Page 18 of One Last Try

But I can’t be fucked with that today. “Yes. I’ve bought a pub. My local, actually. I’m going to be a landlord.”

The hall breaks out in surprised murmurs. Pens dart across notepads. There’s an undercurrent of excitement, and I already know that some of theirarticles will focus on my new venture. I can see their brains racing to find punny headlines.

From pitches to pints. From rucks to real ales. From half-time to half a shandy . . .Hey, I’m in the wrong game here.

“Does the pub have a name?” the BBC reporter asks. “And will you be serving food? And when can we all come round?”

Everyone laughs. I force a smile. No point hiding the name or location. It’ll get leaked sooner rather than later. “It’s called The Little Thatch, in my hometown of Mudford-upon-Hooke, and yes, we will serve food. Needs a bit of renovation work before we get to that point, though.”

Another question. I don’t recognise their face, and can’t see what’s printed on their lanyard. “Have you forgiven Mathias Jones?”

Nervous titters.

I don’t hide my groan or eye roll. “Listen, there is nothing to forgive. Mathias was playing the game and playing it bloody well considering only the week before he was still signed to the academy squad. I’m not about to hold a grudge against a man who shows every potential to become one of the greatest players of his generation.” My pulse spikes. The room gets a few dozen degrees warmer, but I keep my voice calm . . . even. “Am I gutted my career ended where it did? Of course I am. Right before the Six Nations selection. But that’s nothing on Mathias Jones.”

I suck in a breath, feel everyone’s eyes burning my flesh. The fifth and final England game of the Six Nations would have been my one hundredth cap. I’d spent the past few years dreaming, fantasising about scoring a try during that match.

Score a try at my one hundredth cap, on Super Saturday. That was the plan. That had always been the plan. I could retire any time after that and feel like I’d done everything, checked off every box, completed every level. The final boss, as it were.

So sure, I’m pissed I’ll miss out on that, but that doesn’t mean it’s Jones’s fault.

“I’m thirty-eight. I can’t play rugby forever, and I’m not sure my body would forgive me if I tried.”

In all fairness, I should have stepped aside sooner and let some of the younger lads have their moments, but I’d let it—the game, the adrenaline, the camaraderie, the respect, and the glory—consume too much of myself. Too much of my time with the girls.

Other questions get asked and answered. I barely register them.

“Will you continue your involvement in the sport somehow?” someone asks.

“I don’t think it’s possible to fully extract rugby from any of us. Rugby is and has always been part of me, and it forever will be,” I reply.

“Owen, you’ve left pretty big shoes to fill. How do you think McGaffrey will fare with the captaincy?”

“This will be the first time in nearly a decade you’ve missed out on the Six Nations. How do you feel about that?”

“What advice would you give to young players looking to follow in your footsteps?”

“Blah.”

“Blah.”

“Blah.”

And then the questions turn personal, and now I’m paying attention.

“Owen, what do your girls think about your retirement?”

I steady my breath. Don’t let emotion through. “Like I said, I’m thirty-eight. We’ve all known this moment has been coming for a while. Obviously we didn’t expect it to happen this way, but I like to imagine they’re still proud of me.”

Cameras pan around to the girls, and I know what’s about to unfold. Molly and Daisy have been prepped for it.

A mic is pushed in front of Molly, and a reporter asks, “Molly, how proud are you of Daddy?”

I roll my eyes. She’s fourteen, not six. She stopped calling me Daddy a longtime ago.

“He’s my hero,” she says, just like she practiced with Davina and the producer in the dressing room. The crowd sighs, and then she goes off script. “It doesn’t matter to me or Daisy that Dad won’t be playing rugby any more. We’ll always think he’s the best. He’s the bravest, kindest dad ever, and I love him so much.”

I have to pull my lips between my teeth and bite down, close my eyes, and inhale for the count of four to stop the tide of emotions pulling me under. I can’t see the journalists, but I can hear them. The collective “aww,” the scrabble of pens, the click of cameras photographing not only Molly but no doubt my auto-shutdown reaction as well. This kind of family-man shit is like gold dust to them, and I know this will be the angle they run with. I force my eyes open and give Molly my best, albeit wobbliest, smile.

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