Mathias is unrelenting. He’d already told me he wouldn’t go easy on me, and boy has he kept his promise. Every time I get even a whiff of the ball, he’s on me. And I know this is supposed to be a team effort, but I’m desperate to get in one last try. The rest of Team Boss also seems to want the same. I’m passed the ball more often than any other player, and the guys are positioning themselves to facilitate this.
But Mathias Jones is always there. Always ready to stopme.
We did captains’ interviews at half-time for the live-streamers, and Mathias came right out to tell the world that under no circumstance would he entertain the idea of “letting” me win. Not that he could even if he wanted to.
That’s simply not in his nature. He doesn’t have an off switch. Play to win, and nothing less. It’s one of the many, many reasons I’m so fucking obsessed with him.
But he’s right. I don’t want tolethim let me win. I want to earn it. Want to snatch victory from under his overpriced boots. Also, “let” me win.Pfft.
I didn’t play pro for seventeen fucking years to let this rookie shit-talk me like that.
There are no big screens at Mudford-upon-Hooke’s RFC club, no super-fancy scoreboard for me to keep track of the game or the time. There’s an old-school, light-upHOMEandAWAYboard attached to the wall of the hut building, but it’s laggy and my forty-five year old eyes are struggling to make out any of those tiny red LED numbers. I have to keep asking Lando, but he dismisses my questions with,“Don’t worry, we got ages,”or“Still losing, Mr B.”
Like, come on, dude. Give me specifics.
The game is too fast for specifics, though. It’s moving too quickly. But the old sevens lads are doing a pretty stellar job of keeping up with the young pros, and honestly, I couldn’t be prouder of them. Especially Lando. Okay he’s the youngest of them all, and his tactics are a little . . . morally dubious at times. He’s already spent ten minutes in the sin bin, and there are only so many incidents Daisy can “accidentally” overlook, but he’s giving it his all.
For me. Because he loves me and this little pub family we’ve built up.
None of these guys have to be here right now, putting themselves through this. Bryn’s got a split lip, and Harry Ellis has a slice above his brow—the first aid tent whacked a sticky plaster over it and sent him back out. One of the other Cents lads is sitting on the bench with an ice pack on his shoulder.
They’re all here for me; I have to keep reminding myself of that.
It’s humbling, and I kinda want to happy-cry. But mostly I just want to win this fucking game.
I’m pretty sure there are about fifteen minutes left, and Team Wild Card are fourteen points ahead. It’s not impossible to think we can turn it around—we’d need to score at least three times—but in my heart of hearts I know that ain’t happening. Not with Mathias Jones on the other team.
He’s a fucking machine—powerful, fast, and explosive—and not only that, he’ll read a play like it’s a pamphlet about 3D printers or drone cameras, and just sense where everyone is going, what they’re thinking, and how he’ll instantly and so wholly fuck everything up for my team. Also, he’s been taking the piss out of my scrum hat all afternoon.
Damn, I love him so much.
The best we can hope for is to narrow the point gap.
We’re moving towards the twenty-two metre line, and it’s possible. It could result in another try for us.
Cheering rips open the air around us.
“Come on Boss! C’mon Owen!”
Bryn passes the ball to Harry, who throws it to Lando, and instead of making a break for it since he probably has a better shot than the rest of us combined, Lando tosses it back to me so I can attempt the try.
Sure, here goes nothing.
My legs punch the turf as I find my hole, and I charge through it like I’m a bull in a . . . well, a bullring. Adrenaline courses through my veins, heart smashes against my ribs. The sheer volume from the stands drives me forward, like a wave carrying me closer to the try line.
There’s a big enough gap, and not much besides green in front of me. There’s a chance I could make it, but there’s also Mathias fucking Jones squaring off straight towards me. His palms are flat, slicing through the air as he closes the space with grotesque ease. He has that look on his face. The one that says,“I love you, but I only know how to win.”
With five metres between us, I fake to my right, then bounce left and drive forward.
Mathias doesn’t miss a single beat. Instinct, or hours of study, or maybe it’s that he simplyknowsme and can read my mind.
His arms are around my waist before I have even a nanosecond to reevaluate, change my strategy, and for one delicious second we’re airborne, weightless and alone, and then the solid, dry ground rises to meet us. It kisses my thighs, then hips, then shoulders, and I’m lying flat on my back with Mathias on top of me. Could be worse, I guess. My sky-high adrenaline numbs any initial pain, but the bruises will blossom tonight.
I don’t let go of the ball, I just enjoy having my boyfriend’s—my boyfriend’s, oh my god—entire weight pressing me into the dusty turf. There are boos coming from the crowd, but I’m sure they’re more panto-style jeering than hating on Mathias.
“Deja vu,” I say, because he’s not climbing off me either.
“Fuck off,” he replies, but he’s smiling. He leans his face closer to mine and kisses me on the nose, like a little boop.
