Page 55 of One Last Try

It pans out exactly as I expected it to. The ruck collapses as Mathias dissolves into laughter. I seize control of the ball.

“I prefer Wild Card,” he admits, before gameplay resumes.

Even though the rest of our teams seem to be running at half speed, the time whizzes by too quickly, and everyone except Lando is a lot perkier by the end of the session. They depart with cheery waves, but nobody stays to use the club’s shower blocks, all choosing to drive off to the comfort of their own homes to cleanse.

“Don’t forget, no sevens next week,” I say to each person as they go. Guaranteed at least one or two will overlook this and turn up anyway, confused as a fucking lemon in a cottage pie.

Daisy and Orlando brought their separate cars today, though Lando looks like he’s fallen asleep behind the wheel already. His head is tilted up against the headrest, sunnies on, door wide open, one leg outside the Audi and a foot planted on the weed-cracked tarmac.

“Daze, drive that bloody kid home, will you?” I yell as I shove the unused pads and stinking bibs inside the storage shed. I would do it myself, usually do,but I have more pressing matters at hand today. Like taking another shower with Mathias Jones.

Mathias is quiet while we peel off our sweaty, muddy kit. Pensive. He chews on the corner of his lip. There’s something on his mind.

“What’s up?” I ask, because I get the sense he wants to talk about whatever it is but won’t initiate the conversation.

He puffs up his cheeks, holds all the air in them . . . then eases it out, laughs humourlessly, and shakes his head. “I sent my agent a text last night after you left.”

“At half past two in the morning?” I tug my shirt off and bundle it onto the bench. Mathias’s eyes flit down my chest.

“She’s used to it. I’m not great at sleeping, and if I have a thought, sometimes it can’t wait till morning. Besides, she once told me she has a bedtime mode on her phone so any texts or emails after ten won’t come through until she gets up. If there’s an emergency, I need to ring her.”

“Okay . . .” I hold out a hand, encouraging him to hop back to the point. Pretty sure his little ramble about his agent was just to buy himself more time.

“I . . . I uh . . . I told her not to find another house,” he says.

“Okaay. . .” I say again, drawing out the word. I take my shorts off next.

“Like, for me to live in. I told her to stop looking for houses, because I’m going to stay here. In Mudford-upon-Hooke.”

“Oh! Oh my god.” The words rush out.

“Until the end of the season . . . and then I’ll go back to Wales.”

Mathias is sticking around. The boy I kissed last night is staying for a few months at least. There’s relief, and adrenaline, and excitement, and I’m trying not to smile like a birthday party clown on gas and air.

I take my pants off. I’m naked and slick with sweat, and not in a good way. Mathias trails his eyes down my body and then looks away. He’s still wearing his full kit, sans boots and socks. I grab my towel and head over to the shower block entrance.

“Does this decision have anything to do with last night?” I pause in the doorway, holding my towel in such a way it obscures the goodies.

He whips off his T-shirt and folds it—again, buying himself more time. “Yes,” he says, and my insides feel as though they’re filled with helium. They crash back down a moment later. “But . . .”

I hold my breath while I wait for him to finish his thought. He takes his shorts off, folds them too, then his underpants. He fucking folds his underpants because he doesn’t want to tell me.

I know what he’s going to say, though. We can’t be anything. We can’t continue to snog on my—I mean his—sofa. Perhaps we can be friends who write pub quizzes together, but that’s it.

Mathias still doesn’t finish his sentence. He grabs his towel and joins me in the doorway.

I smash the on button of the third shower. Maybe the crashing water will help to drown out the screaming in my head.

He slides in next to me, switches his tap on. “Last night, kissing you . . . it was amazing. Honestly, you can’t know how often I’ve imagined that moment. It was better—” He cuts himself off mid-sentence. One-eighties his approach to letting me down. “I’m going to stay in Mudford until the end of the season, but I’m going back to Wales at the beginning of June, and . . . I can’t get into anything serious. Relationship wise.”

It doesn’t sting any less when you know it’s coming.

“I figured as much.” I’m trying to keep my voice even, unaffected, grown-up. It’s honesty, and I want nothing else. Except . . .

“There’s no point if I’m leaving. Eventually, one or both of us will get hurt.”

“True,” I say, nodding.

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