Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
Georgia’s fingers fiddled with the hem of her sleeve.
It wasn’t that the kit didn’t mean anything.
It did. It was a gesture of pride, of ‘you belong beside me’, of branding her as Georgia’s.
But it wasn’t brave. Erin had handed her something vulnerable, something pointed, poetic.
Georgia had handed her branded polyester.
One of the lads from the bar stumbled past, his drink slopping out of the pint glass as he tripped on a fold of carpet next to their table. Georgia saw the moment he clocked her, the moment recognition passed over his face.
“Wait. I know you,” he said, slurring his words together.
“No,” Georgia said, shaking her head, trying to avoid eye contact. “I don’t think so.”
“I do,” he said, squinting at her drunkenly. He snapped his fingers. “The rugby girl with the interview. Hodge – no – Hotchkiss.”
Shit.
“James,” he called his mate over, waving at him with too-big movements, beer running down his hand. The googly eyes on his knitted reindeer sweater rolled backwards and forwards with every motion. “Oi, James!”
His mate came over too, looking between them.
“It’s that rugby girl,” the first guy told him. “You know, the one with the interview.” He sat down opposite them, leant on his elbows. “Tell us then, cos we’ve all been wondering. When you said Matt, you meant Matt Mitchell, yeah? The referee? That manages the hardware store down the road?”
Georgia swallowed. Not only had they seen her interview, they knew Matt and put one and one together to make two. She opened her mouth to say something, to deny it, be marketable, palatable, but his friend butted in.
“He’s a cunt, that guy,” he said. “Only someone with a small dick loves handing out red cards that much.”
“He’s not... He doesn’t…”
Georgia let the sentence splutter into silence, too aware of Erin beside her, of the notebook clutched in her hands. The man’s eyes slid between them, to their closeness, the rainbow strap of Erin’s Garmin.
“Is that why, then? You’re a lezzer, now?”
Georgia’s heart skipped a beat. She could hear Caroline’s sharp intake of breath as though it was her own. Marketable, palatable, did not include being thought of as a man-hating lesbian. “I’m not…”
The words died in her throat, dried up before they could take shape.
Not what? Not a lesbian? She wasn’t, that wasn’t a lie.
Not man-hating, either, in general. But also not willing to talk about it here, in front of strangers and fairy lights and some random pub punter who was already tightening his mouth like she was a punchline.
The man snorted.
“Right,” he said, drawing out the vowel sound. “Sure. We believe you.”
“Thousands wouldn’t,” his mate added helpfully. “But we do. No rug munching going on here.”
Georgia felt it like a slap. Not just the crudeness, but the eyes. The eyes of the pub crowd, warmed by lager and too many roast potatoes, ready for a new topic of gossip to wind the night up with. Over by the bar, one or two phones were already half-out of pockets.
Erin didn’t move, but her posture had shifted. Shoulders taut, jaw tight. Under the England beanie, her eyebrows had pulled together. Her hand, which had been resting lightly on Georgia’s thigh under the table, withdrew with a subtle, practiced motion.
Georgia wanted to reach for it.
She didn’t.
She laughed a little instead. Dry. Like brushing dust off a coat.
“It was Matt Mitchell, yeah. And I’m not a lesbian. Now we’ve got that figured out, how about we all go back to our evenings,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “Enjoy your drink.”
She stood and pushed her way past the guys, shoulder checking the one called James on her way out. He stumbled, staggered backwards into a group stood at the bar, catching himself on the bar stools.
Erin followed a beat later, gathering up the England kit, slow and deliberate, eyes cold on the man as she passed. Georgia held onto the notebook like a lifeline, tucking it under her arm as she slipped out after her into the sharp night air.
Outside, the cold hit hard. The pub door swung shut behind them with a thud. Georgia stood against the bumpy white wall under the overhanging thatch. Silence descended, except for the distant sound of a car turning onto the high street and the wind stirring the tinsel on the pub sign.
Georgia crossed her arms. Her hands were shaking.
“I’m sorry,” she said, too fast, the words spilling out. “That was, he was…”
“Don’t,” Erin said quietly, adjusting the beanie back over her forehead. “You don’t owe me an apology for someone else being a dick.”
“I just…” Georgia swallowed. “I panicked.”
“I know.”
There was a long pause. Georgia looked down at her boots.
“I liked the notebook,” she said finally, her voice hoarse.
“I know that too,” Erin said, softer this time. But something had shifted. Not broken, but definitely moved.
The weight of the notebook in her pocket. The press of responsibility tightening again around her ribs. The noise. The optics. The pressure to smile the right way, love the right people, be safe and simple and easy.
“Do you want to come back with me?”
“To your parents?” Erin shook her head. “No, thank you. You’ve got Pictionary to get back to, and I’ve got Crumpet to feed.”
Georgia nodded, closing her hand around the notebook in her pocket. Their eyes met, something fragile and unsaid in the space between them.
She shifted closer. Not enough to close the distance, but enough to make Georgia’s breath hitch. Then, gently, deliberately, Erin reached up and brushed a piece of hair from Georgia’s face. Her hand lingered for just a second too long. Georgia tilted into the touch without meaning to.
“Goodnight, Hotch,” Erin said. Then she kissed her.
It wasn’t long or showy. Just the soft press of lips beneath a string of half-lit Christmas lights, cold air between their cheeks, the ghost of their mulled wine still warm on their breath.
“Night, Hotch,” Erin repeated, before turning and walking away. Georgia stood very still, the imprint of the kiss pressed against her skin like the condensation on the pub windows next to her.