Page 9 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

“We’ll be training indoors today. Strength and cardio,” Dan says, meeting me at the entrance of the Cents’ grounds. He leads me through the expansive foyer and towards the locker rooms.

It’s a crying shame, because it’s so sunny outside and I’ve honestly forgotten what sunshine feels like on my cheeks. People are out mowing lawns, and there’s the smell of spring in the air. I even saw some bumblebees this morning.

Dan’s wearing the standard Bath colours, red and gold, but it’s not proper kit. “Why do they call you Gadget?”

I shrug. “’Cause I love tech.”

“Fair play.” Dan cracks a grin.

Dan Chelford is the captain of the Bath Centurions.

He’s Black with a mullet and tache combo, twenty-seven—two years younger than me—and plays second row.

He’s the sort of guy who most folk adore.

Easygoing, goofy in that self-deprecating way, up for anything.

People eat that shit up. He’s already making jokes about my shorts, his daily carb intake, and our teammates’ philandering.

I plaster on a smile and laugh along with him.

In the locker room, he presents me to the rest of the team.

Most of them I half know—or know of—from my time with the Bengals, but Dan’s introducing each guy by their nickname plus a fun fact about them.

The fun fact is usually the origin of said nickname, however mine is that I broke Owen Bosley’s leg eight years ago.

I hide my wince every time he says it, even though it’s not news to any of them.

They call Owen Boz here, sometimes Boss. It causes my stomach to fold over uncomfortably on itself like a slimy undercooked omelette.

Remarkably, none of the lads seem remotely upset by my “fun fact.” They shake my hand or bro-hug me as though ending the career of a beloved legend was actually a right old laugh.

I don’t plan on sticking around, but I do plan to make the Bengals rue the day they didn’t renew my contract, so I force the information into my brain. Stuff it in like an all you can eat Chinese buffet.

Damn, I’m hungry.

Dan is the captain. They call him Cap and sometimes Doughie.

Finn is Eggs, or Eggy, or Eggo, because his surname is Eggington “with two Gs.”

Mike is Mr Frodo, on account of his small stature and piercing blue eyes.

Ollie is Three-Hour. At first I assumed it was a sex thing, but no, Three-Hour is short for Three-Hour Dump. Apparently, one time, on the team coach to Liverpool, he barricaded himself inside the on-board toilet for the entire journey, which happens to be a little over three hours .

“He didn’t even have the shits, just one lengthy solid crap,” Dan says, miming wrapping his fingers around something with the girth of a two litre bottle of Coke.

“I fell asleep,” Ollie whines in protest. It ignites a chorus of disbelieving “yeahs” and “sures” from everyone else.

“Probably should look into getting more fruit in your diet,” I rib gently. Even Ollie—Three-Hour—laughs.

Might as well get used to using their assigned names. Not here to make friends, but also not here to not gel as a team.

Harry Ellis is Abs, apparently because he’s ginger and his name is Harry, and Abs is short for Abstainer. I choose not to point out that technically Prince Harry hasn’t abstained, that he’s still in line to the throne. Nobody needs to know about my trivia hoarding problems.

Aiden is Pi because his birthday is on the fourteenth of March.

I don’t even bother to ask about Snatch’s nickname.

As Dan predicted, Coach Eksteen has us training in the gym.

Resistance band training and ladder work, and then ladder work with band training.

After lunch we swap out running shoes for rugby boots and head to the freshly mown and watered pitch to practise pods, but I’m frequently pulled away to meet with other members of the team.

The ones whose duties happen behind the scenes.

I meet with the nutritionist to chat allergens.

I’m measured for my kit. I’m remeasured for my kit because somehow there was a problem the first time.

I have my photo taken for the website and press packs and the activity brochures they hand out to kids at matches.

I meet with the team physio to discuss my continued recovery.

The main reason, well, one of the main reasons I didn’t make draft last year was the number of injuries I had.

Two fractured ribs and a pulled deltoid—at different times—meant a lot of recovery time off.

Couple that with a poor overall performance and it’s no surprise the Bengals didn’t want to take another risk on me .

Though, like the Cents’ physio says, not much you can do for fractured ribs except to remember your core strength training and stretches. I resist the urge to shoot him a sarcastic thumbs up.

I then tour the premises with the facilities manager so I can sign off on my basic health and safety shit.

