Page 7 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Owen

The press conference room stinks of radiator-heated dust and the clawing, sickly sweet cocktail of forty-plus journalists’ perfumes, colognes, and gum. The scent catches in the back of my throat and threatens to come out as vomit.

Davina, my agent slash PA, asked if I could bring the girls today. Apparently, the family-man vibe is good for my image. So we’re all here. Molly, Daisy . . . and Kirsty, even though it’s been five years since the divorce.

They usher us into a big room. I’m still wearing my special boot, and I have crutches, but I don’t want to take them into the hall.

Instead, Davina holds my elbow like I’m an elderly person being guided to the bathroom.

The Cents’ head coach, Johan Eksteen, flanks my other side.

Kirsty and the girls are placed in a line of empty chairs near the front.

Not quite amongst the mass of reporters, but far enough away from me that I feel . . . alone. Adrift at sea.

I take my seat at the tableclothed table behind the neat little row of mics. Eksteen sits next to me, as does McGaffrey, the new captain. Might as well announce his appointment at the same time, I guess. Two birds and all that.

I lean forward, hiding the wince as I reposition my leg.

It’s been eight weeks since the accident and it’s still a little sore.

The doctors explained to me how lucky I was to have such a clean break.

No repositioning needed, no surgery, no bones in any places they shouldn’t be.

The swelling is almost gone, and the boot will be on for another fortnight.

Physio began the same week—apparently early intervention is key to a good recovery.

It doesn’t ache nearly as much as it did, so I guess it’s helped.

Not that it’s made an iota of difference to the final outcome.

Today was an inevitability. I’m thirty-eight, already one of the oldest players in the sport. No point looking backwards now.

“Is the mic on?” I say, glancing toward the conference producer, and hear my voice echo around the space answering my own question.

Laughter fills the room. Discordant and tuneless. The kind of nervous guffawing designed to sooth the laugher and let the laughee know they’re not alone. It doesn’t help. I force a smile and turn to my girls.

Molly’s watching me raptly, hands in her lap, cheeks flushed, eyes waterlogged. She’s fourteen years old, and recently, every time I look at her it’s as though she ages by another year. When did she get so big and grown up?

Daisy’s fiddling with her press lanyard, elbowing Molly, trying to steal her attention, but only the crease of Molly’s brow lets me know she’s acknowledged Daisy’s attempts. She’ll be eleven in a few weeks.

And then I glance at Kirsty, and she gives me the subtlest nod. She’s saying, “It’s time,” and “You can do this,” and “I’m still proud of you.”

I clear my throat, and what chitchat lingers dies instantly. “Thank you all for coming today. I’m going to make this as brief as possible. ”

Cameras are pointed towards me, voice-recording devices held in my direction. People have notepads and pens. Some are miked up to their own contraptions.

I’m used to press conferences. As the captain—sorry, former captain—of the Bath Centurions, they’ve been a regular occurrence, but this one feels different.

The expectations on me are heavy, suffocating.

Like I’m slowly using up all my oxygen. I feel like I’m at an emotional breaking point, that I’m on the edge of puking or passing out or bursting into tears.

I have no idea what might trigger the release. I only know it’s coming.

I just need to make it through today without any of those things happening. At least, not in public.

“I’ll start by saying I’m healing well. Very well, actually. The doctors reckon another fortnight max with the boot, and then I’ll be free.”

Pens fly furiously over notepads. I don’t look at the girls again. Can’t bear to.

“And though they’ve promised I’ll make a full recovery, I’ve decided that my time here with the Bath Centurions has come to its natural conclusion, and I’m retiring from professional rugby.”

A murmur of whispers erupts, and I hear the quiet clacks of camera shutters. Nobody’s surprised. In fact, the story’s already been leaked. Twenty minutes ago Davina showed me a photograph on a sports news website of me and the girls arriving at the conference centre earlier today.

The caption read: Is rugby legend Owen Bosley about to announce his retirement?

The photo they used is awful. Strategically genius on their part, but I look like shit.

I have bags under my eyes, this fucking boot on my foot, and I’m consoling a crying Molly, cradling her face between my hands and wiping a tear from her cheek.

I hate—fucking hate—that they use my kids in their publicity games.

Well, I guess now the girls don’t have to be pawns in their viewer and reader numbers .

