Page 45 of One Last Try

Saturday 12th April 2025

Mathias

Owen goes to bed between twelve thirty and one a.m. on school nights. On non-school nights, it’s closer to two. He’s still asleep when I leave for training in the mornings. It’s messing up my schedule because I like to get up at five or six, go for a run, go about my day, and be in bed by ten p.m., to be asleep at eleven.

But the pub closes late, and sometimes people are still leaving right up until midnight. And I really shouldn’t be spying from my bedroom window and waiting for Owen to climb into his own bed and switch the lights off, but I’ve developed anaddiction.

My new special interest.

I tell myself every night I won’t do it—I won’t watch him—but I do. Every time. I’m half waiting for him to look out the window and catch me staring at him, but the odds of that happening are about as low as a chihuahua’s bollocks, since I switch all the upstairs lights off. Even if he does glance over, he’ll see nothing but my blackened windows, and probably assume I’m asleep.

I can’t get the image of him in the shower out of my head. Water cascading off his chest, tracking over his belly, sliding down his thighs. The pervert inside me wants to catch another glimpse of him in his birthday suit, or stretched out on the top of his bed while he redecorates his own stomach, but I’m certain that spying on someone doingthatin their own home is illegal. And I’m a law-abiding coward. Every time I think he might take his cock in his hand, I look away.

Besides, if I was going to watch him wank, I’d rather he was aware of the situation and could consent. Maybe I could join in, and fuck, that might be the hottest thought I’ve ever had.

It’s seven o’clock on Saturday morning before my first game for the Cents, and yet again I’ve been thinking about a shower-wet Owen Bosley too much and need to knock another one out.

I’m just fixing myself a protein shake when I hear a percussive “She’ll be Coming Round the Mountain” against my front door.

“Good morning, Wild Card,” Owen booms as I open the front door. “Where were you on Thursday? Everyone was asking after you. Apparently, people are taking issue with me emceeing again now.”

“Uh . . . here. I was here,” I reply. I can’t very well tell him I had planned on coming over, but at the last minute I convinced myself that every single one of his regulars must undoubtedly hate my guts and if I burst through the doors of his pub, they’d laugh me out of Mudford-upon-Hooke. “You wanna come in? I have to leave soon.”

“Oh, I know. I just came over to wish you luck. I’ll have the radio on so we can listen. You’re gonna smash it.”

“Thanks.” I force a smile . . . don’t let my real emotions read on my features. Masking. Always masking.

Owen studies me for a moment. His arm shoots out to caress my bicep. “Mate, I’m not kidding. You’ll rock it.”

Oh. He thinks I’m nervous about the game, or my performance. I can’t explain to him that’s not the case, that my worries stem from something far more superficial. Especially since if it weren’t for him, for the accident in 2017, I wouldn’t be in this position.

I roll with his assumption and try to paste on a relieved expression. “Cheers.”

He’s not buying it. His face doesn’t soften, in fact his frown sets deeper, and I really,reallyneed him not to press the matter right now.

He tightens his grip on my arm, and I close my eyes. Brace for impact. “So . . . how come you weren’t at my pub on Thursday, hmm?”

My breath rushes out all at once. When I open my eyes Owen is still frowning at me. “You didn’t invite me.”

He laughs, though stops himself when he sees I’m not joking. “Wait, for real? It’s a pub; you don’t need an invite. Everyone’s welcome. Ehhh . . . almost everyone. You really weren’t there because I didn’t ask you to come over?”

“Yep.” I add a shrug to emphasise my eloquent response.

“Are you a vampire?”

Now I’m smiling. I don’t know how he does this. “No, but I am autistic, so . . . similar, I guess, but I don’t drink blood. I bet it’s got a shit tonne of protein in it, though.”

I make a mental note to google the protein quantities in blood.

“Okay, sorry,” he says. “Consider this your official invitation to not only every single pub quiz from here until the end of time, but literally any night. Please don’t feel you’re not welcome here, because you are. Bring the Cents boys if you like, make a whole thing of it. Also, I’d love your help to plan the quiz again, because I tried to do the music round on my own and it was fucking terrible. I got booed. Fucking booed. By Viv, of all people.”

I’m snorting with laughter and trying not to hyperfixate on each of his words. Especially the part where he wants to write the quiz questions with me again.

“In fairness, your pub can only fit a maximum of thirty regular-sized people inside. What the fuck are you gonna do if I rock up with another thirty rugby players?”

He’s smiling. He knows he’s won. “Then we take it to the beer garden. I’ve got a pretty nifty PA system.”

“Fine. Thank you. I’ll come over on Thursday,” I say.

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