The crowd cheers. Viv cheers. The women behind me are whooping and grabbing my arms and shoulders, congratulating me.
Mathias waits for the bleachers full of people to calm. “I’ve never been anyone’s boyfriend before, and . . .” More cheering, this time a few wolf whistles are thrown in. “And I was kinda wondering if I could be yours?” He has to wait for another lull to continue. “I want to stay here in Mudford with you in your dinky little cottage. I’m going to sign with the Cents again next year and—”
At this, the crowd blow the non-existent roof off, but Mathias is frowning now, glancing around the grounds. Once more, looking for me.
“Viv, water,” I say.
“Where are you, Owen?” Mathias’s voice wavers on my name.
“I’m coming!” I yell.
I ignore theawwsfrom thegroup of women. Viv places a pint glass of tap water in front of me. I down it in one, and I’m already jumping over the styles to be with him.
35
Saturday 21st June 2025
Mathias
Sunlight cleaves open the clouds, leaving jagged stripes of blue across the sky. I shield my eyes, using my hand as a visor, and scan the grounds for him. My pulse ticks sickeningly against the base of my throat. I’m already spiralling, already catastrophising.
What if he didn’t hear me? Or worse, what if hedidhear me and has made his choice? What if he’s fucked off to the pub or the cottage and isn’t coming back?
Over my mental caterwauling, the crowd chants, “OWEN BOSLEY, WHERE ARE YOU? OWEN BOSLEY,WHERE ARE YOU?”
I’m standing smack bang in the middle of the pitch, and although there are over seven hundred people here today, I’m completely alone.
Daisy’s filming the spectators. “It’s B roll,” she tells me, though she’s too distracted by her missing father to focus on getting any meaningful footage.
Molly’s running around asking every person with a vaguely familiar face, “Have you seen my dad?”
Lando’s insisting over and over that “Mr B’s probably just got the runs. Dicky tummy.” And then he assures everyone, “I’ve had six shits already this morning.” As though his IBS is a perfectly appropriate topic to discuss with complete strangers.
But even if it was a nervous stomach, that’s not Owen. Not my Owen. He doesn’t get anxious about this sort of thing. He’s a beacon of steadfastness and reliability and he’s always there for everybody, no matter what, and . . . this mess is entirely my fault.
I had an idea, a spur of the moment“hey, this’ll be a great way to show him how hard I’ve fallen,”but I didn’t think to consult anyone. Didn’t reassure folkI wasn’t running away and would be back momentarily, and when I found Molly again, she had red-rimmed eyes and thick silver tear tracks down her cheeks.
And now I’ve blown it.
I wanted to tell Owen that people leaking photos of us holding hands or kissing doesn’t bother me. That in fact I like seeing them. That I . . . want them to know what we have is genuine, and regardless of what folk think of me—as the weird, awkward villain who ended Owen’s career—it’s not their opinion that matters any more.
It’s only his.
Owen Bosley’s.
The first adult man I ever had a crush on. I was fourteen, and Mam and Dad took me to a live Cents versus Bengals game. It was May, it was boiling, and we had tickets in the exposed section right at the front. No shelter. I was hot and bothered, at sensory peak, but then I glimpsed Owen—already a rugby legend by this point—at the side of the pitch doing adductor stretches, and I had . . . an awakening.
And then I finally met him, ruined everything during that two-minute encounter, and spent the rest of my career avoiding him.
But things have changed.
I want to greet Owen the same way Dan Chelford greets his wife after games. I want to kiss him on the mouth in front of everyone, wrap myself up in his warmth, touch him in public without people snapping secret photos of us.
I wanted to tell him this, face to face, live on camera. But I have no fucking clue where he’s disappeared to, and it’s all my fault because I’m useless at communication.
I had no choice.Tell the world how much I love Owen and hope he hears me.
Only . . . I’m not sure he has, because he’s still nowhere to be seen.
