That kid knows me—as well as anyone can know me—and he’s chosen to cheerlead and not get sucked into the “Mathias Jones, supervillain” rhetoric.
And then there’s Owen. I squint in his direction. He’s smiling at me, I think, and it’s as though he’s taken noise-cancelling headphones and popped them over my ears because the booing is no longer as loud or present or compressing as it was.
It stops altogether as number eleven, Finnley Eggington, is called out. And just like that, people forget I’m the bad guy. Gameplay starts, and there’s no room not to support your team, at least while they’re winning—which we are. Leicester scores the first try at seven minutes in, but the Cents immediately pull the Uno Reverse card and score two tries back to back. Dan at twelve minutes and Eggo at sixteen.
I convert both, including one from the far edge. Nobody boos. Or if they do, I don’t hear. I’m not listening out for it. For a brief moment, I revel inbeing the hero. The guy to take his team and the legions of fans one fraction closer to victory. I look for Owen after each kick.
At this point, seeking him out has become something of a compulsion. Something I’m not consciously doing, but I do it anyway. He’s smiling, but that’s about all I can make out. Beside him, Lando blows me kisses or makes heart hands, and I find myself smiling too.
Leicester are playing well, but today we’re better—more instinctive, more fluid, and a fuck tonne faster. And they’re in catch-up mode, reacting to our attacks rather than making any of their own, relying too heavily on defence.
“Gadget!” Dan screams. He glances over his shoulder and I’m exactly where he expects me to be. He tosses me the ball.
I’m wide open with only a third of the pitch to cover, so I do what I’m known for, and without checking to see who’s free to take the pass, I run. The adrenaline drowns out any muscle fatigue. It crowds out the searing ache in my lungs. It blocks out the noise from the stands, though I know instinctively they aren’t booing. Not now. Not when I could carve out such a huge point deficit for Leicester.
I feel their guys closing in, but they’re too far away, and I’m too quick. Caden Fallon, Leicester’s full-back, is my biggest threat, and he’s been on me all game. But one swift check to my left places me beyond his reach. He’s fast, I’ll give him that, but not fast enough. At ten feet from the try line, he panics and throws himself at me.
Fallon’s hand fixes around my shorts, tugging them slightly askew but doing little else, and he drops to the ground like a fat sack of turnips—because potatoes are too good.
I cross the white line, giddy, laughing, and casually walk between the goal posts before grounding the ball dead centre. Might as well make the next step as easy as possible for myself.
Suddenly, I hear the crowd. They’re screaming and cheering and stamping their feet on the stands. But there are no boos. Not that I’d give a flying fuck right now if there were any. Dan wraps his arms around me and squeezes me tight enough to restrict my airways. He ruffles his fingers through my sweatyhair. More arms grab me from behind, crushing me, almost toppling me. I have no idea who they belong to, and I don’t care.
The conversion is so easy the speakers are blasting “Freed from Desire” before my foot even leaves the ball.
We’re in the locker room when Owen does his half-time interview. There’s a small TV playing the live feed, so I know when he’s on, but there’s too much commotion to hear what’s being said.
Dan catches me staring at the screen and I avert my eyes, but like a cat on a ledge with an unguarded glass, I can’t resist for too long. I want to know what he’s saying. Is he telling everyone we live next to each other? That I emcee his pub quiz on Thursdays? That I sucked his cock? That I broke his leg eight years ago and he’ll never quite forgive me for it?
“What’s up?” Dan asks, throwing an arm over me.
I go with the truth, but not the truth I feel in my gut. “I broke his leg.”
“Fuck that,” he says, puffing out a breath. “You didn’t break his leg. His leg broke during the game. Shit like that happens all the time. Tell me you never had a fucking broken bone or serious injury from rugby . . .”
There’s nothing to counter with; I had two fractured ribs just last year.
“Exactly,” he goes on. “It’s not like you targeted him. Not like you fucking Nancy Kerriganed him.”
“Nice reference,” I say, impressed by his random trivia drop. There might be a spot for him in Owen’s pub on a Thursday night.
I do something completely unheard of, so out of character I could have been possessed; I offer unsolicited personal information about myself. “We live next to each other. Owen and me. Well, temporarily, I guess. I’m renting out a place in the village he lives in, right opposite his pub.”
“Oh?” Dan raises an eyebrow. No doubt in his head he’s congratulating himself on calling it.
“We’ve become . . . mates. I like him. He’s a good guy.” I want to say more. I want to gush about Owen Bosley, tell Dan all the Owen facts I’ve been hoarding. Tell him what an amazing, caring, loving, generous, helpful person Owen is. That he makes me feel seen and heard without me saying anything.That his moans have the ability to ignite my entire body. That the best part of my day is right after The Little Thatch’s kick-out when I get to see him. That I’ve started taking power naps during the afternoon so I get even more time with Owen during the night.
I feel my cheeks pulling into an involuntary—and no doubt lovesick—smile. I force a neutral expression.
“So . . .” Dan says after a few moments of observing me. “He’s forgiven you?”
I shrug. “I think so.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.”
Dan places a hand on my shoulder. It’s a fatherly gesture even though the guy’s younger than me and at least eight inches shorter. “But the important thing is . . . have you forgiven yourself?”
