Page 46 of One Last Try

“Nah, mate. I’ll see you before then. I’ll be round Wednesday night after kick-out so we can write these questions together.”

“Sounds . . .”Perfect.“Good.”

“Hey,” Owen says. “You get to watch me walk away now.”

I have to place my fingers over my lips to stop them from spreading in an embarrassingly large grin. With my other hand, I make a shooing gesture. “Off you fuck, then.”

He’s smothering his own grin, and it makes my insides feel both heavy and light all at once. He turns to leave, but then spins back. “By the way, I have not stopped thinking about Sunday. I thought you should know.” And then he’s gone, and I’m so stunned by his comment I forget to watch his ass in those jeans.

I force my breath to come out slowly, to calm my sudden erratic heartbeat. I grab my bag, chuck it in the passenger side of my Range Rover, and head to the Cents grounds to board the team bus to Exeter.

It’s a two-hour coach trip to the away stadium. I sit beside the window, and Dan sits in the seat next to me, but he has his back to me the entire ride. His legs are spread out in the aisle as though it’s his mission to take up as much space as humanly possible, and he chats loudly to anyone who’ll listen. He’s talking about the betrayal he feels at his kid taking up football instead of rugby, his upcoming Mediterranean cruise with the family, and theDeadpoolmovies.

I put my headphones on and replay Owen Bosley facts and quotes inside my brain, as though I’m revising for an exam.

He drinks Hooker’s Dribble, a frankly disgusting pseudo IPA. It tastes like someone took a piss in a plant pot and mixed it with warm, flat lemonade.

He calls me “Wild Card.”

He drives a 2017 plate white Citroen C4 Picasso, which I’m certain hasn’t seen the interior of a car wash since rolling off the forecourt.

He can’t sing.

He has phenomenal taste in mattresses and sofas. Both are criminally comfortable.

His birthday was at the beginning of March, a couple of weeks before I moved here.

He said,“I’d love your help to plan the quiz again.”

He also said,“You can stay here as long as you like. You’ll always be welcome here.”

And,“By the way, I have not stopped thinking about Sunday. I thought you should know.”

The thoughts carry me through the journey. They help numb the knowledge of what’s to come. The inevitability.

I take out my phone and glance unseeingly at the screen for the fiftieth time. There are a couple of WhatsApps from Sim. Attached are two Rightmove links for rental houses. She’s captioned them:These went online this morning. They won’t be on there for long. Let me know ASAP if you want me to arrange a viewing.

I reply with a curt,“No good, sorry,”without opening the links.

Today I’m wearing the number twenty-two shirt. It’s strange. I haven’t worn this number since my early days of rugby. It’s also the number I wore when I smashed up Owen’s leg, and I’m sure that will not go unnoticed by the hardcore Cents fans.

The good news is that I probably won’t play the first half. The bad news is that they’re gonna show my face on a giant screen and everyone will boo me.

Well, not everyone. Only the Centurions’ fans. My own fucking team.

Why the fuck I signed up for this, I have no idea. I could have had an entire season off. Gone back to Cardiff in September after taking a year’s break.

It’s bullshit, though. That would never have happened. I needed something to keep me occupied and relevant. I’ve seen it before. One season missed because of this injury or that, and that’s it. Before you know it, you’re announcing your retirement.

I puff out a breath and stand beside the bench, half jogging on the spot to keep my muscles warm. Me and a few other guys are wearing dry robes to trap the heat. We’re not starting, and we have no idea when we’ll be called upon.

The Bath lads are running onto the pitch one by one. There’s cheering, but it’s never as loud as the home crowd. Always how it is for away games. I can’t make out any of the announcer’s words, and the closest screen is slightly obscured from my view. This is not good. I don’t know when it’s coming.

I start pacing. They run out of starters. They’re announcing the subs now. They’ll call my name any moment. I might not be able to hear it, but I’ll know the boos are for me.

“Jones!” Coach Eksteen steps in front of me, hiding what’s left of the screen. “Unless something dramatic happens before then, I’ll be playing you at the start of second half.”

I nod to show I’m listening. Try not to lean around him to look at the screen.

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