Page 86 of One Last Try


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“Sure,” I say, because Mathias and I worked hard on it last night—hard being the operative word—and I need something to distract me.

Mathias watches me quietly. He’s the only person here not smiling.

In theory, this rematch has the potential to earn the kind of money we could only dream of, but it also has the potential to cement Mathias Jones as the Cents’ number one enemy, and I’m . . . not okay with that.

I don’t want folk to dislike Mathias more than they already do. I want him to stay here, live in my village, play for my old team. I want people to stop heckling him and open their fucking eyes, see the real him, fall in love with him as I have.

Because . . . damn, I’m so fucking in love with Mathias Jones.

32

Saturday 31st May 2025

Mathias

The next few weeks pass in a haze. I’m so focused on the end of the season and the premiership, I barely contribute anything besides research to the rematch fundraiser event. All I do is look things up and forward the details to Daisy. She and Lando have taken care of the actual organising. I feel guilty, but I trust them, and I have more time-sensitive issues at hand.

Cents have had two more games, both wins, and the final match of the season will commence in . . . approximately seven minutes. We’re playing Bristol at home, andI’m nervous.

Not about my game. I never suffer pre-game nerves. That’s just not how my brain works. I train hard and I study harder. I’ve analysed the other team and their weaknesses. I don’t gamble unless I have a foolproof strategy to win, and I know my plan of attack. Bristol are good, but they’re not unbeatable.

No, the nerves stem from something else.

Owen has somehow wangled another half-time interview with the press, and though I’ve forbidden him from saying anything about our relationship, he’s going to reveal the rematch game.

This is it . . . the big announcement.

The youngsters have held back from posting on social media until now. And then ticket sales will go live. There are thirty-four thousand pounds to raise, not including expenses and licences and such. It’ll be tough going, that’s for sure, but I know we can do this. I feel it at a cell-deep level.

Daisy’s sitting in the stands with Lando. There’s a sandwich board outside The Little Thatch, and in looping writing it reads:CLOSED FOR A FAMILY EVENT.

Family.My fucking heart.

She has my superfast laptop open on her knees to keep track of ticket sales when they go live in just under an hour. We’ve figured out that with the portable bleachers we’ve rented, and standing room, there are seven hundred physical tickets up for grabs plus unlimited streaming passes. We also have plans to set up a projector in the beer garden, and pool beanbags and secondhand sofas and picnic blankets and all sorts to make a festival-style viewing area for those who don’t secure tickets.

Aside from event planning, training, and games, Owen and I have barely spent a minute apart, and if we haven’t been shoving our hands down each other’s pants, we’ve been at the club grounds doing our own training.

Owen’s been working hard to bring his fitness level back up to . . . an approximation of his heyday. He’s determined that the rematch won’t be a washout.“I’m not letting you steamroller me in front of thousands of people,”he’d said. I expected nothing less. He wouldn’t have becomemyOwen if he didn’t give it his absolute all.

It helps that he’s never missed a sevens session, and mostly, he’s able to keep up with me. Right up until that one time when we all did the beep test in Hepton’s school hall. Owen flaked out at level four. I maxed out at twelve point seven. Lando surprisingly made it all the way to fifteen, and then promptly vomited into a nearby wheely mop bucket. Not sure that boy knows how to do anything in manageable chunks.

Off the pitch and out of the gym, Owen and I bring our cuddle record up to eleven minutes—which, frankly, I’m fucking proud of myself for. I’ve never been a cuddler, but it’s comfortable in Owen’s arms, and he smells . . . right, and it’s only when I think about it too much that I struggle to breathe and have to push away. But he never seems to mind, he just gives me a sloppy smile and lays his hand on whichever part of my body is closest to him—my feet, my back, my butt.

Owen continues to cook for me at every opportunity, or gets Tyler to, and I’ve eaten so many potatoes made in so many ways he reckons I’ll become potatoed out, but that’s an impossibility.

The potato limit does not exist.

Over the past three weeks, the boos have consistently decreased. Don’t get me wrong, they’re still there. Still a few unforgiving types who insist on reminding me I’m the cunt. I’m the one who cost Owen Bosley his career, and they’ll never forget that. But they’re not as adamant as they were the last game, or the game before that.

Dan and Eksteen reckon there’ll come a point when they stop heckling me altogether.“They’re shutting up because they realise you’re winning us—them—games. Simple as.”

I’m not sure they’ll stop indefinitely, especially after our little rematch stunt we’re about to pull. There’s potential for me to reignite that hatred, because I don’t plan on going easy on Owen, or any of the other guys from Team Boss. That would be unfair to them, to me, to my squad, and the viewers.

Team Wild Card plays to win. Not sure the ’tism would let me do it any other way.

The first half of the Bristol game is incredible. Bristol are shit hot. And clean. And it’s the kind of hard-fought match that makes me remember why I love playing this sport. Cents come away from the first half seven points down, but buoyed. A win is totally within our reach.

We run back to the locker room to get ready for the second half—refuel, pee, get aching muscles rubbed down, chat to the coaches and the physios, strategize. We bandy about peppy phrases like“We got this,”and“We can turn this around,”and“Bristol won’t know what hit them.”