Chapter 2 #2
“Well, well, if it isn’t my crowning achievement.” Matt Mitchell stood before her, still handsome, still confident. "You know that 'I reffed Georgia Hotchkiss before she was Georgia Hotchkiss' is at the top of my CV?"
"Are you actually name-dropping me, to me?"
Matt shrugged. "Why not? After all, it's my one claim to fame."
“Matt,” Tam groaned. “Not that old line again.”
“Besides,” Erin reminded him, “you’ve used it on at least two of us over the years.”
“Ah,” he said, wagging a finger. His hands were strong and tanned. No ring in sight. “But only Georgia’s still playing, which makes her my favourite second row and you, Erin, my favourite coach.”
He winked at Georgia, flashing straight white teeth in her direction. He looked good. The scruff along his jawline was neatly trimmed, the lines around his eyes deepened with age and whatever nonsense he’d been up to lately.
Not married, obviously. Or one of those men who didn’t wear a ring. Did he have a girlfriend?
He must do.
Everyone else was coupled up. Surely Matt Mitchell, who they’d all lusted over as spotty teenagers, was a full-on catch these days.
“Anyway, I don’t see you proposing any other options for favourites,” he said, eyes gleaming as he gave Georgia a slow, lazy look up and down.
It would almost be infuriating if it wasn’t so on brand, and if it didn’t send a spark of heat shooting through her.
She barely noticed Tam’s hand on her arm, a brief squeeze before she was pulled away to greet yet another arriving relation.
“That’s because we have better things to do than inflate your ego,” Georgia scoffed. “So don’t expect any favourite labels back.”
She could practically hear Erin's eyeroll and studiously ignored her.
Matt clutched his chest in mock pain. “You wound me, Hotchkiss.” Then, with a grin and a vague gesture to his tailored shirt and nicely fitted trousers: “But I bet those prem league refs can’t hold a torch to all this, right?”
Georgia rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t quite bite back the smile. “Yeah, all those professionals, all that expertise. Even the England set-up - miles below your level.”
“Liar,” he said with a wink. He tipped his head towards the rapidly emptying beer buckets across the courtyard. “Do you want another drink? Something better than that?”
She hesitated, just for a second. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Erin watching them, expression deliberately neutral. Then, before she could think about it too hard, she shrugged. “A G&T, please.”
“Good choice.” Matt motioned at Erin, twisting his wrist to indicate drinking, one eyebrow quirking a question. She shook her head, and he looked back to Georgia. “Stay put.”
He clapped a hand on Georgia's shoulder as he passed, a casual, familiar touch that sent a ripple of something down her spine.
She shook herself, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
How was she going to survive three whole days?
It was going to be difficult, with Matt looking at her like she was edible, and Erin looking at her as though she was trying to summon her own personal portal to Hell and shove Georgia right down through it.
Georgia stood awkwardly, trying to think of something – anything – to say to Erin.
She looked down at her phone again and typed out a reply to Rachel.
Can you use the chainsaw on me, please?
The silence stretched, then Matt was back. He slid her a fresh drink and threw an arm loosely around her shoulders. He pulled her over to the rugby club group with Erin reluctantly trailing behind them. Matt made the reintroductions with ease.
The small talk flowed well enough – What’s it like, being pro?
Is all the media stuff as cool as it looks?
Have you ever met Jonny Wilkinson? – and the evening passed quickly.
The crowd began to thin out, with relatives and those with young children dropping off, and the caterers packing up the pizza van.
Georgia and the other rugby players stayed, gathered on benches around a gently smouldering firepit.
Her hair would stink of wood smoke in the morning, but Georgia was in no hurry to leave.
Matt sat close, the warmth of his body drifting across the small space between them.
Georgia could smell his cologne, feel it curling through her nose, settling somewhere low in her belly.
There was no wife or girlfriend hiding in the shadows. He’d made sure to drop that little fact into the conversation, had waited, eyebrow cocked, for her answer. She’d shaken her head.
“No,” she’d said, raising her voice so it carried across the firepit. “No boyfriend, no girlfriend.”
She hadn’t looked at Erin as she’d said it. Let her disapprove. Georgia didn’t care who knew she was bisexual. It wasn’t even an open secret: she’d given a press interview in June for Westcliffe’s Pride month socials.
“Single and ready to mingle here too.”
Matt grinned at her.
Please, Georgia thought, don't make a threesomes comment. Don't make a bisexual joke. So many men did.
“You know,” he said, nudging her lightly, “for someone who’s got better refereeing options falling at her feet, you seem to be enjoying herself.”
They had to get through the whole wedding tomorrow. Another day caught between Matt’s flirting and Erin’s stony disapproval.
Georgia tilted her head up at him. It was nice to talk to a man taller than she was. At six foot, she intimidated most men, but Matt was taller than her by several inches. “It’s the gin talking.”
“I’ll keep them coming, then, eh?”
She laughed, nudging him back. “If that’s your only strategy, you’ll have to do better - I’m much harder to impress these days.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
She held his gaze, her pulse thumping. “Perhaps it is.”
For a second, it was just the two of them. The buzz of conversation dimmed, even Deano’s loud voice fading into the background. If she leaned in now, pressed her lips to his, she knew he would kiss her back.
She blinked up at him, leant forward a little.
Then, from somewhere behind them, Erin cleared her throat.
“I’m going to bed.”
Georgia looked at her watch. 12.43 already. Past her bedtime, but the hours had flown by. Matt had been easy to talk to, funny, charming. She could feel the press of his attention, of his interest. It would be easy to stay.
“I’ll join you.” Georgia stepped out of Matt’s hold so the chilly September air rushed in between them. She patted him on the chest, feeling the firm muscle through the thin linen of his shirt. For a second, she almost changed her mind.
“Bridesmaid duties in the morning,” she explained, voice too bright.
He stepped back, gave her a rueful smile, raised his glass in a toast.
“See you in the morning, Hotch.”