Page 48 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

I’ve had an entire year of officially being Owen Bosley’s boyfriend, and it’s easily been the best of the thirty I’ve spent on this planet.

We wake up together every morning. On training days, I’ll plate him up some breakfast and leave it on the dining table with a note scribbled onto the magnetic shopping-list pad.

It usually says something like “I love you” or “Remember last night, mind?” He’ll sleep in as I go off to the Cents’ grounds to practise.

On Wednesdays we plan the pub quizzes, and on Thursdays we host them. Every quarter there’s a mega quiz. It’s my favourite thing ever, like . . . Of. All. Time.

At the last mega quiz, we had twelve wild-card rounds on the most random of random subjects.

The picture round was famous bears, the music round was Bridgerton string quartet covers of pop songs, and for the food and drink round, we had ten different types of mushrooms to identify.

Lando tried to eat them all. His theory was that at least one of them would be a liberty cap.

Owen actually slapped the back of his head. “Like I’d let any of my kids do drugs in my pub,” he’d said.

On the weekends when I don’t have a match, we explore the forests, the museums, the manor houses, the castles, the towns, and the beaches of Wales and South West England.

It’s beautiful. Both the landscapes and our relationship.

We hold hands in public, kiss, go for romantic dinners.

We don’t have to hide ourselves any more.

Occasionally folk will approach us for autographs, or to tell us their son or daughter is queer and also loves rugby and that they appreciate the example we’re setting for the world.

On Sundays we play sevens. Though we’ve had such a massive influx of new people signing up, there are far too many players for a seven-a-side game. Then we all have a roast at The Little Thatch.

Daisy is now the full-time bar manager, meaning Owen has a lot more evenings free, and Daisy is having the absolute time of her life.

“I’m living the dream,” she told me one afternoon. “Find a job where working doesn’t feel like working, yeah? ”

In the evenings, Owen and I will chill out at Fernbank Cottage. He’s rediscovered Lego as an adult, and I watch YouTube reviews on whichever tech I’m looking into buying next.

It’s what we have planned for tonight after this morning’s training. I bought Owen the Lego Twilight house, and I’m still researching 3D printers. Still think a 3D printer would be really cool.

At least that’s what Owen thinks we have planned.

“Good morning,” I say to him. “Happy one year anniversary. Also, happy DILF’s day.”

“Morning, Wild Card. You remembered our anniversary.” His voice is gravelled by sleep, and his laugh is even huskier. “Did you get me a present?”

“Yes, actually,” I reply, and his smile drops in surprise. I hop out of bed to fetch the box I’d tucked under the dressing table. I’m only wearing boxers and a scrappy vintage Garbage T-shirt, and Owen’s eyes follow the line of my thighs.

“Why don’t you come and sit in my lap?” He throws the covers off himself, and he too only has an old tee and a threadbare pair of underpants on.

I hand him the box wrapped in Pokémon gift wrap, because that was all they had in the Tesco garage on the way back from training.

“Swimming goggles . . . and a rubber ring, and . . . SPF?” he says, pulling each item out and inspecting it as though it might in fact be something else. A bottle of suncream masquerading as one of those pop-up snakes in a can.

“Factor fifty, for your pasty white skin,” I say.

“What? Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve booked us a holiday. The girls told me you haven’t been away for anything not rugby related since that caravan break you went on to Brean.”

Owen’s mouth opens. Hangs there. Closes again.

“Daisy said she was seven, and that you and Kirsty were still together.”

He shakes his head like he wants to deny it, but he knows I know the truth. “That’s . . . I can’t . . . I just never had the time. I couldn’t leave the pub, or the girls—”

I stop him with a hand on his chest before he can find any more excuses for never resting.

“We’re going to Santorini, in case you’re wondering.

I’ve booked one of those cave hotels for us.

It’s the executive pool suite. I did a lot of research to find the best hotel, and I’m actually thinking of branching out my research topics to include holiday destinations, because I had so much fucking fun.

Daisy’s gonna run the bar full-time for the week we’re away—”

“A whole week?!” I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or impressed. Or perhaps he’s worried about what condition his pub will be in on our return.

“She’ll be fine,” I say, hedging my bets on the latter option.

“It’s just . . . a lot. Too much. You shouldn’t have . . . but thank you.”

“We fly from Bristol in two weeks.”

