t have an off switch. Play to win, and nothing less. It’s one of the many, many reasons I’m so fucking obsessed with him.

But he’s right. I don’t want to let him let me win. I want to earn it. Want to snatch victory from under his overpriced boots. Also, “let” me win. Pfft.

I didn’t play pro for seventeen fucking years to let this rookie shit-talk me like that.

There are no big screens at Mudford-upon-Hooke’s RFC club, no super-fancy scoreboard for me to keep track of the game or the time.

There’s an old-school, light-up HOME and AWAY board attached to the wall of the hut building, but it’s laggy and my forty-five year old eyes are struggling to make out any of those tiny red LED numbers.

I have to keep asking Lando, but he dismisses my questions with, “Don’t worry, we got ages,” or “Still losing, Mr B.”

Like, come on, dude. Give me specifics.

The game is too fast for specifics, though.

It’s moving too quickly. But the old sevens lads are doing a pretty stellar job of keeping up with the young pros, and honestly, I couldn’t be prouder of them.

Especially Lando. Okay he’s the youngest of them all, and his tactics are a little .

. . morally dubious at times. He’s already spent ten minutes in the sin bin, and there are only so many incidents Daisy can “accidentally” overlook, but he’s giving it his all.

For me. Because he loves me and this little pub family we’ve built up.

None of these guys have to be here right now, putting themselves through this.

Bryn’s got a split lip, and Harry Ellis has a slice above his brow—the first aid tent whacked a sticky plaster over it and sent him back out.

One of the other Cents lads is sitting on the bench with an ice pack on his shoulder.

They’re all here for me; I have to keep reminding myself of that.

It’s humbling, and I kinda want to happy-cry. But mostly I just want to win this fucking game .

I’m pretty sure there are about fifteen minutes left, and Team Wild Card are fourteen points ahead. It’s not impossible to think we can turn it around—we’d need to score at least three times—but in my heart of hearts I know that ain’t happening. Not with Mathias Jones on the other team.

He’s a fucking machine—powerful, fast, and explosive—and not only that, he’ll read a play like it’s a pamphlet about 3D printers or drone cameras, and just sense where everyone is going, what they’re thinking, and how he’ll instantly and so wholly fuck everything up for my team.

Also, he’s been taking the piss out of my scrum hat all afternoon.

Damn, I love him so much.

The best we can hope for is to narrow the point gap.

We’re moving towards the twenty-two metre line, and it’s possible. It could result in another try for us.

Cheering rips open the air around us.

“Come on Boss! C’mon Owen!”

Bryn passes the ball to Harry, who throws it to Lando, and instead of making a break for it since he probably has a better shot than the rest of us combined, Lando tosses it back to me so I can attempt the try.

Sure, here goes nothing.

My legs punch the turf as I find my hole, and I charge through it like I’m a bull in a . . . well, a bullring. Adrenaline courses through my veins, heart smashes against my ribs. The sheer volume from the stands drives me forward, like a wave carrying me closer to the try line .

There’s a big enough gap, and not much besides green in front of me.

There’s a chance I could make it, but there’s also Mathias fucking Jones squaring off straight towards me.

His palms are flat, slicing through the air as he closes the space with grotesque ease.

He has that look on his face. The one that says, “I love you, but I only know how to win.”

With five metres between us, I fake to my right, then bounce left and drive forward.

Mathias doesn’t miss a single beat. Instinct, or hours of study, or maybe it’s that he simply knows me and can read my mind.

His arms are around my waist before I have even a nanosecond to reevaluate, change my strategy, and for one delicious second we’re airborne, weightless and alone, and then the solid, dry ground rises to meet us.

It kisses my thighs, then hips, then shoulders, and I’m lying flat on my back with Mathias on top of me.

Could be worse, I guess. My sky-high adrenaline numbs any initial pain, but the bruises will blossom tonight.

I don’t let go of the ball, I just enjoy having my boyfriend’s—my boyfriend’s, oh my god—entire weight pressing me into the dusty turf. There are boos coming from the crowd, but I’m sure they’re more panto-style jeering than hating on Mathias.

“Deja vu,” I say, because he’s not climbing off me either.

“Fuck off,” he replies, but he’s smiling. He leans his face closer to mine and kisses me on the nose, like a little boop.

A whistle pierces the air.

“Penalty Team Wild Card for not rolling away from the ball,” Daisy yells, holding her hand out towards Mathias’s half.

“Daze, come on. How am I supposed to roll away from that?” I know she’s right; I made zero attempt to drop the ball. Still gonna argue it, though.

“Number two, don’t make me yellow-card you for back-chatting,” she replies.

“What about yellow-carding number ten? That was flagrant head contact he just committed there.” I’m smirking, but Daisy puts her hand on her hip and glares at me, and I huff out my resigned sigh. “How many minutes left?”

She peers over at the LED board attached to the hut, and doesn’t even need to squint with her eighteen-year-old eyes. “Six and a half.”

Noooo. I want to pout. It’s going too quickly. I’m having so much fun, this needs to never end, but also, I’m tired as fuck, so that might actually be a good thing.

Mathias kicks the ball into touch. It sails off into the stands and we all get in position for the lineout.

If I could freeze this moment right now, stop time, I would.

Mathias waiting beside the pitch, ball in his arms ready to throw, eyes darting about looking for the best option, smile on his face.

Daisy in the fray watching us all closely.

Bryn pressed into my side, Harry Ellis at my other.

