Both Mathias and I pretend we don’t see them. They’re just doing what sisters do. Under the table, Mathias rubs his bare calf over my shin.
And we chat, and chat, and chat. We celebrate Molly’s degree being over. We talk about Daisy’s new role at the pub. We gossip about Lando’s latest escapades with Harry Ellis, a.k.a. Abs. And of course, we discuss the upcoming rematch.
We have a week left until the big day. And I’m excited to see everyone’s hard work coming together. I trust them all to pull off a fantastic event, but I also wish it would never arrive.
I’m not ready for Mathias to leave Mudford.
Honestly, I’m not sure I ever will be.
34
Saturday 21st June 2025
Owen
The weather is perfect. Slightly overcast, which at least means the light won’t be in our eyes while we play, but it’s still warm. The scent of coconut suncream and fried onions blows through the grounds on a gentle breeze. The stands are filling up. People are milling about buying snacks and drinks, getting their faces painted, and snapping selfies with the Cents boys.
We’ve managed to wangle sponsorship from a few local businesses and had special kits made up with the sponsors’ logos printed on our chests and the seats of our shorts. Team Boss are wearing moss-green shirts with“Pizza di Zia”written in white vinyl letters. Honestly, we lucked out. Team WildCard are in navy and white stripes and have been sponsored by Cluck & Crumb: Picnic Eggs.It’s a little too wordy for one line and has therefore been spread over two.
The really unfortunate part is that the hems of Team Wild Card’s shirts cover the top line of text, and the only thing visible are the wordsPICNIC EGGSsplayed across their ass cheeks.
Tom is on Mathias’s team and has not taken it well. He tried to “fall” into a patch of mud to hide the words, but now the lettering only shines out even brighter against the brown,andit looks like he’s shat himself. Bryn—on my team—is beside himself with glee.
We’ve made all the money we need to cover the roof, and then some. Every physical ticket has sold out, and over eight thousand people signed up to stream the game. Daisy and Lando have compiled a list of charities for us to donate the extra cash to, which makes me feel a lot better. We’re not just doing it for my pub, we’re going to make a difference to a lot of other folk as well.
Ryan the Thatcher, as I think he’s officially known, is booked in for July and paid off in full.
It’s bittersweet. Though mostly bitter, because in a couple of days Mathias will be leaving Mudford-upon-Hooke. He’s not started packing yet, but he has brought all his moving boxes down from the loft in preparation.
I can’t compartmentalise like Mathias can. I can’t fucking put these thoughts to one side.
He’s leaving.
I love him, and he’s leaving.
Okay, fine, Mudford to Caerphilly is only an hour and a half’s drive. An hour and a half! It’s not even that far, but I’m going to be missing out on so much. Bengals have made an offer to sign him, so he’ll be in Wales all week and busy travelling and playing games on the weekends. He won’t be able to spend Wednesday nights planning quizzes with me, or Thursday evenings emceeing. He won’t be there for our sevens practices and karaoke parties, and everyone—not just me—is going to miss him.
If we agree to carry on with our relationship long distance, it’ll be on Sundays after his domestic games only. And those are always the busiest for me at the pub.
And that’s if he wants to continue at all. Long distance isn’t for everyone, and I still need to work up the courage to ask him.
Over the past three weeks, we’ve been sharing my old bed every night. I’ve been waking up next to him every morning. We’ve taken it in turns to make each other breakfast.
I won’t get any of that any more. I’m constantly reminding myself of the rules he drilled into me before we started sleeping together. He’d said,“I’m not looking for anything long term,”and“I can’t get into anything serious,”and“Eventually one of us is going to get hurt.”
I fucked about and now I’m finding out, and sweet baby Jesus, it hurts.
We’re warming up, running through a few drills to get us in the zone and loosen our muscles, and I need to push these thoughts aside. I need the match to be successful, need it to be entertaining for people. I need to provide value for money.
Folk have paid decent moolah to watch something that’s been eight years in the making. I would be so disappointed in myself if we didn’t put on a good show for them.
Team Boss are stretching near the goalpost when I spot Mathias walking off to the edge of the pitch. Damn those slutty Picnic Eggs shorts of his, they should not look as mouthwatering as they do. Molly’s there. She waves me over too.
“Carry on, boys,” I say to the lads and jog over as I pull my scrum hat on.
There’s something wrong. I know instantly from her stance, the way her brows knit together. She has her phone in her hand. All around me I notice people looking at their phones, showing their neighbours, then pointing at us.
Molly pulls us into the locker room. A few Cents and sevens guys loiter inside, some with their tops off as they tape themselves up.
