“No,”Owen says simply. Obviously the interviewer is pushing for more because Owen adds.“Cents finally have a really strong team all round. Why would he throw that away? Eksteen’s been in the business longer than any of us—hell, he was even my coach. In my opinion, he’s made a smart move there.”
Apparently, that was enough talking about me. The reporter moves on, but I keep watching every time.
“And how’s life outside of rugby treating you? Are you getting out much in this glorious weather we’re having? Meant to get even warmer next week.”
“Weather’s been great, hasn’t it? Living my best life, as my daughter would say. Might crack out the paddling pool.”
“Barbeques for sure,”the interviewer says. Owen laughs along as though it’s the funniest joke ever told and he hasn’t received years of media training.
I love the guy. I love the guy. I love the guy.
His words play over and over in my thoughts.
Love. I. Love. The guy.
I sit next to the open window in the living room and listen to people in the pub. I can’t see the beer garden from Fernbank Cottage, but I hear the busy chatter. Every now and then, Owen’s distinct booming laugh cuts through the noise. The wisteria is starting to bloom and its perfume floods the room. Grilling meat and onions invade my nostrils, and occasionally, the breeze carries over the coconut scent of someone’s suncream. It feels like summer.
At precisely one a.m. I get a text message.
Owen:
Still alright for me to come over?
I respond with a nude selfie, but I cut the photo off just before my cock is visible. Since I’m already hard from thinking about what might transpire tonight, I have to pull it down out of the frame. My pecs are bunched together and the veins that track down my happy valley to my dick are bulging.
Owen:
Jesus. I’ll be there in 10. Quick shower. I stink.
Mathias:
No, come over sweaty.
No more than thirty seconds later, the door knocker bangs against the metal.
29
Sunday 27th April 2025
Owen
“We can talk if you want to?” I say it like a question.
I’d seen the online news coverage of the match, and Daisy and Lando had shown me what people were saying on social media. Though I still reckon doing a public statement about our friendship would help flip some of their opinions and give those bastards some other story to sell their papers with, it’s not my call to make. Hell, if our relationship wasn’t as temporary as it is, I’d be willing to go public with it.
Tell the world how into him I am. If I’ve forgiven him,so can they.
If Owen Bosley himself is sucking Mathias Jones’s dick, the least everyone else can do is not fucking boo him.
But Mathias obviously has other ideas than talking. He’s shirtless already and his hands cradle my face as he walks backwards through the cottage. He’s getting pretty good at remembering when to duck. “I don’t want to chat. I just want you to fuck the feelings out of me.”
“That can be arranged,” I respond.
He’s gentle with me as we climb the stairs, peppering my jaw with the lightest of kisses, his fingers soft as they whisper over the fabric of my shirt, teasing the buttons open. But there’s an edge to his movements, a bite, like he’s holding himself back. A wildcat ready to pounce on its prey.
The second we cross the threshold to the bedroom, Mathias slams me into the wall and hunches over me, burying his nose into the crook of my neck. My shirt hangs open and Mathias drags his face down my bare chest, sucking in the scent of me like a diver coming to the surface. He groans, and grinds his hips into mine.
Recently, I’ve been trying very,veryhard not to fall in love with Mathias Jones. He’ll be leaving in the summer and that’s that. Playing for the Bengals again, or somewhere closer to his family and his life before Mudford-upon-Hooke. Somewhere they don’t heckle him for playing the game he was born to play.
