Page 6 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Owen

When I pop back to Fernbank Cottage to collect Mathias’s empty dishes, I find them already waiting for me on the top step, resting on the welcome mat, spotlessly clean.

I knock on the door regardless, but there’s no answer.

No voices murmur from behind the walls. No TV, no radio .

. . and no van waits on the gravel drive like last night. Mathias is out.

I brush aside the disappointment. It’s Wednesday.

He told me he didn’t have training until Monday, so perhaps he ventured into Hookborough to buy groceries, or maybe he’s visiting friends who live nearby .

. . I let out an involuntary laugh. Mathias .

. . friends? That theory feels unlikely.

The guy seems somewhat . . . friend-averse.

Maybe he’s returning the rental van, swapping it back for his car.

I’d spent the morning practicing in my head—and in the mirror—what I’d say to him today.

“Hi Mathias. I know we got off on the wrong foot yesterday, but I just wanted to mention, if you didn’t already know, that I don’t blame you for the accident. It was never your fault. We all accept the risks when we lace up those boots. In fact, you were incredible. In your debut game, no less.

“I don’t want there to be this weirdness between us, because I’d really like for you to stay here in Mudford-upon-Hooke. So I’m wondering if we could put all of that to one side for approximately six to twenty-four months, please?”

Or something along those lines, but less shit.

It’d be nice to have someone around who understands the demands pro rugby puts on a guy.

Sure, I have mates—rugby obsessed mates who play sevens with me on the weekend and are always about for post-match dissections—but playing at pro level for Bath or Cardiff or England or Wales is a different experience altogether.

One only a select few are ever privy to.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a friend like that around.

I see old teammates now and again, at Cents games or big press events, but having someone right across the road from me who could empathise would be another story.

I had let myself get excited. For those five seconds while his pint of Guinness crept along the flagstones, I’d let myself feel hopeful that perhaps I might have a neighbour who I share more than just a fondness for a sport with.

And at the same time, I feel a sense of relief for not having to open up and talk about that day. I don’t know why I’m so nervous around him, or at least at the thought of saying those things.

I collect up the tray and carry it back over to The Little Thatch.

Daisy peers down at the plates as I place them on the side. “He washed them. What did he use? I forgot to put Fairy Liquid in his welcome bag.”

I shrug. “Maybe he brought some with him. Or maybe he used shower gel? ”

“That’s the most blokeish thing you’ve ever said,” she responds. “So, is he staying?”

“He wasn’t there. Van’s gone. I’m not sure where he is. He left these on the step for me.”

Daisy stares at me for a moment, in that way only Daisy can. Like she’s rooting through my thoughts as though digging through a box of old postcards at a car boot sale. Like she knows there’s one in there that’s extremely valuable, and she won’t stop until she locates it.

Under her scrutiny, I almost blurt out that I want him to stay.

That I like him . . . maybe in ways I shouldn’t, I’m not even sure.

All I know is that after I closed the pub last night and retired to my little flat, I spent the entire time peering out my window at the cottage.

I watched the lights move from downstairs to upstairs.

The warm orange glow from the Morgan and Bianchi lamps I bought after Kirsty and I broke up filling the rooms, spilling out into the garden below.

Occasionally, Mathias would pass by the main bedroom window, and the smaller side window of the bathroom—sadly opaque.

I tried not to stare, I really did, but when he stepped into the bathroom in his “slutty” shorts and T-shirt, and emerged wearing a pair of grey joggers and nothing else, I found myself unable to look away.

Not that I could see a great deal, to be honest—he’d have to be standing directly in front of the window for me to get a proper look—but what I glimpsed, I enjoyed. More than I feel comfortable admitting.

I don’t need Daisy finding out how much of a pervert her old man is.

This time, it seems she hasn’t found the precise postcard she’s looking for. Or more likely she has found it but has decided not to pursue it at present.

“Wanna look at Mathias’s Instagram pictures?” Okay, so maybe she is pursuing it.

I do, as it goes, but I’m not a teenager with a crush. “Don’t be daft, Daze.”

