Page 41 of One Last Try

Everyone else stops their conversations, glances over at us, and cheers. I know in my gut they’re cheering for Owen, but for one heart-faltering second, I let myself get swept away with the idea they’re excited to see me too.

“Let me show you around the place,” Owen says. His smile is so wide it can probably be seen from the space station. “Here’s the pitch.” He holds out a hand. “That’s the locker room and shower block.” He holds out his other hand, pointing to the somewhat ramshackle building on our right. It bears a peeling vinyl sign with gold lettering, which reads:MUDFORD-UPON-HOOKE RFC. “And that’s the storage shed.”

Most of the guys are already in their kits, so when Owen and I head into the locker room, it’s empty save for two men tying the laces on their boots.

“We thought—well, the lads thought that since it’s not often we have a professional player amongst our ranks, you might be able to do a bit of coaching? And then afterwards we can play a little match,” Owen says. He finds a clear spot on the wraparound bench, dumps his bag on the tiles, and takes a seat.

The bench is littered with other people’s clothes—jackets and hoodies hung up on the pegs, and trousers and shorts on the wooden slats. Sometimes they’re folded, but mostly it’s just a mini mountainscape of different coloured denim. I look around the space for actual lockers, but don’t find any.

It’s a bog standard school-style locker room. There are speckled beige tiles on the floor and wall, worn dark-wood benches pockmarked with occasional graffiti, and eighties utilitarian clothes pegs on the wall. In places, the grout has blackened, and some of the tiles are cracked. The place has a well-used but slightly uncared for air to it.

Owen must see me searching amongst the chaos. “There are lockers on the other side of that wall, but none of them have keys, so there’s no point in using them.”

It wasn’t what I was looking for, but I nod and make a space opposite him by pushing someone’s jeans along the bench. “What did you mean, do some coaching?”

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve been involved in pro rugby, and we . . . they . . . mostly Daisy to be fair, thought you could show us some of the training techniques you do at Cents. Or Bengals, even.” He kicks off his trainers, tucks his socks inside them, and stands to undo his shorts.

I look at the floor. “Um . . .”

I’m going to say no. I already know I’m going to say no, but part of me wants to agree. I had so much fun the other night with Owen and his regulars, and I’d never have given myself the opportunity without his gentle shoving.

“Will there be potatoes included?” I ask him.

“Mate, it’s Sunday!” he says, with adon’t ask dumb questionsedge to his voice. “We’ve got roasties, we’ve got mash, we’ve got sweet potato mash.” He pulls off his shirt, and now he’s standing across the locker room from me in only his pants.

“Okay, keep going. What other sides do you have?” I whip off my own tee.

Owen falters, his eyes lingering on my chest before he drags them back up to my face, his cheeks a little pinker than they were a second ago. He then concentrates very hard on pulling on his shirt and shorts, and therefore cannot spare me a look while he lists off the side dishes. “Cauliflower cheese, honey roasted carrots and parsnips, pigs in blankets, Yorkshires . . . Oh, and the gravy. Holy fuck, you need to try the gravy.”

“Pigs in blankets in April?”

“Come on, Wild Card, a pig in a blanket is for life, not just for Christmas. What is this, amateur hour?”

“Fair play. You don’t have to twist my arm on that one.” I drop my shorts next. “What meat?”

Owen’s mouth opens and hangs there. No words come out for at least five seconds. “Beef.” His voice is squeaky. He clears his throat. “Always beef, chicken, and nut as standard, and pork and lamb on alternate Sundays. I think it’s pork this week.”

I tug on my own shorts and jersey, an old Bengals’ away kit. It’s black with orange stripes. Owen is wearing standard shorts anyone can pick up at JD Sports and a newer style Cents shirt in green and gold. It’s not the same as my new kit, but it’s definitely more recent than his rugby days. I’ve not seen him in it before, and I don’t let myself dwell on what that means.

If it means anything.

Which it doesn’t.

I’m an observant guy. I notice things. The fact that I have a mental catalogue of everything Owen Bosley has ever worn in public and in my presence is simply a product of me paying attention. That’s all.

“Okay, deal. I’ll do it for the potatoes and the pork. But you should know I want potatoes three ways again.”

“You drive a hard bargain. I accept,” he says, pulling his boots out of his bag and wiggling his feet into them. “So, what’s on the agenda today? What drills are we doing? Ooh, I have a whistle you could borrow.”

I put my boots on. “I have no idea. I mean, a heads-up would have been nice. That way I could have planned some things out.”

“Wait, for real?” His studs rap against the cream tiles as he crosses the locker room. The whistle he offers me is bright yellow. “It was Daisy’s idea. She told me not to tell you this morning because you would have said no.”

“Well, she’s right. I would have. But . . . I can’t let you all down, I guess.”

Sunlight jabs me in the eyes as we leave the little hut, and Owen gives the rest of the folk a not-so-subtle thumbs up.

“Fine, I’ll do some of the drills our coaches do,” I say, shielding my face so I can observe the hordes of people waiting for me. Okay, the fourteen people. I need to make some quick assumptions about their capabilities.

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