“I’ve loved every second of my seventeen years with the Cents. Every win, every loss, every injury—yes, even that one.”

More nervous laughter.

“Rugby has dominated my life for so long now. I’ve been there through the highs and lows, been accepted into the Cents family.

I hate to go, but I’m leaving the team on a high note.

You guys don’t need me. You’re in such a strong position now, with McGaffrey as captain to take the team through to the premiership.

“And as much as I’ve loved every second, I’ve not been . . .” I swallow a painful lump. “Now is the time for me to concentrate on my family. On being a dad for Molly and Daisy.”

I’ve missed out on so much already, and now Molly’s in big school, and Daisy’s getting close, I’m determined not to miss any more.

“It’s time for my career to take a new direction, and I’m looking forward to my new adventures.”

I look at Davina and the conference producer to let them know I’m done. My throat has closed itself off to any other words.

“Okay, we’re gonna open the floor to questions now,” the producer says.

He chooses someone, seemingly at random, but we all know there’s an order to be followed.

As per my contract, and the club’s contracts, the networks’ contracts, and well, a bunch of contracts I never bothered to learn about, I have to answer a certain number of questions from certain people.

I recognise the first person as the BBC sports journalist. “What does the future after rugby look like to you? Have you thought about what you’d like to spend your retirement doing?”

We’re always taught to answer questions completely—i.e., start by summarising the question . . . “For me, the future after rugby looks like yada yada . . .” It’s so they can use sound bites and quotes and the context still remains.

But I can’t be fucked with that today. “Yes. I’ve bought a pub. My local, actually. I’m going to be a landlord.”

The hall breaks out in surprised murmurs. Pens dart across notepads. There’s an undercurrent of excitement, and I already know that some of their articles will focus on my new venture. I can see their brains racing to find punny headlines.

From pitches to pints. From rucks to real ales. From half-time to half a shandy . . . Hey, I’m in the wrong game here.

“Does the pub have a name?” the BBC reporter asks. “And will you be serving food? And when can we all come round?”

Everyone laughs. I force a smile. No point hiding the name or location. It’ll get leaked sooner rather than later. “It’s called The Little Thatch, in my hometown of Mudford-upon-Hooke, and yes, we will serve food. Needs a bit of renovation work before we get to that point, though.”

Another question. I don’t recognise their face, and can’t see what’s printed on their lanyard. “Have you forgiven Mathias Jones?”

Nervous titters.

I don’t hide my groan or eye roll. “Listen, there is nothing to forgive. Mathias was playing the game and playing it bloody well considering only the week before he was still signed to the academy squad. I’m not about to hold a grudge against a man who shows every potential to become one of the greatest players of his generation.

” My pulse spikes. The room gets a few dozen degrees warmer, but I keep my voice calm .

. . even. “Am I gutted my career ended where it did? Of course I am. Right before the Six Nations selection. But that’s nothing on Mathias Jones. ”

I suck in a breath, feel everyone’s eyes burning my flesh. The fifth and final England game of the Six Nations would have been my one hundredth cap. I’d spent the past few years dreaming, fantasising about scoring a try during that match.

Score a try at my one hundredth cap, on Super Saturday. That was the plan. That had always been the plan. I could retire any time after that and feel like I’d done everything, checked off every box, completed every level. The final boss, as it were.

So sure, I’m pissed I’ll miss out on that, but that doesn’t mean it’s Jones’s fault .

“I’m thirty-eight. I can’t play rugby forever, and I’m not sure my body would forgive me if I tried.”

In all fairness, I should have stepped aside sooner and let some of the younger lads have their moments, but I’d let it—the game, the adrenaline, the camaraderie, the respect, and the glory—consume too much of myself. Too much of my time with the girls.

Other questions get asked and answered. I barely register them.

“Will you continue your involvement in the sport somehow?” someone asks.

“I don’t think it’s possible to fully extract rugby from any of us. Rugby is and has always been part of me, and it forever will be,” I reply.

“Owen, you’ve left pretty big shoes to fill. How do you think McGaffrey will fare with the captaincy?”

“This will be the first time in nearly a decade you’ve missed out on the Six Nations. How do you feel about that?”

“What advice would you give to young players looking to follow in your footsteps?”

“Blah.”

“Blah.”

“Blah.”