By the time I’m through meeting everyone, I’ve had a maximum of thirty minutes on the pitch, but the lads are heading back to the locker room, jumping on each other’s backs, stripping off their shirts and wiping their faces. I guess we’re done for the day.

Some of the guys have ice baths. Most don’t. I opt not to because I’d already cooled down from any strenuous activity and because I’m eager to get home.

Well, not home . . . Owen’s cottage.

“How was your first day?” Dan asks as we sling our bags onto the back seats of our cars.

“The first days back are always a bit shit, but everyone was a lot nicer than I expected, I guess,” I say.

He laughs. “Did you expect us all to hate you?”

“Eh . . . kinda.”

“Oh.” Dan chews his lip. Embarrassment, no doubt, but I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed for me for making a stupid assumption or if he’s embarrassed over the way I’ve been treated by his club.

“The guys here are great. We’d never be like that.

” He puffs out a long stream of air. “Some of the old-school die-hard fans might be a little . . . different, though.”

There are a few messages and missed calls from Simone waiting for me when I climb into my Range Rover at the end of the session. I skim read them in the preview pane, then I hit return call and begin the twenty-five minute drive back to Mudford-upon-Hooke.

“Sim, what have you got for me?”

I know technically it’s not my agent’s job to find me a new place to live, but Sim is just one of those “bend over backwards to help others” type of people, and sometimes I can be a real shit and take advantage of that.

And really, what other work does she have from me at the moment?

I’m stuck in the ass end of Wiltshire with a team who .

. . okay, they don’t seem to hate me, but the boys and the fans are two separate entities.

There was a time, a few years ago, when Sim was rushed off her feet with work.

She earned her four point seven per cent then.

I had offers coming from every direction, and not just rugby.

Everybody wanted to sponsor me. Sports brands, fashion lines, even an organic milk company wanted my image on their ads.

I’ve been genetically blessed, can’t lie there.

I’m tall, dark, traditionally attractive, and I’ve got that whole moody, brooding demeanour mastered.

Most of the contracts were offered because I no doubt fitted a certain look they were after, but I can’t deny that my face alone secured me those deals.

I played well; people took notice. I got into the Six Nations and more people noticed. The right type of people. In 2021 I made more money from standing around posing with a ball than I did passing or kicking it.

But when my game took a hit through injuries and poor performance, so too did the side hustle opportunities. The offers got fewer and farther between, and since I failed to make the Six Nations these past two years, or even get re-signed to my team this season, those gigs have dried up entirely.

Nothing, not a whiff. Just remote, barren nothingness.

“It’s natural, babes,” Sim had said. “Happens to everybody. You were the hot new thing and now their attentions are elsewhere. Doesn’t mean anything about you or your playing.”

“Bosley had sponsorships right up until . . . he quit the sport,” I’d replied, mentally chastising myself for bringing up his name. Again.

“But Owen Bosley had . . .” Sim had trailed off. I finished her sentence in my head.

Personality. Kindliness. Warmth. Legions of adoring fans. The kind of amiability people adored. Amiability that let them believe they could be just one pint away from becoming his best buddy.

And since beggars can’t be choosers, and I guess I should be grateful to have a team I can call mine—even if it is temporary—I should suck it up and make the best of the few months I have with the Centurions.

“Babes, you still there?” Sim says, pulling my focus back.

The signal is patchy as fuck in these tiny country lanes. Sim knows that too. If she says anything about my attention lapsing, I can always blame that.

“Yeah, still here.”

“Perfect. Okay, I’ve got three places you could look at tomorrow after practice.”

An unusual, uncomfortable feeling settles in my gut. “Shoot.”

“The first is just outside of Marlborough. It’s another old thatched cottage, but it’s had extensive expansion work. Absolutely gorgeous. Three beds this time, with a home gym,” she says.

“How far is it from the training ground?”

“About fifty minutes.”

“No,” I say, almost before Sim has finished her sentence. “That’s too far. I don’t want to be driving more than an hour tops each day.”

“I thought you might say that.” Over the Range Rover’s Bluetooth system, I hear the sound of a pen scratching over paper. “So the other option is in central Bath. It’s a one bed flat, but has private parking for two cars. It’s a little over budget, but—”

“No.” I’ve interrupted her this time, but I can’t be dealing with these non-suggestions. “Nothing central.”