“We’ll be late for sevens,” he protests, but again doesn’t stop me. Instead, he threads his fingers into my hair, and groans towards the three-hundred-year-old ceiling beams.
We’re running late for sevens. Well, technically we’re not, but Owen thinks we’re running late. Though, as per, he seems entirely unbothered by it. He’s what I’d call time-optimistic, because that sounds so much better than the label he assigns to himself: absolute dog shit at time management.
Ordinarily, I’d panic if I was going to be late, but I’m a terrible actor. I cannot keep my real emotions from reading on my features, and though I don’t think the jig is up yet, I just know that Owen’s aware of the jig’s existence. He keeps shooting me funny looks and asking if I’m okay.
I make us breakfast. Waffles, from my new state-of-the-art waffle maker—yes, you can get those—with bacon and fresh fruit and berries. I couldn’t quite bring myself to order the streaky bacon that Owen loves, so we’ve compromised with back. I cut off the strip of fat and push it onto his plate, and he grins at me like I’ve just built him the Taj Mahal.
Because it’s our anniversary, I dig out my Team Wild Card shirt and my Picnic Eggs shorts.
“Damn, I love these shorts,” Owen says, massaging my ass. He’s still sitting at the dining table, while I stand next to him and attempt to clear away the plates. “They make it impossible not to touch you.”
“We’re late, so I thought I’d save time and get changed here,” I reply.
“That’s a good plan.” Owen yawns and stretches, and takes a sip of his orange juice. Instead of getting to his feet, he flips the final page of his Waitrose Weekend over to the crossword puzzle. I’ve already completed the sudokus. “Have you got a pen?”
“Nope.” I fold the newspaper and move it to the other side of the table. Admittedly, it’s still well within his reach. “Come on, we’re going to be late. We don’t have all day to piss about like we did a year ago.”
With the extra money raised from the rematch event, we refurbed Mudford-upon-Hooke RFC’s little concrete HQ. Okay, refurbished is the wrong word. We demolished it and built a fancy as fuck new one. It has showers that actually work, and lockers with doors and keys, and toilets that are Lando-proof. It has a huge new scoreboard that can display the teams’ names, not simplyHOMEandAWAY, and Owen can read it wherever we are on the pitch.
Daisy insisted the women’s changing rooms should be as big and luxurious, with just as many showers and more toilets than the men’s. We hired an accessibility expert to make sure the space is easy for everyone to use, and we filled in all the potholes in the car park.
And because of all the improvements, the old boys are no longer the only patrons. In fact, so many people wanted to use it, we had to implement a rota system.
After sevens training, the lads from Hookborough Grammar make the most of the facilities, followed by the girls. It means we have to be done and dusted promptly by eleven thirty. It also sadly means no more mutual shower wanks.
During the weekdays, schools and after-school groups and under-twenties clubs rent the field. Even the local archery team gets a few hours of practise on the pitch.
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 RFCtemporary 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.