She shrugs. “I get it. I probably wouldn’t want to look at his photos either. They’re all thirst traps and . . . food pics. ”

Damn it, she really wants me to bite. I don’t, but it’s like she can see the battle raging inside me. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“He has a dog too. Or his parents have a dog or something. It’s super cute.” She takes her phone out of her back pocket and starts typing in the passcode. “I think it’s called Brian.”

“Put your phone away,” I say, pushing the device towards Daisy. “I don’t want to look at his photos.” It’s a downright lie, and she knows this, but she doesn’t fight it any more. “So what are your plans today?”

Technically, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays are Daisy’s nights off from working the bar. Not that she ever lets it deter her from hanging around here, usually with her best friend whilst they chat to the locals and scran on all my stock pork scratchings.

“Ooh,” she says, as though she’s only just remembering. “Lando’s cousin is doing art at uni and she’s got some kind of preview thing at a gallery in Bath, so we were thinking about going to that. And then afterwards . . . do you remember my friend Henry Wilkinson?”

I shake my head. Not because I don’t remember Henry Wilkinson, but because I do, and I definitely do not want Daisy anywhere near that guy. “As if I could forget the kid who crashed his motocross bike into the postbox right outside my cottage.”

“It wasn’t like he did it on purpose, and he was wearing a helmet.” She rolls her eyes as though I’m too old to understand. “Anyway, Henry’s older sister Sarasi is having a house party, so we’re gonna go to that. She lives in Bear Flat.”

“Who’s driving?” I ask, because Sarasi is at least somewhat more responsible than her shit-for-brains brother, but I need to know Daisy’s getting there and back safely.

“I’m driving to Mum’s and she’s going to pick us up.”

Good old Kirsty. Can always rely on her.

“Also,” Daisy says with that scheming smirk reappearing. “Lando’s pretty sure he’s found Mathias’s Grindr profile, but he hasn’t included his face in any of the pictures so there is a small element of doubt. ”

I snort so hard I’m in danger of pulling a neck muscle and have to take a seat on a bar stool. I hold my hand up, letting Daisy know I need a moment and under no circumstances is she allowed to interrupt.

Finally, when I pull all my questions together, I select the most pressing one. “How do you know it’s Mathias’s profile?”

I want to ask, “What does it say about him? So he’s single? What pictures has he included? Can I see them?” I also want to punch the air in victory. Definite, categorical proof Mathias is into men. Not that it means anything, or that I’d in any way act upon it.

“Because . . .” Daisy pulls out her phone again and hands it to me. The screen shows a profile from the gay dating app, and there’s a photograph of a shirtless man, his head cropped out of the frame, intentionally hiding his identity. The text under his picture reads: Matt.

I push the phone across the bar towards Daisy. “I’m not looking at this. It feels wrong.” Voyeuristic. “And why does an eighteen-year-old gay woman have a men’s dating app on her phone?”

“It’s a screenshot, from Lando’s Grindr, and there’s nothing wrong with looking at it. It’s only the information he put on there himself. Anyone can go online and see what he’s written. It’s not illegal to look at someone’s Grindr.”

“Jesus, please make sure Orlando doesn’t . . . swipe right on Mathias . . . if that even is Mathias.”

Daisy laughs. “Dad, oh my god. That’s not how it works. You’re thinking of Tinder. I think you just find guys close to you and send them a message if you want to f—”

“I don’t care how it works,” I cut in, because I do not need my feral offspring finishing that sentence.

“I don’t want Lando hitting on my . . . new neighbour.

” Damn, why did I stumble on those words?

“Mathias is too old for Lando, and he’s got more important things to focus on than running around after that little dork.

” For example, trying to integrate into a new team that’s largely made up of people who probably despise him.

“Why? Jealous?” she teases, and then immediately tries to reel her words back in. “He won’t hit on him. Mathias is not Lan’s type anyway. ”

“Fine, let me see, then.” I huff out a sigh as though Daisy’s twisting my arm to look at the phone. She slaps it into my hand.

What can I say? I got curious, and that sliver of dark skin and row of immaculate abdominal muscles is burned into my retinas. And wow, that photo of him . . .

Now, there’s no definitive way to tell if it is Mathias, but his build is the same as the fly-half’s, and his skin tone is the same.

He’s hairless, like he’s shaved his chest, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that, but I guess how I feel about Mathias’s chest is of little consequence to anything.

