Page 89 of One Last Try

Fifteen seconds.

I’m too far away from him, but he’s too far away from the white line. I still launch myself at him.

He doesn’t dodge me.

Instead, Weston drop kicks the ball. I collide into him a millisecond too late.

Everything gets really fucking loud. Then deathly quiet as the ball arches through the sky towards the Bristol goal post. And we all just watch. Nobody can do anything except watch. Time slows. The stands are motionless. It feels as though the wind howling through the stadium is an attempt to replace the vacuum of noise.

The big screens show only the ball soaring up in a neat curve, through the air and right over the bar.

Goal for Bristol.

The full-time whistle blows. I can’t hear it. The sky has just been blown apart by the screaming from the stands. Both Bristol and Bath supporters cheer, because let’s be fair, that was epic.

Winning a game on a field goal literally at the last second. Fucking fair play.

FULL-TIMEflashes over the big screens, and Bristol wins twenty-nine to twenty-eight. I’m pulled into hugs from every direction—Bristol players, Bath players, I don’t know who and I don’t give a fuck.

People sing, yell in my ear, grab my flesh, and move on to the next player.

When the euphoria dies down a little and the boys are running to the stands to hug their family members, I jog over to Owen, Daisy, and Lando.

Owen wraps his arms around me. I feel cameras pointing at us from every direction.

“I want to kiss you,” he says right into my ear. “But you know . . .”

“I can’t believe we’ve already sold out of tickets,” I shout.

“And,” Daisy adds. “We’ve sold three hundred streaming passes.”

“Holy shit!”

I give Daisy a hug, and then Lando even though he tries to sniff my armpit. Then because I also spot Tom and Bryn and their kids, I wait for them to scramble down to the barrier for a hug too.

Strangers are climbing over themselves to get a high-five from me, and though this happened at Bengals, it’s the first time I’ve felt so welcomed at the Cents. Nobody boos, and honestly, I don’t care how the press decide to spin this one. I’m fucking happy and they can’t take that away from me.

And if they do, well, I’ve always got Owen’s arms to find comfort in.

I’m getting dressed after my ice bath and shower when Eksteen finds me and comes jogging over. “Absolutely bloody brilliant game there, Jones. One point in it! But it was fucking thrilling . . . hard fought. They’ll be talking about that one for a long, long time.”

“Thanks,” I say, doing the buttons up on my evening shirt. We’re going out for dinner later, Eksteen’s treat, and I’ve told Owen I’m ordering a steak with cheese and every single variety of potato on the menu, so it’ll be side stuff only for us tonight.

Eksteen places a warm hand on my shoulder, and it’s probably just the comedown from the adrenaline, but I feel . . . emotional. Like I’m edging tears. “I wanted to say, I think you’re an incredible player, Jones. I don’t understand how your brain does that thing where you seem to switch shit off, but it’s phenomenal. I’m letting you know before you find out through your agent that I’ve put in an offer for you for next season. I want you to stay with us, your new family at the Cents. No pressure.” He holds up his hands. “But I will need your answer by the end of June.”

I nod. Whatever part of my brain I activate to shut out the boos has automatically kicked in. I have no response. I don’t even know if I’m happy about the offer, about being given the choice. “Okay, thanks. I’ll let you know,” I eventually say.

As we’re sitting ourselves down for our meal at Casks, a Michelin star restaurant in the centre of Bath, I check my phone.

There’s an email from Sim, and a WhatsApp message summarising the email.

Bengals want you back in Sept.

33

Saturday 14th June 2025

Owen

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