Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“So… have you text him back?” Rachel asked around the chicken chow mein she’d chopsticked into her mouth moments before. She'd pushed her glasses to the top of her head, and they perched precariously on top of her short, tight curls.
On the pitch for Westcliffe, Rach was all elbows and fire, the kind of player who thrived on chaos. At home, she was just as blunt. It was one of the things Georgia loved about her. “Cos, like, with that game, I would, and I don’t even like men.”
“No,” Georgia said, putting her own bowl of Chinese takeaway down on the coffee table in front of her. She paused the dating show they'd been half-watching. “I haven’t.”
The message had sat there, technically unread, all day.
The little notification had blinked at her as she drove back to Westcliffe. She’d been tempted to delete it, to block his number and forget the whole thing. The season was about to start, and they were going to be under pressure from the first match. She didn't have the time to waste.
After all, she was twenty-nine and probably at the peak of her career.
It was all downhill from here. One injury or one season out, could be the end of it all.
The younger girls in the squad were chomping at her heels, training and grafting, jostling for her starting shirt.
She had another five or six years, maybe, if she stayed injury free.
After that – she hadn’t thought about afterwards.
The idea filled her with dread. The end of rugby, the rhythm of the club season, the England team camps and competitions, the long weeks of the off season.
All replaced with a proper job, suited and booted, finally putting her degree to use with an entry-level marketing position or something like that.
Other girls stayed in sport when they retired. Became commentators, coaches, or they worked for a governing body like the RFU or FIFA. They became personal trainers, data analysts, bespoke nutritionists, motivational speakers coaching conferences on teamwork.
Theoretically, Georgia could too. And yet it all felt so impossible to Georgia, so distant.
About as achievable as her fantasy of a wedding of her own.
Most of her friends were coupled off. Like Tam and Ollie, they’d met partners at work, at uni, by some absolute miracle on Tinder. They were buying three-bedroom houses and getting into gardening and sourdough. Some were in the baby phase, and a couple even had school-age children.
Georgia scooped up another bite, slurping her noodles, while Rachel stared out the window, her thoughts drifting.
It seemed crazy to Georgia. She was still where she’d been for nearly ten years: in the small Old Town flat with high ceilings and single-paned sash windows she’d bought with an inheritance from her grandmother and the salary from her first Westcliffe contract.
Her TV was still on the wall above the old Victorian fireplace, and the ornate plaster picture rail still collected dust. There was a new neighbour in the downstairs flat, who had about three different road bikes he left propped awkwardly in the shared hallway, and who had an apparent late-night love of Metallica and other 90s grunge.
Her monstera had grown in that time, climbing up the thick bamboo pole, broad leaves fanning out at head height.
Not much else had changed.
Well. The flat was louder, and much messier, since Rach became her flatmate as well as her teammate. She'd moved in three years ago after a breakup, and now she was as much a part of Georgia's home as the framed photos of her family on the mantlepiece.
Georgia had grown to accept the piles of discarded scarves and puffer jackets, kicked off shoes and mugs of half-drunk tea.
She traded the mess for nights on the sofa, dissecting the morons on the latest reality TV show, or hiding under the blankets as some Japanese horror film came to its grisly conclusion.
Rachel dragged a chip through the pot of sweet and sour sauce. “Are you going to text him back?”
“Yes,” Georgia said, drawing out the simple word. “But… what do I say?”
Rachel put down the sauce pot and reached for Georgia's phone, making grabby motions. “Gimme!”
Georgia hesitated.
Rach gestured again, more impatiently. “Gimme!”
Reluctantly, Georgia unlocked the screen with her thumb and passed the phone over the low coffee table to Rachel, who was sitting at right angles to her in the slouchy blue armchair she’d always favoured.
“Just type it,” Georgia said, regretting her choice almost as soon as she let the phone go.
This was a bad idea. Giving her impulsive and extremely gay friend free access to flirt-text a man was unlikely to end well. "Actually, no. Give it back."
She held her hand out for the phone, and then pulled it back.
On the other hand, it seemed like the kind of stupid teenage thing she and Tam would have done back when they actually were teenagers. So maybe, Georgia reasoned, it was the best way to deal with a teenage crush.
“Chill out, Hotch!” The dismissive tone in Rachel’s voice didn’t exactly instil any confidence. She tapped at the screen for a moment, then handed it back. “There, like that.”
Georgia looked down at the screen, at the short message Rach had typed. The very confident, presumptuous message. The very sent message.
Take me for dinner Friday, 7pm, The Lantern Room. I’ll book.
“Shit, Rach! I thought you were only going to type it, not send it!”
She should have known better. Rach was never just going to draft something.
Rachel shrugged and leant forward to fill her bowl with more kung po pork.
The phone buzzed with an email confirmation from the restaurant and then, not even five seconds later, another message from Matt.
Georgia choked on her mouthful of food. Like earlier, the message was easy to read, even on the lock screen.
Matt Mitchell
Guess I’d better get a haircut, then. See you there. 7 pm sharp.
Her stomach did a weird flip, the kind she usually got before a match. Not quite nerves, not quite excitement, but a fizzy, giddy tension that made her feel about seventeen again.