“Oh my god!” He’s getting out of bed, pacing. “I didn’t get you anything. I didn’t even consider we might do gifts. I’m gonna pile so many roasties on your plate today.”

I hop to my feet and pull him back to the bed.

“Listen, letting me research and plan a holiday is honestly the best gift you could give me, so we’re quits.

And I’ve wanted to do Santorini for ages now.

I always travel alone, unless it’s with work, but it’ll be nice to go with someone I don’t need a social battery for. ”

Owen’s eyes get a little glassy. He sits down on the edge of the mattress.

“Fair warning,” I say, because I’m about to burst our bubble a little.

“It’s the busiest time of the year.” I hate crowds, but I can only take holidays during the off season, like a teacher, so I don’t have a lot of choice.

“But I’ve looked up all the best places to visit and to eat, and I’ve already booked restaurants, and boat trips, and private guided excursions.

I don’t think we need to worry about other people spoiling our fun. ”

Owen’s never bothered by crowds, and that’ll be a good thing. He can help to ground me, and reassure me when I reach sensory overload.

“I don’t know what to say. How to thank you . . .” I see the idea as soon as it enters his brain. “Actually, let me show you.” He places his hands either side of my hips, moves his face a little closer to my boxers.

“Oh no, nuh-uh, that’s not how things are happening today,” I tell him, grabbing his forearms and flipping him onto his back.

Owen squeals like he’s being tickled, but he doesn’t stop me as I wiggle his underpants down and take his cock into my mouth.

“We’ll be late for sevens,” he protests, but again doesn’t stop me. Instead, he threads his fingers into my hair, and groans towards the three-hundred-year-old ceiling beams.

We’re running late for sevens. Well, technically we’re not, but Owen thinks we’re running late. Though, as per, he seems entirely unbothered by it. He’s what I’d call time-optimistic, because that sounds so much better than the label he assigns to himself: absolute dog shit at time management.

Ordinarily, I’d panic if I was going to be late, but I’m a terrible actor. I cannot keep my real emotions from reading on my features, and though I don’t think the jig is up yet, I just know that Owen’s aware of the jig’s existence. He keeps shooting me funny looks and asking if I’m okay.

I make us breakfast. Waffles, from my new state-of-the-art waffle maker—yes, you can get those—with bacon and fresh fruit and berries.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to order the streaky bacon that Owen loves, so we’ve compromised with back.

I cut off the strip of fat and push it onto his plate, and he grins at me like I’ve just built him the Taj Mahal.

Because it’s our anniversary, I dig out my Team Wild Card shirt and my Picnic Eggs shorts.

“Damn, I love these shorts,” Owen says, massaging my ass. He’s still sitting at the dining table, while I stand next to him and attempt to clear away the plates. “They make it impossible not to touch you.”

“We’re late, so I thought I’d save time and get changed here,” I reply .

“That’s a good plan.” Owen yawns and stretches, and takes a sip of his orange juice. Instead of getting to his feet, he flips the final page of his Waitrose Weekend over to the crossword puzzle. I’ve already completed the sudokus. “Have you got a pen?”

“Nope.” I fold the newspaper and move it to the other side of the table. Admittedly, it’s still well within his reach. “Come on, we’re going to be late. We don’t have all day to piss about like we did a year ago.”

With the extra money raised from the rematch event, we refurbed Mudford-upon-Hooke RFC’s little concrete HQ.

Okay, refurbished is the wrong word. We demolished it and built a fancy as fuck new one.

It has showers that actually work, and lockers with doors and keys, and toilets that are Lando-proof.

It has a huge new scoreboard that can display the teams’ names, not simply HOME and AWAY , and Owen can read it wherever we are on the pitch.

Daisy insisted the women’s changing rooms should be as big and luxurious, with just as many showers and more toilets than the men’s. We hired an accessibility expert to make sure the space is easy for everyone to use, and we filled in all the potholes in the car park.

And because of all the improvements, the old boys are no longer the only patrons. In fact, so many people wanted to use it, we had to implement a rota system.

After sevens training, the lads from Hookborough Grammar make the most of the facilities, followed by the girls. It means we have to be done and dusted promptly by eleven thirty. It also sadly means no more mutual shower wanks.

During the weekdays, schools and after-school groups and under-twenties clubs rent the field. Even the local archery team gets a few hours of practise on the pitch.