Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Georgia woke five minutes before her alarm.
Erin was still fast asleep the bed next to her, one arm thrown up over her eyes. The space between their beds was so small that Georgia could almost roll over, reach out and smooth out the bunched-up chintzy duvet cover.
She wasn’t going to, obviously. Instead, she slipped out from under her own frilly cover, quietly snuck her running gear from her bag and left the room.
They had barely spoken as they’d got ready for bed, Erin stiff and silent, Georgia trying desperately to pretend this was just another night with a teammate.
Given the way things had gone between them as teenagers, what had Georgia expected, really? Some big emotional outpouring? That wasn’t either of their styles.
She changed in the bathroom, pulling her hair back with a headband.
She’d stolen it from a girl she’d been seeing before things had got too intense, too distracting, and Georgia had retreated.
She slicked the tendrils of baby hair at her hairline back with the band of her headphones and scrolled through to her easy run playlist.
Outside, the early morning air was crisp, the kind of late September morning cool that made Georgia’s skin prickle under the thin layer of sweat-wicking fabric she’d thrown on for her run. The sun was barely up, soft gold light bleeding into the horizon, casting the world in quiet stillness.
Georgia wanted to skip the run and have another hour in bed, but pre-season training was in full swing.
After their dismal performance last year, the Westcliffe team were under pressure to come back fitter than ever.
And Georgia, with her thirtieth birthday looming on the horizon, couldn’t wing it like the younger girls.
Not if she wanted to keep her spot in the starting lineup.
So here she was, awake a full hour before she needed to be.
Five hours sleep was not enough, but it would have to do.
She stretched against the low stone wall outside the guesthouse, rolling her shoulders and stifling a yawn, when the door behind her creaked open.
“Should’ve known you’d be up,” Matt’s voice rumbled, a little rough with sleep and the remnants of last night’s merriness.
Georgia smirked without turning. “Well, you know,” she said, “a wise man used to tell me…”
“Excuses don’t win matches,” he finished for her.
The door clicked shut, then the slow tread of his footsteps came up beside her.
She glanced at him, her eyes sweeping over the bulge of his arms under the tight sleeves of his t-shirt and across the sculpted lines of his thighs.
He looked good: hair slightly mussed, the boyish curls making him look annoyingly handsome in the early light.
“Well, I was right,” he said, his gaze flicking down to her trainers, then back up to her face. “Look how many you’ve won since.”
She arched a brow. “You’re taking the credit?”
Matt chuckled as he bent down to tighten his laces. “I wouldn’t dare. I’ve seen those tackle highlight reels of yours.”
He winked, and Georgia felt herself blush. She looked down at her watch to hide her sudden embarrassment. She needed to get going if she didn’t want to be pressed for time later. Tam was expecting her at the main house by seven thirty, washed and presentable, and it was already nearly six.
It was such an early start. The wedding ceremony itself wasn’t until one in the afternoon – Georgia could hardly imagine what they needed a whole five hours for, but Tam had insisted. Makeup, she’d said. Hair. Photos. Breakfast.
She was about to set off when Matt interrupted.
“Fancy some company?”
Georgia hesitated for half a second. The truth was, she could smoke him if she wanted to. Matt was still in shape, but she doubted he trained like she did.
She didn’t want to embarrass him.
Matt straightened, rolling his shoulders, his sharp gaze still pinned on her.
“You’re thinking too hard about this, Hotch.”
She huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “Am I?”
“Yeah.” He stepped a little closer, just enough that she could catch the faint scent of him, something clean, woodsy, and entirely unfair this early in the morning. “And I think I know why.”
“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow.
“You’re wondering if you should slow down for me.” Georgia opened her mouth to deny it, but Matt cut her off, his smirk downright smug. “Don’t. If you’re faster, you’re faster. I can handle it.”
She studied him, trying to decide if he meant it. He looked serious, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he was daring her.
“Alright, then,” she said slowly, stretching out her legs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Matt grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They started off slow, settling into an easy rhythm on the dirt path leading away from the guesthouse. Georgia set off, looping out along the boundary of the venue, sticking to the gravel tracks, avoiding the slippery piles of leaves.