He has a cute outtie belly button, and I can see the waistband of his boxers.

It says Emporio Armani along the elastic, with a picture of—I think—an eagle.

There are four other photos. None of them feature his face, but one is taken from behind.

The man is standing on a beach, looking at a sunset.

He’s silhouetted, but that cheek bone . .

. That cheek bone could easily belong to Mathias Jones.

And now I realise I’ve been staring at the pictures for too long and Daisy’s watching me. I let my eyes flick down to his bio and read the words out loud so she knows for certain I’m not still perving on Mathias’s naked torso.

“I have a nice face, I just can’t show it. Professional athlete. Not looking for anything serious. You will need to sign an NDA.”

“Non-disclosure agreement,” Daisy clarifies, as though I don’t know what it means. “I.e., he’s famous; i.e., it’s Mathias Jones.”

“It still might not be him,” I say.

“Well, at Lando’s yesterday the app said ‘Matt’ was one point two kilometres away.” She gives me a look like she’s saying “I rest my case,” or “Go on, try to argue your way out of that one.”

She’s got me. Not that many men who like men live in the hamlet of Mudford-upon-Hooke.

There’s me, nineteen-year-old Orlando Oakham-Goodwin, and Tomas and Bryn who are married to each other and therefore very, very unlikely to be on Grindr. And even if they were, I’ve seen both men with their shirts off, since they play sevens with me on Sundays, and neither sport any variety of six-pack similar to the one on display on Daisy’s phone .

“For science . . . How can I look at his other pictures?”

“For science?”

“For science,” I confirm, nodding as solemnly as I can manage.

“You’d have to ask Lan that. Ooor . . . you could always create your own Grindr account. Ooh, you should do that, actually. Let Mathias know you’re DTF.”

“What’s DTF?” I ask, instantly regretting it.

Daisy looks me up and down, tries to keep her smirk hidden . . . fails. “Down to fuck.”

“Right, that’s it!” I jump to my feet and point to the door. “Outta my pub. Now. Go on, sling yer hook.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” she says, scooping her phone up from the bar and grabbing her hoodie on the way to the door.

“Good, because I’ve got shit to do today.”

Like trying to figure out how the fuck I’m going to afford the new thatch if Mathias is moving out of Fernbank.

I know he said he’d still pay the remainder of the lease, but it all feels so wrong. How can I ask him for the money if he’s not using the space? And even if he stays, I still have to iron out where the rest of the money’s coming from. Mathias’s rent will barely touch the sides.

“Don’t need to know what other shit you’ve got to do, Dad,” she calls over her shoulder. “Oh, but if you want to look at Matt’s Instagram pics, his handle is Inspector Gadget ninety-five. Okay, love you, bye.”

“Text me later,” I yell, but she’s already gone.

The moment I hear the engine start on her yellow Fiat 500 I pull my phone out and bring up Instagram.

I have ninety-nine-plus notifications, and not because I’m popular, but because it’s been so long since I last looked at it.

Mostly they’re follow requests from folk who recognise my name from my rugby heyday.

I have an official Owen Bosley IG page that my agent—still have one of those too—runs, but people seem to find this one as well.

I never accept their requests because all I ever post are pictures of the girls or the pub, and I don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry spying on the things that mean the most to me.

I ignore the requests once again and type Mathias’s handle into the search bar. @inspectorgadget95.

A jolt of adrenaline runs up my spine, like I’m doing something illegal or dangerous—shoplifting, vandalism, confronting an escaped zoo lion—not looking at a fucking Instagram page.

The first hit is him. Undeniably him. My heartbeat quickens.

The profile picture shows his full face, smiling for once. He’s in a field, but it’s not a rugby pitch, more like a farmer’s field. In his arms sits a curly-haired tan Cockapoo. Perhaps the famous Brian.

His photos are blocked from my viewing pleasure. A “This Account is Private” notice tells me I need to request access.

Under the little circular profile pic, which has a pink ring around the outside—I should ask Daisy what that means—is his name, Mathias, and his bio.

75% rugby, 20% gadgets, 5% opinions about potatoes

Oh shit. Oh no.

No, no, no, no.

There’s the slightest chance I’ve just developed a crush on Mathias Jones.