Rachel stood up and peered over Georgia’s shoulder.
“Damn,” she said, letting out a low whistle. “Boy’s got game.”
Georgia stared at the screen in her hands. “He’s so… smooth.”
“So were you for once, to be fair,” said Rachel with a smug smile. “Or, at least, so was I. Which is totally on brand for both of us.”
“Rude,” Georgia muttered, still staring at Matt’s text. “What do I even say to that?”
“You don’t.” Rachel swiped the phone from her hands before she could protest. “You won’t say anything. We will.”
“Oh no. Absolutely not—”
Rachel was already giggling. “Don’t worry, we’ll workshop it.”
“You’re not workshopping my actual love life!”
“You gave me the phone,” Rachel reminded her evenly. “You consented.”
“I did not!” But her protests were half-hearted, weakened by the buzz of excitement from Matt’s rapid answer.
I like you, he’d said, pressed up close, his mouth on the shell of her ear. And he’d responded to her text within seconds. No game playing, no messing about. Direct and to the point.
“How about: Better bring flowers. I’m a high-maintenance date.”
Georgia lunged. “Rach!”
Rachel shrieked with laughter, diving over the back of the sofa to escape the chaos. “No, wait—” She twisted away, using one hand for an effective hand-off, holding the phone out of reach. “Let me just - fine! I won’t send it, calm down!”
They collapsed into a tangled heap of limbs and cushions, Georgia managing to wrestle the phone back.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” she grumbled.
“Obviously,” Rachel said. “This is the most entertaining your love life has been in literal years.”
“I don’t have a love life.”
“Yet,” Rachel reminded her, cracking the can open. “But you could do. If you actually spend some time on it, for once.”
Georgia groaned and flopped back on the sofa, her head sinking down between the cushions, holding the phone to her chest like a talisman. The buzz in her chest hadn’t gone away.
She grinned, almost to herself, and typed out her own message this time.
Bring dessert too. I like a man who shows up prepared.
The reply came back almost instantly.
Sweet or spicy?
Georgia stared, her face flushing.
“Oh shit,” she whispered.
Rachel snatched the phone again. “Oh, he’s flirting-flirting.”
This was flirting, but more confident and teasing than any Georgia had seen in a long time.
It made her feel wanted, desired. And it was coming from Matt, of all people.
It made her feel like she’d dug up a buried secret.
Like she’d tried on her favourite dress from the back of the cupboard to find it fit better than ever.
He’d gone from a boyish crush to a man anyone with eyes would want, and yet it was still her that he was looking at.
It was wild. Unexpected. Utterly exciting.
It made her hope for something more than awkward conversation over dinner and a quick fling.
After all, the first few dates with any app match were basically just answering two simple questions: do I like this stranger enough to spend more than thirty minutes in their company, and can I imagine myself sleeping with them?
She and Matt were beyond that point already.
She’d been glued to his side for two evenings in a row, and she even enjoyed his company on her usually solitary runs.
And she would have slept with him, there and then, if he hadn’t been a gentleman.
This put them solidly in third date territory, and everyone knew what that meant.
Rachel still had her phone and was actively typing. Georgia shook her head, bringing herself back into the room.
Rach looked up, thoughtful. “How about: You bring the spice, I’ll bring the fire extinguisher. Too much?”
Georgia’s mouth twitched, despite herself. “It’s deeply cringe.”
“But kind of hot,” Rachel said.
“You are a menace,” Georgia muttered. Her fingers itched to type something herself, and reach for that back-and-forth spark. But also, terrifyingly, she wanted to sound cool. Like this wasn’t making her stomach flip and her ears burn, and as if she wasn’t imagining this as something longer-term.
Rachel tossed her the phone. “Go on. Your turn. Real message this time. No filters.”
Georgia hesitated, then thumbed open the thread. Matt’s last message blinked back at her.
Sweet or spicy?
She stared at it a second longer, then typed:
Surprise me. But no raisins or disappointment, thanks.
She hit send before she could second-guess it.
Rachel howled with delight. “You’re flirting! She’s flirting!” She waved her hands around dramatically in her best Eddie Murphy impression. “My baby all grown up and saving China! Get the San Pellegrino! We’re celebrating. This is historic.”
The phone buzzed again.
No raisins. No disappointment. Only heat.
Georgia choked, swallowing air in surprise. Rachel started fanning her with the somewhat sticky takeaway menu.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “He did not say ‘only heat.’ Does that even make sense, from a dessert point of view?”
Rachel peered over her shoulder, pulling the phone out of Georgia’s hands and holding it aloft like a holy relic. “Only heat, babe.”
Georgia buried her face in a cushion, voice muffled. “I am going to die before Friday.”
“No, no,” Rachel said sweetly, stroking her hair. “You’re going to get laid Friday.” She crossed the room, opening the fridge and returning with the promised San Pellegrino. “To Georgia and her spicy referee.”
They raised their glasses and clinked them together with all the solemnity of a sacred rite.
“To heat,” Rachel said.
Georgia groaned and rolled her eyes. But when she took a sip, she was smiling.