Worth a Try (Try for Love #3)

Prologue

Aiden

Eight years ago

My first ever time on a plane is also my second and third. A thirty-seven hour, three leg, two layover trip from Perth, Australia, to Melbourne, Australia, to Sao Paulo, Brazil, to Rosario, Argentina.

And I did it all by myself.

Okay, technically not all by myself. I’m not alone.

I’ve come with the rest of the Australian U20 team, but I am “unchaperoned”—i.e.

, I haven’t brought an adultier adult to accompany me.

I’m not the only youngster to come without a parent or guardian, but at seventeen years, eleven weeks, and two days, I am the youngest. By a sizable margin.

My “parents” for the next three weeks will be the seven polo-shirt-wearing grown-ups currently huddled between a cluster of coaches, animatedly discussing Argentinian roads.

I have actual parents back home, but they didn’t come with me. Not because they were busy, or working, or couldn’t afford the journey. It was simply that one of them is physically unavailable and the other is emotionally . . . well, a steaming pile of croc shit.

Also, I didn’t bother to invite them. Didn’t even tell Mum I was going to trek across the entire world until two days before we left, and fuck knows where my dad is right now.

“Aiden Campbell?” An official U20 adult smiles at me. Her name’s Tilly, and it’s the fifth or sixth time she’s asked me to confirm my name. I nod. “Coach two please.”

It’s a lot colder in South America than I imagined it would be. Cooler than back home even, but I guess it’s winter here too. I chuck my suitcase into the belly of the bus and climb up the steps to find a free seat. There’s heating on board. Never thought I’d be so relieved for artificial hot air.

Nobody sits next to me for the duration of the coach journey to our hotel. It’s kind of nice, but I’m worried my larynx is going to shrivel up in my throat from underusage. The only words I’ve uttered in the past forty hours have been “yes please,” and “thanks,” and “okay.”

“Right,” Tilly yells from the front. She’s actually South African, not Australian, which I find odd since one of our biggest competitors of the tournament is the U20 Springboks, but perhaps I’m simply too young to understand why money loyalty outweighs patriotic loyalty. Who knows?

Tilly does another quick head count. “Perfect, you’re all here.

Now, it’s a thirty-minute drive to the hotel, which is only down the road from the stadium.

Even though it’s very close, we’ll be getting back on the coach every morning to go to the stadium, just to make sure you’re all in the right place.

Don’t want any of you lot going missing . . . again.”

Only the actual old people laugh at this supposed joke.

“When we arrive at the hotel, go straight to the lobby for your room assignments. We’ve tried to accommodate all requests, but sometimes, you know, that’s not possible.

You’ll leave your parents in the foyer, check in, and we’ll get you all settled into your rooms. Then at .

. .” Tilly checks her watch. “Six p.m., we’ll meet downstairs again to go to the stadium for the welcome drinks.

If you aren’t coming to the party tonight, you need to tell either me, or Steve, or John, or any of the other grown-ups wearing one of these lovely jerseys.

” She pulls out the hem of her shirt so we all know exactly which jersey she’s talking about.

“I understand most of you are adults in your own right, and you’re free to come and go as you please, but we must know where you are at all times.

Please make sure you tell someone if you plan on popping out for a jaunt. ”

Titters bounce around the coach, and I wonder how many of my teammates have already sorted out their tournament buddies.

The ones they’ll spend the next few weeks glued beside.

How many have been there, done that, and got the T-shirt—literally—last year?

How many are planning on ditching the welcome drinks and sneaking out to goof off with their mates?

I glance at the empty window seat beside me. Guess that won’t be me. I was told I’d make friends for life here, but I’m only a last-minute gap filler. I’m not even legally old enough to drink. Who’d want to hang out with me?

“As for the party,” she says, and the bus goes silent again.

“Make sure you’re all wearing your nice fancy evening suits and ties.

Remember, you’re representing Australia at all times, not just on the pitch.

And another thing, if you’re under the age of eighteen, there will be no drinking.

” She looks down at her clipboard. “Actually, that’s only the one of you. Sorry, Aiden.”

Twenty heads whip around in my direction.

“But for the rest of you, no booze on the night before match day. That’s a hard and fast rule.

Anyone caught breaking this rule will be sitting out for the remainder of the competition.

No exceptions. Nobody’s too good to get benched.

