“Never too young for soul-crushing despondency and existentialism,” he replies, and then laughs. “Okay, yeah, maybe a person can be too young for that. For the record, I have very broad tastes in music. I pretty much enjoyeverything . . . except experimental jazz, and metal that’s basically hairy white guys screaming. Like seriously, what the fuck is that?”
I’m laughing along with him, locking all the new pieces of Mathias away in my vault. I shouldn’t do it, should just treat him as I would any other friend helping me in a time of desperation, but I have no control over it. He says something cute like“I hate jazz,”or“I don’t stream music, I buy it,”and my brain snatches it up like a seagull stealing chips, gulps it down without checking the temperature first or chewing.
“Who’s next, then?” he asks. “Need me to bring up a list of all the Glasto headliners?”
“Let’s do someone from my time at the festival. What about David Bowie?”
“Yes, perfect. But you know he headlined twice as well. Once in two thousand and once in the seventies. I want to say seventy-one, but I’m not sure about that. I’ll have to do a bit more research.”
“How do you remember all this info?” I ask. I’m awed. Mathias simply shrugs.
“What’s your favourite David Bowie song?” he says instead of answering my question.
“Ah, now that’s how you tell the measure of a person, by their favourite Bowie track.” I root my fingers into my beard while I think. Mathias’s eyes fall to their movement. Or . . . is he looking at my lips? “Probably ‘Rebel Rebel.’” And then, for some unfathomable reason, I start humming the notes—or some approximation of the notes. In reality, it probably sounds similar to a scarlet macaw in a bowling alley.
Through stifled laughter, Mathias squeezes out, “Good choice.”
“What about you? What’s your favourite Bowie song?”
His smile drops, and for a second I think he’s not going to tell me, but then in the quietest voice a six-five man can muster, he says, “‘Magic Dance.’” His palm engulfs his face, and I pretend it’s not another adorable titbit I’m adding to my hoard. “You know the one from the movie Labyrinth?”
“Mate, listen, Labyrinth is one of the greatest movies of all time. Are you kidding me? I grew up on that movie. We had it on VHS and I must have watched it every day for an entire year. ‘Magic Dance’ is a fucking banger.”
Mathias removes his hand from his face. He’s smiling and pointing it directly at me. The relief in his features is obvious. “When I was in secondary school in Caerphilly, we did a musical production of Labyrinth. I was Jareth. Probably because I was the tallest in my class, and therefore I looked the most like a full-grown man. Still remember all the dance moves, though.” He must read the plea in my eyes because he adds, “No, I’m not doing it again for you now. It’s far too embarrassing. Maybe . . . Maybe once I know you a bit better.”
My heart somersaults in my chest. Could this mean he’ll be sticking around a little longer?
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say, and I give him a conversational “out” by turning my attention towards the laptop.
13
Thursday 3rd April 2025
Mathias
Media day is awful. Just the fucking worst. Hours upon endless hours of standing around while we get photographed and interviewed and photographed again. We get to practice a little, which is a fun and welcome break from the standing around, but it’s all for the cameras. As soon as the press has the photos and footage they need, play stops and we’re back to standing around again.
I’m losing the will to live. It’s difficult enough when you’re not one of the loud, extroverted players, but none of this comes easy to me. I can play the Principality Stadium to a crowd of seventy-five thousand and notbat an eyelid, but to stand in a room in front of a handful of strangers and my new teammates and fake smile while answering mind-numbingly banal questions is entirely another thing.
Thankfully, Dan and a few of the other lads, including Three-Hour and Eggo, have more than enough personality to carry me and the other quiet-type guys. It’s loud, too loud, and usually I don’t care because I’m never one of those folk fighting to be the centre of attention, telling jokes, ribbing people, but today most of the loudness is directed towards me. The press home their focus in on me. My photoshoots are the longest, my interviews are the most drawn out.
I’m dreading the moment they drop Owen Bosley’s name into the conversation. I’ve practiced my answer to every possible combination of Owen-related question they might throw at me. Not that it’ll help. My words tend to get tangled up in my mouth before they fall out, and my heart rate keeps spiking each time a new question is asked, then relaxes again when it’s something about my stats—which are currently terrible, but discussing them is the lesser of two evils. They’ll bring up Owen eventually, it’s an inevitability, and when they start talking about settling into the area, and Bath in general, I brace myself for the impact.
But it never comes. The interviewer briefly mentions“my history with a certain retired legend”but never goes beyond that. The relief forms a dull aching knot at the base of my throat.
Coach Johan Eksteen is watching me from the corner of the room, arms folded over his chest. He shoots me a wink, so subtle I almost miss it, and I realise he’s already briefed the press on the matter. I expect he’s told them not to mention Owen.
I nod my thanks towards him, and as though he was waiting to see if I’d figure it out, he turns his back to me and begins a quiet discussion with one of the other coaches.
After yet another almost unendurable group photoshoot—where they lined us all up on the pitch and forced us to stare into the sun for forty-five minutes while Dan regaled us with the story of how he shat his pants in B&Q on NewYear’s Eve because he had food poisoning from an out-of-date cheesecake—we were finally dismissed and allowed to change out of our still-pristine kits and go the fuck home.
I had not stopped thinking about Owen and our little midnight quiz-planning session. I had fun, like stupid amounts of fun, and I know I said I wouldn’t stay for the quiz itself, but part of me . . . wants to.
I had been craving the solitude of pulling up to the cottage, throwing on some joggers, and getting stuck into my next research project. I’ve been thinking about buying some Phillips Hues light bulbs and have been gagging to get on YouTube and do some probing. Yet . . . I can’t seem to shake the memories of last night.
The way Owen seemed so relaxed with me, like him being a guest in his own house wasn’t weird to him. The way he sat in his chair, slouching, legs splayed, feet up. I don’t know how some people do that. How they’re so immediately comfortable around others. It’s impressive as fuck, and I’m a little jealous. But jealous in a way that makes me want to experience it more. Be near him more. Absorb more of his serenity.
Maybe I could just nip over for the music round. Provide technical support if he needs it. The picture round also sounds fun, maybe I could stay for that as well. Oh, and the pop-culture round too since Owen had to write it himself. He didn’t have Daisy or her best friend to supply the modern references.
