Mathias
I haven’t told any of the Cents boys about Owen and me, so on match day, when Owen appears in the locker room, everyone starts losing their shit.
Apparently, it’s not that uncommon for the ex-Bath superstar to pop his head in and wish the lads good luck. He has season tickets after all, and I’m informed he never misses a home game. He’s still held in the highest regard, and people seem genuinely pleased to see him, but they keep throwing me awkward glances as though I might spontaneously combust.
Owen waves to the room at large—to the twenty-three men in various phases of kitting up, to the physios taping and massaging us, and the coaches talking shop—and then beelines for Eksteen.
Dan elbows me, like there’s some microscopic chance I didn’t see the man I’m semi-secretly fucking walk in.
After a few moments, Eksteen gestures for me to join the pair. I’m shirtless—waiting for my shoulder to be taped up—and Owen’s eyes snag on my bare chest, linger on my abs. At the last moment he remembers to snap his jaw shut, cartoon style, but there’s no way some of the other boys didn’t catch that, since everyone is transfixed.
Well, everyone except Harry, who’s already in his twenty-three shirt and has angled his entire body away from me.
“So . . .” Owen starts. “The press know I’m here. They’re wondering if I could do a five-minute interview. I presume it’s mostly going to be about you, Mathias.” He looks at me. “And this fucking supposed rivalry between us.”
I’m shaking my head.
“They want to do something at half-time. Live stream it and play it on the big screens,” he continues.
“It could be a good opportunity to garner some support. Get people behind you,” Eksteen says.
It’s nice that he’s trying to help, but it’s pointless. “All they want is to push this narrative that there’s still beef between us. They want to make this villain out of me so they have more fucking click bait.”
Owen’s hand has found its way onto my lower back. I don’t move it. It’s soothing, but I know it’s not going unnoticed. “I’ll tell them I’ll talk, but only if they don’t mention what’s happening with me and Mathias. How’s that?”
“Why, what’s happening between you and Mathias?” Eksteen asks.
Owen’s eyes grow wide, but he recovers instantly. “We’re neighbours.” He looks at me. “Listen, it’s not gonna stay secret for long . . .” He’s no longer talking about living next door to each other, though Coach doesn’t know that. “But we’ll try to keep them out of our private lives until the end of the season.”
“Neighbours?” Eksteen repeats. “Is this going to be a problem? Yeah, nah, I like you and all, Bosley, but I don’t want any interference with my star kicker.”
“No, no, we’re good. We’re friends now, aren’t we?” Owen smiles at me. What he fails to notice is Eksteen’s gaze flitting over the hand that’s still on my back. “So, should I refuse the interview? I just think if I do that, they’ll spin it whichever way they like.”
They’re gonna spin it whatever way they like regardless, that’s what they do. They exist for clicks and ad revenues, and if they can drag out this historical drama, they’re going to milk it until folk are sick of it. Or until they find a better, more financially lucrative angle to hack at it from.
“Yes, do the thing, but don’t refuse to talk about Jones. They’ll know something is weird between you. Just say you’re happy he’s on the team, he’s a great asset, blah de blah. Big him up, okay?”
They both look to me for approval, but it’s superficial. I don’t have a say in anything.
Owen discreetly rubs his thumb down my spine, his way of saying goodbye, and leaves.
Coach Eksteen watches him go and then turns us one-eighty so our backs are to the locker room. “I swear to god, if that man—I don’t care that it’s Owen fucking Bosley, it could be Lawrence Dallagio for all the fucks I give—if he breaks your heart, I’m going to rip up his season pass and kick him out of the county.”
Suddenly my heart is beating a thousand miles a minute. Holy crap, what do I even say to that? Do I deny it? Laugh it off? Thank him? Luckily, I’m spared the impossible choice by someone yelling Eksteen’s name.
“Be with you now,” he calls back, and jogs off.
“What was that about?” Dan asks when I return to my cubby.
“Oh, nothing, just the press trying to rekindle this whole Jones v Bosley shit again.”
He nods and watches me quietly for a few moments. I know he’s not buying what I’m selling, even though it’s the truth. I’ve seen that look before on hundreds of people. It’s a look that suggests they’re aware there’s more to thestory, but if they have any hope of getting the full tea, they need to bide their time, gather more evidence. And that’s exactly what Dan’s doing.
The seating capacities of Bath and Exeter are pretty much the same, maybe a thousand in it if that, but the boos when they show my crossed-arm photo and name are infinitely louder. It’s thunder overhead, or the rushing water of a burst damn. Impossible to ignore.
I run out onto the pitch, but don’t wave like most of the other lads do. I want to flip them off or wave passive aggressively or give a sarcastic thumbs up.“Congratulations. You’re a big man with big feelings that you’re expressing. Good for you. It’s important not to bottle this shit up.”I don’t do any of those things.
Instead, I seek out Owen and find him almost immediately, right at the front above the home bench. He has a pint in his hand. Beside him is an empty-handed Orlando. I guess that means Daisy is running the pub again. From this far away I can’t make out their expressions, but Lando is banging his hands together and whooping for me, and that gesture alone makes at least some dent in the booing.
