Page 19 of One Last Try

If the stories are focused on my kids, at least it’ll give Mathias Jones a break from being constantly harangued by the press and the so-called fans.

“And Daisy?” a reporter says, moving the microphone between my kids. “How proud are you of your dad? Have you got anything you’d like to say to him?”

A slight crease mars Daisy’s brow. She leans forward and with utmost seriousness says into the mic, “Are we still getting KFC on the way home?”

Laughter explodes in the hall. The cameras go wild. I was wrong. This is what they’ll be running with. Mathias Jones escapes another day.

While the press is occupied, I get to my feet, and signal to Davina and the producer with a nod of my head that I’m ready to leave. It seems as good a time as any to end the conference—at least my daughters’ and my involvement in it. Someone rushes over to support me by the elbow and escort me out of the room, while Davina follows behind with the girls and Kirsty, and Eksteen and McGaffrey stay to talk shop. Strategy and tactics and hopes for the new team. Things I have no business concerning myself with any more.

It’s still daytime when we leave London. Kirsty drives because I’m not allowed to with my damn boot.

We stop at Chieveley for KFC. I have a burger meal and it’s surprisingly good, or perhaps I’m too hungry to notice if it isn’t good. The girls both havefull adult-sized meals, and a piece of my heart aches for the time they’d have had the kiddie meals with the tiny packets of chips and the shitty toys.

When Kirsty pulls up next to my car on the gravel drive of Fernbank Cottage, it’s dark. Both the house and pub are eerily still and silent. All the lights are off, and the only illumination is cast by the street lamp beyond the front gate. It throws a chilling orange light onto everything, giving a horror movie vibe to the evening. Seems appropriate.

Everyone jumps out of Kirsty’s car, eager—or obliged—to give me a goodbye cuddle.

I held it together throughout the three-hour journey home. Now, only a few more minutes of holding it in and I can be alone with . . . all my thoughts. Yeesh. That’s not going to be fun.

I manage to squeeze out “love yous” to the girls on the top step of the cottage.

“Love you too, Dad,” they say, heading back towards the car and already fighting over who gets to sit in the front.

Kirsty hugs me, longer than she has done in a very long time. My body sags into hers, the adrenaline finally waning. “You gonna be okay here on your own?” I don’t know if she means right now or forevermore.

“I’ll be fine,” I reply, the words forced out through an unconvincing smile.

She pulls back to look me in the eye. “We’re so proud of you, Owen, and everything you’ve accomplished.”

My dam bursts. The tears I’d been holding in all day explode out of me, freefall to the ground. I pinch the bridge of my nose in a futile attempt to stem the flow.

“Do you want us to stay tonight?”

I give myself five seconds to mull it over and then decide there’s no point in lying. “Yes.”

Kirsty nods, wipes a tear from my cheek the way I did with Molly. “Let me just call Mark . . . tell him we won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I say, as she waves for the girls to get out of the car again.

That night, Kirsty takes my bed, and I sleep on an air mattress in the gap between the girls’ single beds.

8

Monday 31st March 2025

Mathias

“We’ll be training indoors today. Strength and cardio,” Dan says, meeting me at the entrance of the Cents’ grounds. He leads me through the expansive foyer and towards the locker rooms.

It’s a crying shame, because it’s so sunny outside and I’ve honestly forgotten what sunshine feels like on my cheeks. People are out mowing lawns, and there’s the smell of spring in the air. I even saw some bumblebees this morning.

Dan’s wearing the standard Bath colours, red and gold, but it’s not proper kit. “Why do they call you Gadget?”

I shrug. “’Cause I lovetech.”

“Fair play.” Dan cracks a grin.

Dan Chelford is the captain of the Bath Centurions. He’s Black with a mullet and tache combo, twenty-seven—two years younger than me—and plays second row. He’s the sort of guy who most folk adore. Easygoing, goofy in that self-deprecating way, up for anything. People eat that shit up. He’s already making jokes about my shorts, his daily carb intake, and our teammates’ philandering. I plaster on a smile and laugh along with him.

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