Page 7 of One Last Try

“Did someone call my name?” comes the chef’s voice, each word louder than the last as he moves from the hidden kitchen into the bar area. I get a decent look at him from the chest up this time and—

This can’t be . . .

My half-drunk pint of stout slips through my fingers. Hits the edge of the bar. Rolls. Falls to the floor. Smashes.

I’m on my feet. My mind whirring. Mouth gaping. No sound coming out.

The pub is deathly quiet. Even the music seems to have stopped.

No.

How did this happen?

How could Simone have sent me here?

“Daisy wasn’t lying,” says the newcomer, his voice barely above a whisper, clearly as shocked as me. “Mathias Jones. Mathias Jones,” he repeats, like he’s glitching. “Holy shit.”

Daisy’s smile drops in an instant.

I open my mouth to speak, but there are no words. There aren’t even any thoughts. Because the man in front of me is . . . breathtaking. In more ways than one.

He’s in his mid-forties and stands at about five-eleven. His head is mostly shaved except for a thin, reddish-blonde stripe down the middle. A low-mo—low maintenance mohawk. A full auburn beard and moustache decorate his face, which is distressingly handsome and kind. His hazel eyes are crinkled even though he’s not smiling, and he’s wearing those slim-cut jeans, a black apron, and a pale-green, long-sleeved polo neck. Only his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and his thick hairy forearms are exposed.

He still has his hooker’s figure, but it’s been softened around the edges. Most likely from age and fatherhood, and from years spent away from the pitch and in a pub. His belly pokes at the front of his pinny and his growing smile fattens his cheeks.

I immediately think about every time I’ve held this man’s perfect image in my mind as I fucked my own hand.

Both before and after I broke his leg.

I need to get out of here. My feet are already walking me out of the building.

“Wait! Mathias, wait!” Owen Bosley calls out.

Owen fucking Bosley.

The man whose leg I broke eight years ago is my new landlord. Daisy’s dad. The mysterious chef with the fabulous ass.

Not happening. No way.

I don’t answer. I’m already gone, already pulling my phone out of my pocket and dialling Simone’s number.

3

Sunday 12th November 2017

Mathias

Cardiff Bengals are winning twenty-eight to twenty-two with seventy-seven minutes on the clock. The first half was . . . wishy washy. Okay, it was a fucking mess. Bath dominated. Racked up four tries before the half-time whistle whilst we all stood around picking our shorts out of our asses.

Luckily for us, Bath’s kicker is a bag of shit and only converted two out of the four tries.

I sayweanduslike I was actually out there. I wasn’t. I watched from the bench, keeping my muscles warm by jogging on the spot any time there was a lullor stoppage.

It’s my first time on the Bengals’ roster. First time wearing the famous orange-and-black Cardiff jersey. Granted, it’s the number twenty-two, but I didn’t even expect to get rostered. I’d dreamt about it for so long, though. Since I was a boy, and every game, every training session is one step closer to realising my dream of professional rugby.

Just because I was good at school and college levels doesn’t mean I have what it takes to make it big time.

Yet I know I do. I feel it in every fibre of my being. In every individual component that makes me Mathias Jones.

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