Fuck, Ihadforgotten. Owen and I break apart like someone’s thrown a bucket of ice over us. Spectators laugh, and in a horrific moment of clarity, I realise some of the fans have their phones in their hands.
We’re being live-streamed to thousands of people. I’m wearing a mic. They heard and saw everything. My little speech about feet. Me begging Owen to move in together. Our sex moans.
“Okay . . .” My face is flushed, and I’m pretty sure I’m having heart palpitations. Not sure whether it’s from the libido spike or the embarrassment of knowing hordes of people know what I sound like when I’m turned on. “I . . . I just wanted to tell you I love you.”
“I love you too,” Owen says, and kisses me again, but with a lot more restraint this time. There’s no whining involved. It’s soft and sweet, bordering on chaste.
“Though . . . I am gonna have to ask you to give up your side of the bed,” I tell him. The need for some breathing space whilst everything . . . deflates and flattens itself is suddenly the most pressing issue at hand. “I can’t get used to sleeping on the other side. It feels wrong.”
“Anything you want. You know I can fall asleep anywhere.” Owen glances down the front of my body. His eyes snag on my shorts, and he obviously decides we need more time. “So, what should we have for tea tonight?”
The crowd laugh again. I hear the phrase echo throughout the stands as people regale it to one another.
“Actually, I quite fancy some gnocchi,” I say.
“Holy shit. Oh, Jesus. That word in your accent is the most perfect thing I’ve ever heard.” Owen places a hand on my chest, steading himself.
“Gnocchi,” I repeat, slower this time, overenunciating the syllables.
He grins at me, wide and derpy, as though he’s just received an injection of dopamine straight to the brain.
“Can you stand yet?” he asks.
As subtly as possible, I shake my head. It does not go unnoticed by the live-streamers in the audience, who holler.
“Can you?” I ask him in a whisper.
“Nope,” Owen replies.
“Ew, no. Spare me, please.” Daisy pretends to weep, then she clears her throat. “Sarasi, can we play one of our adverts?” The next second, she lowers the camera and holds out her palm towards me. “Mic.”
I unclip the device and place it in her hand.
“I don’t think anyone expected love confessions on their feed tonight. Okay, there’s about ten minutes till kick-off. I’m gonna do some vox pops or some shit,” she says, then turns away and leaves us in the middle of the pitch.
“I’m so happy you’re staying,” Owen whispers.
It’s just for me, just for my ears. There’s no camera, no mic, and there’s no possibility the crowd can overhear us.
“Me too.” I grab his hand in mine, drag my thumb across his knuckles. “I really love you, by the way.”
Owen leans closer, pulls me down a little so that his lips are brushing my ear. “I’m obsessed with you.”
Team Boss wins the coin toss, so at kick-off Harry Ellis boots the ball over the ten metre line. It’s a textbook drop kick with a shit tonne of hang time, andputs us all chasing it down. Lando’s on Owen’s team and he’s fucking fast, probably because his legs are three miles long a piece.
I’m the one to snatch the ball from the air, but Lando is already here, throwing his gym-hewn muscles and his never-do-anything-by-halves attitude into bringing me down. Which he does.
The crowd is on its feet, cheering, singing, sloshing their pints. Some of them wave Welsh flags, some have hand-painted signs. The sun has seen off any wisp of cloud, and there’s nothing but an expanse of picture-perfect summer blue overhead.
It’s a knock-on and Daisy calls a scrum.
“Out of my way, Picnic Eggs,” Owen says as he passes me with his adorable green head guard on. “The big boys will take it from here.”
36
Saturday 21st June 2025
Owen