Lando hovering near the front, calculating his next opportunity for mischief.

Two seconds later, the ball is sailing over my head.

Neil lifts Pi into the air, who catches it with ease for Team Wild Card.

We’ve been practicing that skill a lot during our recent Sunday mornings, and even though Neil’s playing for the other team, a bubble of pride swells inside me.

Neil is sixty, and he fucking nailed the move.

The game is already moving away from the lineout, but I don’t miss the little “Aye!” and the thumbs up Neil gives me.

This might be the last time I’ll ever get to do this—stand here and play before hundreds of people.

I’m covered in mud and grass stains, knees raw.

There’s an origin-unknown slice down my tricep, and there’s so much sweat under my head guard that I imagine pulling it off will look the same as a swimmer putting on their cap.

My heart thumps savagely, and my quads scream at me.

Six minutes left to soak in all of this. Six minutes of Team Boss versus Team Wild Card. Six minutes until I can rest.

“Boss!” Someone calls out my name, and I’m instantly pulled back into the game, like there’s a rope around my middle.

And then the ball is in my hands. I’m open. I spare half a second to place all my guys and theirs, and I start running.

It’s futile, though. Mathias is already there, right ahead of me. I’m nowhere near the twenty-two metre line, and he’s already waiting to stop me. I have three options—pass, dodge, or barrel through.

Passing’s not a possibility. I’m still waiting for my guys to fall into position, and besides, if I pass the ball, I also pass the glory.

And I want that last try to be mine.

Need it to be mine.

Dodging is no good. I’m not light-footed enough. We’ve been practicing ladder work and pivots, but I’m a forty-five-year-old forward; I’m not built for that sort of ballet .

Wrecking ball it is. And it’s already upon me. I drop my shoulder and brace for impact, preparing to drive Mathias out of my way.

The little “oof” he emits as my shoulder slams into his sternum is simultaneously the cutest and most satisfying sound I’ve ever heard. He doesn’t go down. Neither do I. Suddenly, Bryn is beside me, dropping his heft into the mix, and we’re walking Mathias backwards in a maul.

Mathias calls for his teammates, and they’re joining in within seconds, piling on. Team Boss add weight to my side, and everybody’s so preoccupied fighting for control, nobody notices when a perfect gap in the side of the maul opens up.

Split second decision, no overthinking, I take it.

The moment my boots hit that unguarded space, Mathias pivots. He’s fucking good. There’s no way I can get the ball over that line with him on the opposite team, but I at least need to try. There are only a few minutes left of play, and it’s my last opportunity.

I run. Like my life depends on it. The ball cluched tight to my chest. My other arm pierces the air and drags me forward.

I only know how quickly Mathias is gaining on me because of the crowd and the noises they’re making. It’s not cheering, not booing either. In fact, it’s the opposite—the absence of sound. It’s as though seven hundred people took a deep inhalation all at once.

I try to sidestep him, but Mathias is far too smart for that. He’s ten metres from me. Seven. Five. I’m wasting valuable time checking over my shoulder.

He’s right there. He launches himself.

“Mr B!” Lando yells from my other side. I toss the ball back before I’ve even checked to see where he is. I’m using echolocation at this point.

The millisecond the ball leaves my fingers, Mathias’s hands are around my stomach, his shoulder against my hip, and we both go down. Roll.

Mathias is on his feet faster than me, ready to give chase to Lando, but Lando’s fucking gone, those Usain Bolt legs of his already propelling him over the try line before I’ve even lifted my head.

He smiles at me, all brilliant white gum-shield teeth, and grounds the ball .

The air thunders with celebration. We run over to Lando to congratulate him with hugs, and rub our hands through his sweaty hair.

“Well played,” I say, pulling him to my chest.

“Love you, Mr B,” he says, breaking apart. Or at least I think that’s what he says. The crowd are so raucous it’s difficult to be sure.

Daisy calls for the conversion and Harry makes it easily.

In the end, Team Boss loses the match by seven points, and I didn’t get to score my try, but I’ve never felt happier or more full of love than I do right now.

“Freed From Desire” blasts through the PA system, and Molly films a few full-time interviews for the live-streamers as the stands empty. Some people stop by the food carts or the portaloos on their way out, but mostly it’s a mass exodus to the car parks.

Lando is awarded man of the match, but when Daisy tries to corner him to give him his plastic eBay trophy, he darts over the style to the neighbouring field with Harry Ellis and isn’t seen for the rest of the day.

A queuing system for the showers is established by a sevens regular, and one by one people filter out of the event.

Mathias and I stay. We chat to the stragglers looking for autographs and selfies. We help the vendors pack up their bits and bobs. We litter pick until it’s just us two remaining on the club grounds.

Daisy and Molly have headed up the hill to The Little Thatch where the after party awaits. Zia is going to bring us endless pizza, and Viv and a few others are working the bar to give me a break from it all.

“Thank you for today,” I say to Mathias when we finally stop buzzing around like drones. My voice cracks. I can’t seem to summarise everything it means to have him here, and to know this isn’t our last evening together, but I’m certain that if I attempt to do it now, I’ll end up crying.

Mathias cradles my face. Dried sweat, suncream, and mud pull my skin taut, but I ignore the ick as he brings his lips down to mine.

His kiss is achingly tender, and over far too quickly. He collects a rogue ball and tosses it to me .

“One-on-one?” he says, already jogging out to the halfway line.

And we play, just the two of us, until I finally score my try.