Page 49 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Owen located some dusty old council legislation to find out who owned the land the RFC is situated on.

Surprising no one, it turned out to belong to the Oakham estate, though Warwick Oakham II couldn’t give a toss about the grounds.

He signed a contract permitting Mudford-upon-Hooke’s RFC temporary use without limitations.

Virtually, because he was in Singapore at the time.

Of course Lando’s been lording it up all over the place since finding out.

“That’s my goal post,” he would say, or “That’s my piece of gravel. That’s my light switch. That’s my bench. By the way, that’s my toilet I just destroyed.”

It’s another glorious summery day. An ocean of blue shimmers cloudlessly overhead.

Morning dew soaks through the fabric of my Pumas and Owen’s NBs as we cross through the five fields to the club.

The car park is heaving. It’s overflowing into the lane beside the grounds, but Owen hasn’t spotted anything amiss yet.

He glances over. “Wow, busy today,” he says, completely unaware of what I have planned. Thankfully, everyone besides the sevens regulars are hiding inside the new hut.

I’d texted Daisy just as we were leaving with a heads-up.

She’d replied with, “Slay.”

“Happy Father’s Day,” she says, running over to her dad and giving him a hug the moment we step onto the pitch. She hands him a greeting card and a box of Lindor, because those are his favourite.

“Thanks, poppet.” Owen opens his card while saying his hellos to the other sevens lads and girls. “Alright, mate? Good to see you . . . Yeah, I’m alright. You? . . . Can’t complain,” he says, indiscriminately showering everyone with the same few words.

He keeps his box of Lindor clutched tight to his chest. Owen may be the most generous man I’ve ever known, but he doesn’t share his chocolates with anyone besides me and his girls.

“Right, I’ll just dump my stuff inside and we can get started,” he says.

“Oh, Mr B!” Lando yells, running over to us.

He hooks his arm around Owen’s shoulder and pivots them both so they’re facing away from the hut and staring out into the adjacent field.

The bright yellow oilseed rape flowers have gone over and are gradually turning themselves into spiky, golden, straw-like plants.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.

What do you think about installing permanent bleachers? ”

Behind their backs, I gesture for everyone to sneak out of the hut.

“We can’t afford it,” Owen says, and motions to turn.

“AHH!” Lando grabs him tighter and turns him back round. I’m already regretting my decision to enlist Lando’s help with the distraction. “Buuuuuut . . .” Lando shoots me a panicked glance. “What if we got corporate sponsorship?”

“I don’t think Zia’s or Picnic Eggs can cover the cost of benches, though,” Owen argues. He’s desperate to move away but Lando holds him firm.

I nod to Daisy’s bestie, encouraging him to keep talking, as people creep out of the locker room and line themselves up along the hut wall.

“Not Zia’s, but . . .” Lando waves a hand across the sky in a “picture this” type of gesture. “Oakham Exports . . .”

Owen scratches his chin. “Ehhh . . .” He tries to turn towards me, but Lando grabs his face, grandma style, and forcibly shoves it back.

But everyone has already assembled themselves behind me into a big arc. I wave to Lando to show him we’re ready, and he lets go of Owen’s cheeks.

“What the fuck, Lan?” Owen massages his jaw as he turns, and then freezes. He starts laughing, but immediately cuts himself off when he spots everyone. “What’s going on?”

Molly’s here, she returned from Canterbury for the weekend.

Tom and Bryn and Isobel and Rafael are here.

Roger and Ange, Viv and Will Shakespeare, all the sevens team, and the Cents lads.

Kirsty’s here too, and Mark, who as it goes is a pretty stand-up guy.

Eksteen’s here, though I suspect just to threaten Owen a little more.

Even my folks and my sister and Brain. I’m desperate to run over and smush his slobbery chops into my face.

They’ve arranged themselves in a big semi-circle, and they’re all smiling at Owen.

“SURPRISE!” they yell at once.

“What’s all of this for?” Owen says, cupping his hand over his eyes, shielding them from the sun as he takes in each new person. He points at them in turn, sometimes he waves, or says, “You too?” and then he spots his other daughter, and I hear his strained swallow. “Mols? Hi, darling.”

“Happy Father’s Day,” she says .

Owen’s laughing but I can already see the emotion building behind his eyes.

I wanted to do this in front of everyone; I’ve been planning it for a while now. Owen owns my entire heart, but there are so many people who hold a piece of his, it only felt right they were all here again, exactly one year later.

I clear my throat. We’re waiting for one person in particular to do something.

“Ohh! Shit, yeah. I got it,” Lando says. He presses a button on the scoreboard controller in his palm and above the MUDFORD-UPON-HOOKE RUGBY FOOTBALL CLUB sign, new LED lettering spells out:

WILL YOU . . . 00

MARRY ME . . . 00

Owen’s eyes flit over the sign. His smile drops, then reappears wider than before. “Wait . . .” he says and turns to me.

I’m already on one knee.