Chapter Nineteen
The Tipsy Fox had barely changed in the years since Georgia had been a regular Redford drinker.
It had always been an alternative venue, full of bearded guys in band T-shirts, and its walls were plastered with gig posters.
These days the long bar offered more than thirty different beer options, and the fridges behind it were stocked to the brim with wine, soft drinks, and the odd fruit cider.
It had been the main haunt of the Redford teams back in the day and was apparently still their pub of choice. A series of framed kit shirts hung on the wall opposite the DJ, cramped in a tight corner between the end of the bar and the toilets.
Two tables had been pushed together to fit tonight’s Redford contingent, now half a dozen pints deep on average and rapidly descending into post-match mischief. Georgia sat with her beer sweating between her palms, acutely aware of the two bodies flanking hers.
On her left, Matt lounged with one ankle hooked over his knee, fingers tapping a steady rhythm on his thigh. On her right, Erin was nursing her first whiskey and coke, perched on the edge of her seat, knee bouncing.
“It’s not that exciting, really,” Georgia said, trying to deflect the intensity of their attention. “Just a fairly standard run-of-the-mill interview, you know?”
“Oh yeah,” Matt teased. “It’s totally run-of-the-mill to be interviewed live on TV. Like, so everyday it’s basically boring.”
Georgia scrunched her nose. “Exactly. Just another day at the office.”
Matt grinned at her.
Erin leant across. “I’ve seen Vix Hargrove give people a hard time when they haven’t prepared. She took that Aegis academy boy to pieces last year.”
Vix Hargrove had always been surrounded by professional athletes.
Her father was a former captain of the Scottish football team, and her twin sister had been an international figure skater.
It made her hard to impress, and even as a junior reporter for regional radio twenty years ago she had developed a reputation for asking the hard questions and puncturing egos.
Georgia stared at Erin. Was she suggesting Georgia would face the same fate? Surely not. This was Erin: serious, ever supportive, intense.
“Meeting Tommy Harris will be cool though,” Matt weighed in on the other interview host. A podcaster, one of Matt’s favourites. “Even if Vix is difficult, you know he’ll be a decent bloke to talk to.”
"I've met him," Georgia told him. "Been on his show and everything."
Erin continued with a shrug, as though Matt hadn’t spoken. “I’d be quaking in my boots facing down Vix, but I know you’ll more than have it covered.”
Georgia cocked her head, a little concession to Erin’s confidence in her. “I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll be great,” Erin promised, holding Georgia’s gaze. The weight of her attention settled over Georgia like a brand, burning its way up through her chest.
“So,” Matt said, nudging her elbow slightly, diverting the conversation away from Erin and breaking the eye contact between them. “You never did tell me how many tries you got in your last match.”
“One,” Georgia replied. “And a half.”
“A half?” Matt laughed. “Is that… scoring emotionally?”
“Basically.” She flashed him a grin.
“She’s being modest,” Erin cut in, voice as smooth as varnish, her hand landing on Georgia’s thigh.
It burned through the grey denim of her jeans, igniting a sweet, singing desire.
“It was two, technically. The first didn’t count, but she split their backline open like it was wet paper bag.
And it’s not the first time. She did at their match against Camden, too.
And against the Aegis last season. It’s something of a habit, for our Hotch here. ”
Georgia froze. Erin had been paying attention.
Matt glanced between them, his smile faltering just slightly.
“How do you know that?” There was no way Erin had been at that Aegis match. It had been all the way up in Edinburgh, a whole flight or a day’s train journey away.
Erin shrugged. “I read the match report. I might have watched the footage.”
“You watched game footage?” Georgia asked. She assumed that she’d never crossed Erin’s mind and that meeting at Tam’s wedding was the first moment she’d existed as an adult for Erin. The idea that Erin had been watching her play sent Georgia reeling.
“Don’t get flattered,” Erin said with a smirk that suggested she very much wanted Georgia to be flattered. “I also watched the Wyverns match when I got in last night. It’s called research.”
“For what?” Matt asked.
Erin sipped her drink and held Georgia’s gaze. “You never know when you’ll need to impress a pretty girl.”
Matt gave a little laugh, but Georgia could feel the tension rise beside her. The air between them was growing as thick as syrup. Georgia leaned back in her chair, unsure how to dissolve it. A joke, probably. She was good with jokes. Safer than letting this twist its way into something serious.
Across the table, the Redford guys had started a pool game that involved more heckling than rule. A cheer went up as someone potted the black by accident. Matt glanced over.