” Tilly now turns her attention to Connor Wilson, a nineteen-year-old back who’s already been signed to Leinster Academy squad in the UK.

Imagine that. Imagine moving all the way to the other side of the world to play the game you love. Today he’s brought his mum as chaperone, but in September when the season kicks off again, he won’t even be in the same time zone as her.

I’d fucking love not to be in the same time zone as my family.

“Are we all clear on the rules?” Tilly says.

There’s a muted murmuring.

“I said, are we all clear on the rules?!”

This time there’s a resounding, “Yeah.”

“Lekker,” she says, then perches herself next to the driver.

A minute later, the bus is trundling through downtown Rosario.

I stare out of the window and think, holy fuck.

I’m in Argentina. Argentina! Of all the places to take my first solo holiday, it’s on another continent.

I’m so far away from everything I’ve ever known—my home, my hometown, my family.

It’s about three thirty in the afternoon here, but it’s already Monday in Perth.

When we get to the hotel, the first thing I do is connect to the Wi-Fi. I have no messages from home, which isn’t surprising. Doesn’t make it any less disappointing, though.

My roommate for the next few weeks is Dylan Harrison, a nineteen-year-old forward from Sydney. He offers me the choice of beds, so I pick the one closest to the window.

“Do they have guns in Argentina?” he says, throwing his backpack down onto my bed.

Why my bed? I just told him I was taking that one. “No idea.”

He peers out of the window. Sunset is beginning to stain the sky with its hues of orange and pink. In the distance, the stadium lights wink on one by one. “Are you going to the welcome bash?”

“I’ve got nothing else to do,” I say, even though I really, really just want to go to bed and watch TV on my phone. “Are you?”

“For a bit. We’re just going to pre-drink for free before we hit up the club.”

“We?”

“Oh, me, Josh Taylor, Liam Johnson, and Leighton Henderson.”

It feels like a stone has dropped into my stomach. “You all know each other already?”

“Ah, yeah. From camp. But I guess you didn’t get to that?” He says it like a question, as though he doesn’t already know I missed training.

“I only got drafted a couple of weeks ago.” It’s probably not the best way to make “friends for life,” but I’m feeling defensive. “I doubt they’ll even play me, but at least I’m here, and not . . .” At home. With them.

“Of course they’ll play you. You’re Aiden fucking Campbell. You’re practically a legend in Sydney. I heard you once made Usain Bolt shit his daks.” He laughs and slaps me playfully on the shoulder.

Though he doesn’t extend even a whisper of an invitation to the “club.”

Every player from every team is wearing their fancy suits to the welcome party, or at least, what’s left of their suits.

By now, most guys are in dress shirts with collars unbuttoned and ties hanging open.

Identical jackets have been abandoned on the backs of chairs, creating ranks of smartly dressed shadowy ghosts.

There’s one guy, however, who’s not wearing a suit.

He’s not even wearing a shirt, but a fucking crop top with baby-blue footy shorts.

He stands at about six foot six, and his hairy belly is poking out between the edges of the fabric.

According to the laminated name tag pinned over his chest, he’s a player, meaning he’s two years older than me at most. It makes the full beard and moustache he’s sporting even more impressive.

His name tag reads “Finn Eggington,” and the flag emblem bears the St George’s cross. England.

Tilly’s voice floats through my head—“You’re representing Australia at all times, not just on the pitch”—and I wonder if his coaches or his chaperones know he’s dressed like this.

Probs not, since Finn Eggington is hovering beside the buffet counter alone.

For every slice of pizza, crab leg, chicken wing, or empanada he places on his dish, he shoves another one into his mouth right there at the serving station.

“Let me guess, you lost a bet?” I ask, sliding up next to him and grabbing a plate of my own, though in all honesty, I’m not sure there’s much on offer I’ll be able to eat. Not that I have allergies or a digestive disorder or anything, I’m just a fussy cunt.

Finn looks up, startled. His eyes wander over my name tag, my still fastened tie, my blonde curls, and settle on my eyes for a bit. “What? No, I won it, pard.” He has grease on his face, grease on his fingers, and his hairy stomach is right there between us.

“You won the bet?” I ask.

“Callum McGinty bet me a hundred pesos that I wouldn’t wear this tonight. Who’s laughing now? Have you tried these tiny pasties? Fucking ’ansum.”