Page 8 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

And then the questions turn personal, and now I’m paying attention.

“Owen, what do your girls think about your retirement?”

I steady my breath. Don’t let emotion through. “Like I said, I’m thirty-eight. We’ve all known this moment has been coming for a while. Obviously we didn’t expect it to happen this way, but I like to imagine they’re still proud of me.”

Cameras pan around to the girls, and I know what’s about to unfold. Molly and Daisy have been prepped for it.

A mic is pushed in front of Molly, and a reporter asks, “Molly, how proud are you of Daddy?”

I roll my eyes. She’s fourteen, not six. She stopped calling me Daddy a long time ago.

“He’s my hero,” she says, just like she practiced with Davina and the producer in the dressing room.

The crowd sighs, and then she goes off script.

“It doesn’t matter to me or Daisy that Dad won’t be playing rugby any more.

We’ll always think he’s the best. He’s the bravest, kindest dad ever, and I love him so much. ”

I have to pull my lips between my teeth and bite down, close my eyes, and inhale for the count of four to stop the tide of emotions pulling me under.

I can’t see the journalists, but I can hear them.

The collective “ aww ,” the scrabble of pens, the click of cameras photographing not only Molly but no doubt my auto-shutdown reaction as well.

This kind of family-man shit is like gold dust to them, and I know this will be the angle they run with.

I force my eyes open and give Molly my best, albeit wobbliest, smile.

If the stories are focused on my kids, at least it’ll give Mathias Jones a break from being constantly harangued by the press and the so-called fans.

“And Daisy?” a reporter says, moving the microphone between my kids. “How proud are you of your dad? Have you got anything you’d like to say to him?”

A slight crease mars Daisy’s brow. She leans forward and with utmost seriousness says into the mic, “Are we still getting KFC on the way home?”

Laughter explodes in the hall. The cameras go wild. I was wrong. This is what they’ll be running with. Mathias Jones escapes another day.

While the press is occupied, I get to my feet, and signal to Davina and the producer with a nod of my head that I’m ready to leave.

It seems as good a time as any to end the conference—at least my daughters’ and my involvement in it.

Someone rushes over to support me by the elbow and escort me out of the room, while Davina follows behind with the girls and Kirsty, and Eksteen and McGaffrey stay to talk shop.

Strategy and tactics and hopes for the new team.

Things I have no business concerning myself with any more.

It’s still daytime when we leave London. Kirsty drives because I’m not allowed to with my damn boot.

We stop at Chieveley for KFC. I have a burger meal and it’s surprisingly good, or perhaps I’m too hungry to notice if it isn’t good.

The girls both have full adult-sized meals, and a piece of my heart aches for the time they’d have had the kiddie meals with the tiny packets of chips and the shitty toys.

When Kirsty pulls up next to my car on the gravel drive of Fernbank Cottage, it’s dark.

Both the house and pub are eerily still and silent.

All the lights are off, and the only illumination is cast by the street lamp beyond the front gate.

It throws a chilling orange light onto everything, giving a horror movie vibe to the evening. Seems appropriate.

Everyone jumps out of Kirsty’s car, eager—or obliged—to give me a goodbye cuddle.

I held it together throughout the three-hour journey home. Now, only a few more minutes of holding it in and I can be alone with . . . all my thoughts. Yeesh. That’s not going to be fun.

I manage to squeeze out “love yous” to the girls on the top step of the cottage.

“Love you too, Dad,” they say, heading back towards the car and already fighting over who gets to sit in the front.

Kirsty hugs me, longer than she has done in a very long time. My body sags into hers, the adrenaline finally waning. “You gonna be okay here on your own?” I don’t know if she means right now or forevermore.

“I’ll be fine,” I reply, the words forced out through an unconvincing smile.

She pulls back to look me in the eye. “We’re so proud of you, Owen, and everything you’ve accomplished.”

My dam bursts. The tears I’d been holding in all day explode out of me, freefall to the ground. I pinch the bridge of my nose in a futile attempt to stem the flow.

“Do you want us to stay tonight?”

I give myself five seconds to mull it over and then decide there’s no point in lying. “Yes.”

Kirsty nods, wipes a tear from my cheek the way I did with Molly. “Let me just call Mark . . . tell him we won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I say, as she waves for the girls to get out of the car again .

That night, Kirsty takes my bed, and I sleep on an air mattress in the gap between the girls’ single beds.