“Want to play the winner?” he asked Georgia. “Come on, I’ll partner you. You get to break. Purely for tactical reasons, obviously.”
Georgia raised an eyebrow.
Matt grinned.
“My tactics being: I bet your arse looks phenomenal when you line up a shot.”
Georgia snorted into her drink, half amused, half scandalised. “Jesus, Matt.”
“What? Just saying what everyone’s thinking.”
Next to her, Erin took a slow sip of whiskey. Then, under her breath, just loud enough for Georgia to hear, she muttered, “Pig.”
Georgia coughed to cover a laugh. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She could feel Erin watching her now, cool and close and completely unimpressed. What had she said about Matt to the Redford girls? Georgia knew it couldn’t have been anything nice.
Matt didn’t hear her. Or maybe he did and chose to ignore it. “What d’you reckon?”
“Yes, Georgia,” Erin drawled, “what do you reckon?”
Georgia stood, desperate for an escape. “I need the loo. Excuse me.”
Erin remained seated, one elbow propped on the table, watching her with a faintly amused expression.
Matt scrambled after Georgia, grabbing his drink.
She hurried away from him, pushing through the pub’s narrow corridor and into the tiny bathroom. She locked the door behind her hoping she could barricade herself against the tension outside.
What the hell was she doing?
She gripped the sink, breathing hard. Her reflection stared back at her, flushed and frantic. Her cheeks had two, high spots of colour that had nothing to do with the temperature of the pub.
Matt was funny, flirty. He liked her. Wanted her. That much was clear in the way his eyes had followed her across the room, the way he made her laugh even when she rolled her eyes.
It was simple with him.
And then there was Erin.
Erin, who didn’t need to say much. Who looked at her like she could see through every bluff and brave face. Who muttered pig as though Georgia had already picked a side.
It wasn’t fair.
Georgia pressed her fingers to her temples.
This wasn’t a crush anymore. This was a problem.
Georgia splashed cold water on her wrists and tried to breathe. She wasn’t ready to choose, but she could already feel herself falling, and it wasn’t in the direction she’d planned.
***
By the time Georgia returned, Matt was holding court at the pool table, recounting a questionable lineout call like he was Gerard Butler at the gates of Thermopylae. Deano, Stu and several others she couldn’t name were locked in a chips-versus-fries debate that was bordering on religious.
Erin had taken a seat near the wall and was politely nodding along as Deano’s girl told some story.
If Georgia had to guess, it was a continuation of the story she’d been telling in the taxi down: a blow-by-blow account of the love lives of the girls in her office, and their attempts to seduce the uptight manager.
Erin looked as though she would rather fall through the floor than listen to another moment.
Georgia sympathised. Their eyes met for a moment, the twitch of Georgia’s lips mirrored on Erin’s own, a bolt of shared understanding passing between them.
Tam, of course, had claimed a seat at the head of the table and was halfway through her third G&T. She was sprawled sideways in the chair, one leg flung over an armrest, surveying the crowd like she was seated on a throne.
Georgia slid in to the seat next to her, deliberately avoiding choosing to join either Matt or Erin. After a moment Tam leant in, eyes narrowed at Georgia, assessing. “So, what’s the vibe, Hotch? If this is Bridget Jones, and you’re Bridget - who’s who?”
“Well, you’re obviously the ‘come the fuck on’ friend with the tiny mini.” It wasn’t what Tam meant, and Georgia knew it. Tam flicked drops of gin and tonic in Georgia’s face.
“Georgia,” she whined, really drawing out that final ‘a’. “You know what I mean.”
Georgia took a sip of her lemonade. “I’m just a girl,” she said dryly, “standing in front of two people, asking them not to fight over me in public.”
Tam rolled her eyes. “Wrong film, Bridget.” She pointed between Matt and Erin with her gin glass. “Who’s naughty Daniel Cleaver and who’s Mr Darcy?”
Over by the pool table, Matt stood with the others, beer in one hand, the other jammed casually in his pocket. He was laughing, cheeks flushed from the cold breeze of the open door, his hair messy from his hat. He looked undeniably good.
Georgia watched him for a moment too long.
“Every time I see Matt, it goes so well. He makes me laugh.”
“Makes you come,” Tam added with a wink.
“Yeah,” Georgia agreed, lifting both eyebrows into her hairline. “That part isn’t the problem.”
She scratched above her ear, messing her hair.
He was attractive. He was interested. He showed up, brought her wine. He was interested in the things she was interested in. It felt mean to say anything else.