She’d planned the route on Strava before she left Westcliffe.
An easy just-under 10k to get her legs moving.
It wasn’t the best rugby training - no starts and stops, no changes in direction – but it was enough on a day off.
She wasn’t even planning to move that fast. Just forty steady minutes, getting miles in her boots.
The path curved away over the neatly kept grass, alongside an old brick wall.
On the other side, a few solitary cars whizzed past. She liked running, not just for the feeling of movement, the loose buzz of energy it sent through her legs, but for the quiet.
She could run and not think about anything, just watch the scenery change in front of her.
She didn’t have to think about the next match, or the last one. She didn’t have to think about how badly she’d played, or that missed tackle, or whether her mum was going to start badgering her about settling down, again.
When she was running, all she thought about was running.
The sun was climbing higher, the sky losing the last of its pinkish tinge and turning a bright, clear blue. It looked like Tam and Ollie’s rain-dances had worked, and it would be a beautiful day. High above, a hawk of some kind turned lazy circles on a column of hot air.
Matt pounded along beside her, his own earbuds firmly in place.
At least he wasn’t trying to talk.
Why didn’t he have a girlfriend or a wife? He’d got game, that was for certain. He knew how to flirt and tease. The way he’d talked to her last night, the way he’d leant into her. The memory of his cologne as he’d sat next to her set free a wave of butterflies in her stomach.
He was older than her. Must be older than Erin, even. Maybe mid-thirties? That meant a serious breakup he wasn’t quite over. Or maybe a kid or two hidden away he’d failed to mention. That was always a possibility.
The alternative, she supposed, was a fear of commitment. Bouncing one fling to the next. A player of more than just rugby.
Or an over-reliance on his mother?
No. He was too put together for that. He had the body of someone who looked after himself.
The way his hair fell over his forehead, even this early in the morning, was too perfect not to have been styled.
The sharp lines of his shirt last night, the careful coordination of this morning’s running kit.
Maybe, like her, it just hadn’t happened for him.
He could keep up with her, too. He was matching her pace stride for stride. As they ran, she could see the venue staff setting up the marquee for later, making the final preparations for the big day.
A line of them carried enormous floral arrangements one after the other like human-shaped woodcutter ants. A white Transit van had been parked at the entrance, and two burly men were in the middle of unloading what looked like mobile floodlights but were probably something to do with the disco.
Tam, no doubt, had spent yesterday sorting every final detail. Her attention to detail was what made her so good at her boring but extremely well-paid accountancy job, and she'd transferred every morsel of professional perfectionism into her wedding.
In the last six months she’d sent Georgia hundreds of options for guest books, table settings and flower arrangements.
They’d met for coffee weeks ago to chat over the differences between five almost-identical linen swatches for the bunting.
She’d considered more than thirty different bands, going to their gigs in pubs and street festivals and keeping a running spreadsheet of their pros and cons.
Georgia's bridesmaid dress had been specially selected, a tailor adding extra length to the skirt so it didn’t end mid-calf.
The A-line scooped hem kept it off the ground and showed off the custom, pale green Doc Martins that Tam had chosen to complement her own.
With all this preparation, the day was bound to go off without a hitch.
Georgia’s watch beeped to signal the final kilometre as they rounded a corner, the guesthouse coming back into view a few hundred metres away. She missed a step as Matt tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to look at him, grinning next to her.
“Race you!” he called, taking off before he’d even finished speaking.
By the time she’d recovered from her stumble, he was too far ahead to catch, but she tried anyway.
She sprinted towards him, focused on the spot between his shoulder blades, arms pumping in time with her legs.
The distance between them was closing, the back of his shirt almost in reach.
If she was on the field, she’d launch herself at him, grab for his shirt or his heel, and send them both to the floor. But the path was gravelled, and Tam wouldn’t appreciate a maid of honour with a newly shredded face.
Georgia eased up and let Matt reach the guesthouse wall uncontested.
He turned around and half sat on the wall. He was controlling his breathing, trying not to pant too hard, though his face was rapidly turning an alarming shade of pink.