“Fuck your hand, Wild Card,” I demand. “I can’t—oh god—I can’t go much longer.”
“I’ll come,” he simply replies.
“Do it.” I lean up on my arms and Mathias reaches between us, wraps his fingers around himself, and starts pumping. I speed up my thrusts again, working us both closer to that edge.
I’m not breathing. I don’t care. I stare transfixed as Mathias’s hand stills. He throws his head back, eyes slamming themselves shut, and he cries out.
“Owen.” His release stripes his chest in silky white ribbons.
It’s two seconds tops before I follow him over that peak. I pillow my forehead onto his shoulder and whine through my orgasm, and then I collapse on top of him as I catch my breath.
And I realise I don’t know how I’m going to recover from this.
Eight years ago, I broke my leg, but I also broke Mathias Jones. In more ways than one.
I need to be the person who puts him back together.
30
Friday 2nd May 2025
Mathias
“Isn’t this his fifth song in a row?” Daisy asks, leaning over the bar.
Harry Ellis, a.k.a. Abs, is standing on the makeshift stage in the centre of Owen’s pub. It’s an upturned half barrel, and must be one of those physics riddles where an item is stronger than it looks because it’s successfully held aloft a great number of oversized rugby lads.
Harry’s currently belting his absolute heart out to Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life.” He’s okay. Not as good as Pi’s “Man, I Feel Like a Woman,” not awful like Eggo’s rendition of “Shotgun,” but infinitely better than Dan’s “Teenage Dirtbag,” which I’m pretty sure caused my ears tohaemorrhage.
“It is,” I say. “But I’m still recovering from Wheatus, or Weepus as I’m now going to refer to them, and honestly, I’m happy with anything so long as it takes the mic away from Dan. Plus, Lando seems to be enjoying himself.”
During training this week, I invited some of the Cents boys to Payday Karaoke. I even used the phrase, “the more the merrier,” despite that being a barefaced lie, but luckily only four of them could make it.
About halfway through the first round of songs, Lando, Viv, Tom, and Bryn decided they would hang up their singing shoes for the night and judge. Daisy gave them each a blank “specials” chalkboard, a chalk pen, and a wet dishrag. They have to share the rag.
As expected, Viv and Bryn are taking the whole thing semi-seriously and giving the lads scores out of ten. The same, however, cannot be said for Tom or Lando.
Tom writes full-blown messages on his, somewhere in the vein of:
“Blink twice if you need help.”
Or“I know the number of a good exorcist.”
And Lando’s started off fairly innocuous, but swiftly began edging into sexual harassment territory.
“Call me.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“I can host.”
I’m pretty sure he’s developed a thing for Harry.
“Has he pulled?” I ask Daisy.
She ping-pongs her gaze between her best friend and the now-reserve Cents’ fly-half. “Depends on how much they drink. I reckon if Abs has more than eight pints, and Lan has fewer than four, they’re in.”
I nod and take a big swig of my Catesby cider.
