Page 14 of One Last Try

“And of course,” I continue. “On weekends we watch the rugby. Sunday mornings we play sevens in the field behind the pub. You’re welcome to join us. The old boys are getting a bit lazy these days. We could do with having a pro around to light a fire under their asses.”

He still doesn’t respond, so I take it as my cue to leave him the fuck alone. He needs time to process everything, make some decisions.

I get to my feet. “I’ll be off, then. Daze will be over tomorrow for your empty dishes.” I head back through the living room, but pause before I get to the porch. “You know, you can stay here as long as you like. You’ll always be welcome here.”

“Thank you,” he says, so quietly I’m not sure I heard him correctly. “For the food . . . and the welcome. And for not . . .” He doesn’t finish his thought.

It’s not until I get back to the pub that I realise I should have said something about the accident. I don’t blame him, or harbour any grudges—and he shouldalready know this; I’ve said it often enough in interviews—but perhaps I ought to tell him to his face.

Maybe I’ll send myself and not my daughter around tomorrow to collect his tray.

6

Wednesday 26th March 2025

Owen

When I pop back to Fernbank Cottage to collect Mathias’s empty dishes, I find them already waiting for me on the top step, resting on the welcome mat, spotlessly clean. I knock on the door regardless, but there’s no answer. No voices murmur from behind the walls. No TV, no radio . . . and no van waits on the gravel drive like last night. Mathias is out.

I brush aside the disappointment. It’s Wednesday. He told me he didn’t have training until Monday, so perhaps he ventured into Hookborough to buy groceries, or maybe he’s visiting friends who live nearby . . . I let out an involuntary laugh. Mathias . . . friends? That theory feels unlikely. The guyseems somewhat . . . friend-averse. Maybe he’s returning the rental van, swapping it back for his car.

I’d spent the morning practicing in my head—and in the mirror—what I’d say to him today.

“Hi Mathias. I know we got off on the wrong foot yesterday, but I just wanted to mention, if you didn’t already know, that I don’t blame you for the accident. It was never your fault. We all accept the risks when we lace up those boots. In fact, you were incredible. In your debut game, no less.

“I don’t want there to be this weirdness between us, because I’d really like for you to stay here in Mudford-upon-Hooke.So I’m wondering if we could put all of that to one side for approximately six to twenty-four months, please?”

Or something along those lines, but less shit.

It’d be nice to have someone around who understands the demands pro rugby puts on a guy. Sure, I have mates—rugby obsessed mates who play sevens with me on the weekend and are always about for post-match dissections—but playing at pro level for Bath or Cardiff or England or Wales is a different experience altogether. One only a select few are ever privy to.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a friend like that around. I see old teammates now and again, at Cents games or big press events, but having someone right across the road from me who could empathise would be another story. I had let myself get excited. For those five seconds while his pint of Guinness crept along the flagstones, I’d let myself feel hopeful that perhaps I might have a neighbour who I share more than just a fondness for a sport with.

And at the same time, I feel a sense of relief for not having to open up and talk about that day. I don’t know why I’m so nervous around him, or at least at the thought of saying those things.

I collect up the tray and carry it back over to The Little Thatch.

Daisy peers down at the plates as I place them on the side. “He washed them. What did he use? I forgot to put Fairy Liquid in his welcome bag.”

I shrug. “Maybe he brought some with him. Or maybe he used shower gel?”

“That’s the most blokeish thing you’ve ever said,” she responds. “So, is he staying?”

“He wasn’t there. Van’s gone. I’m not sure where he is. He left these on the step for me.”

Daisy stares at me for a moment, in that way only Daisy can. Like she’s rooting through my thoughts as though digging through a box of old postcards at a car boot sale. Like she knows there’s one in there that’s extremely valuable, and she won’t stop until she locates it.

Under her scrutiny, I almost blurt out that I want him to stay. That I like him . . . maybe in ways I shouldn’t, I’m not even sure. All I know is that after I closed the pub last night and retired to my little flat, I spent the entire time peering out my window at the cottage. I watched the lights move from downstairs to upstairs. The warm orange glow from the Morgan and Bianchi lamps I bought after Kirsty and I broke up filling the rooms, spilling out into the garden below.

Occasionally, Mathias would pass by the main bedroom window, and the smaller side window of the bathroom—sadly opaque. I tried not to stare, I really did, but when he stepped into the bathroom in his “slutty” shorts and T-shirt, and emerged wearing a pair of grey joggers and nothing else, I found myself unable to look away. Not that I could see a great deal, to be honest—he’d have to be standing directly in front of the window for me to get a proper look—but what I glimpsed, I enjoyed. More than I feel comfortable admitting.

I don’t need Daisy finding out how much of a pervert her old man is.

This time, it seems she hasn’t found the precise postcard she’s looking for. Or more likely she has found it but has decided not to pursue it at present.

“Wanna look at Mathias’s Instagram pictures?” Okay, so maybe she is pursuing it.

I do, as it goes, but I’m not a teenager with a crush. “Don’t be daft, Daze.”

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