Me!
He’s looking for me.
The realisation hits me all at once. He didn’t run away. He went to find the camera crew. Maybe to . . . I dunno, deny the evidence of the photos? Claim we haven’t been fucking this entire time? Nobody’s gonna believe him if that’s the case. That photo speaks for itself. Unless he says they were all AI . . . but still . . .
What if he’s about to publicly dump me? Explain that while we were fuck buddies, as of next week it’s all over.
His mic isn’t switched on, but his mouth moves and I hear his voice inside my head. That beautiful soft accent of his. “Where’s Owen?” I love the way he says my name.
Ohh-win.
“He’s right here!” says one woman, having obviously read the words on his lips too, and the rest laugh.
Arms belonging to one of my daughters move into view and affix the microphone to his collar. “Say something to test the mic,” Molly or Daisy says faintly after moving back behind the camera. I’m still not sure which of my offspring it is.
“What should I say?” Mathias says, clear as day, and the patrons of the pub mute themselves to listen.
“Yep, that’ll work.” Definitely Daisy. She hands him another microphone. This one’s longer with a big silver head thing. The emcee mic. He’s going to speak to the entire crowd and the live stream viewers at the same time.
I’m pawing at the TV like a cat beside an aquarium, though nobody asks me to move.
“He’ll hear you, don’t worry,” Daisy says.
Mathias nods once, fixes his posture and the frown on his face, and looks out to the bleachers. “Good afternoon Mudford-upon-Hooke! I hope you’re all having a lovely day here.”
People cheer, but peppering the applause are a few boos. I want to run down the hill to him, but I can’t miss whatever he’s about to say. I’d rather be run over with a cast-iron hit shield than miss this.
“Oh, come on. Can we just stop it with the booing already?” Mathias says, slapping one hand against his hip. “I’m well aware I’m the bad guy. I get it, okay? I signed up to this event tobethe bad guy, because I know all you wanna see is a good old fight between Owen and me, but actually I’m kinda sick of it. I don’t like it, and honestly, it hurts my feelings.”
The fact that he didn’t stumble over his words, or hesitate, pulls at something deep in my gut. The stands are quiet; they’ve been stunned into silence. Beside me one of Mathias’s fan club members says, “Naw, bless him.”
“And if you’re still gonna boo me . . . well, you can go sit over there in the big babies’ corner.” The crowd laughs and Mathias looks off to the left. “Alright, Roger? Going okay over there?”
They laugh again.
“He’s just called me a very rude word I can’t say on the telly,” Mathias says.
Daisy’s faint voice chimes in with, “It’s YouTube, not the BBC. You can swear if you like.”
“In that case, he’s just called me a wanker.” Mathias looks at his watch. “Right, kick-off is in about twenty-five minutes. There’s still time to get a glitter tattoo or grab a hotdog or a lovely pint of Hooker’s Dribble before we start.
“I want to say a really big thank you to everyone who bought tickets, and those who purchased streaming passes and are at home watching online right now. And also a massive thank you to the folk who helped organise this event. Special thanks to Daisy and Molly Bosley, Orlando Oakham-Goodwin, Tomas Bianchi and Bryn Morgan, Vivian Hillier, and all the Bath Centurions boys.”
The crowd cheers at the mention of their beloved team.
Mathias smiles, licks his lips, rearranges his features. “Okay, so . . . some of you may have seen the photos of Owen and me circulating on TikTok andInstagram, and I expect by now pretty much everywhere else. If you haven’t, you can look at them later, but I want to put the rumours to rest, and tell you . . . that actually . . . yeah, we are dating.”
I hear the gasp of the crowd.
“And really . . .” His voice wobbles. His breath hitches. He’s nervous. “I think it’s a lot more than just dating.”
My pulse spikes, palms sweating.
“Oh my god,” says the red-headed woman behind me. “He’s going to confess his lov—”
Her friend shushes her.
Mathias looks dead at the camera. “Owen, I don’t know where you’ve gone to, but I hope you can hear me now, and that you get back in time for kick-off . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I wanted to say this face to face, but I’ll have to settle for saying it live on TV and hope you can see me. I love you. Fucking loads, actually. I’ve never felt this way about another person before. And I hope it’s okay for me to tell the world like this, but I dunno, this . . . us . . . it feels right.”
