I open my mouth to respond. Close it again.
What difference does it make if I’ve forgiven myself, but the rest of the stadium hasn’t? If I’ve forgiven myself, but the people of Bath won’t?
I don’t have to answer. Eksteen is calling us all into the pre-second-half dressing down pep talk.
“I’m up,” says Dan.
28
Saturday 26th April 2025
Mathias
At sixty-five minutes, we’re leading twenty-eight to seven. Eksteen pulls me and subs Harry. I go sit on the bench with the other guys who’ve retired from the game and the two lads still in their dry robes waiting to be called upon.
Owen is so close I can practically touch him. He’s sitting with Orlando just over my right shoulder, and I wonder what’s an appropriate number of times I can glance behind at him before arousing suspicion. I’m up to at least thirty, but when our eyes meet, which is pretty much every time I look over, he rewards me with a smile. Half of those smiles are accompanied by a wink, and I start to feel a little giddy, like I’m on asugar rush.
I decide fifty times is the limit and refocus my attention on the match.
When I was a kid, I had these spy glasses that had mirrored bands on the inside edges of the lenses so you could sneakily see behind yourself. I would kill for those right now.
Leicester score again, but Harry Ellis manages to sneak in another try and converts it. The stadium goes wild. Everyone’s out of their seats, horns are blowing, feet stamping, music blasting.
Eggo slams into me, crushing my spine in a vice grip whilst jumping and screaming along to the song, the lyrics painfully wrong.“HE’S GOT HIS TROMBOLESE!”
The full-time whistle blows and the boys flood onto the pitch to congratulate each other. Thirty-five to fourteen to the Cents. People scramble to hug me, to press their bodies flat against mine, but there’s only one person I want in my arms.
I wait until the initial rush of euphoria wanes and I jog over to him. Owen doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around my neck, and for one brain-falteringly long moment I think he’s going to kiss me.
Fuck, I want that so much.
The other lads are kissing their partners and babies. I’ve never had that, and now suddenly it’s all I want.
Because of the stand design, Owen is taller than me and reaching down. His hand is on my back again, and I need it to stay there forever.
“You were fucking unreal. Incredible,” he says—well, shouts because there’s still too much noise to have a proper conversation.
“I’m sorry I missed karaoke last night,” I say.
“You didn’t,” Lando chimes in. “We moved it to this Friday because of the bank holiday.”
It’s amazing news. We don’t have a game next weekend and I’m thinking maybe I could invite some of the boys.
Who the fuck have I become? I have friends? Plural? . . . Feels weird. So fucking weird.
Owen moves his hand from my spine to cup the back of my head. Jesus, I need to kiss him. “See you tonight, yeah?” He whispers the words, and I wouldn’t have heard him if I hadn’t been staring at his mouth.
He’s no longer smiling, and neither am I. In fact, I’m breathing harder, and the urge to push him down onto the plastic chair, climb the barrier and mount him is almost unquashable. I read the meaning in his look.
Tonight we fuck.
I am so ready for that.
Eksteen takes us to a fancy as hell Mexican restaurant in Bath to celebrate our win. It’s fucking loud, and I’m sandwiched between Dan and Harry, and opposite me are Eggo and Pi and Three-Hour.
I’ve ordered a salad. The other guys have gone for heaps of enchiladas, sizzling stacks of fajitas, and juicy oozing steaks, but I’m on a mission none of the other boys know about.
“Girl, just shit on him,” Harry says, watching me push leaves around on my plate. Dan screams with laughter.
