Her Melting Point

Make Yourself Comfortable

Jackie shook her head in amusement. She remembered this mixture of undying loyalty, deep affection, and constant rivalry among the members of the Holyoake clan. She'd witness only a few instances of it; but she found the dynamics in that family fascinating.

"Ah, there come Abernathy," Rhys said, pointing at the pitch. "We're like the City and the United, but on a shite scale. They are our main rivals for the title of the shoddiest team in the league. Except, we've won every game up to date this season." He smirked, his eyes on the players of both teams gathering on the sides. "And we've just started selling merch; and like I mentioned, we might be getting a grant from Sport England. If we get it, we'll plant your bluegrass here, and I'll throw in some stands for free. Just run some fundraiser to chip in the pay for my crew," he said dismissively. "I'll pay for the rest, materials and all."

After years of fruitless negotiations with potential benefactors, begging and charming and cajoling and being told to naff off, Jackie was having trouble wrapping her mind around the Fleckney process. She wasn't going to let the opportunity go to waste either, though.

"Can I have that in writing?" she asked, biting the paper straw in her bevvie with the side of her mouth.

Rhys guffawed and offered her his spade-like hand. "No, but we can shake on it."

"Even better," she said and firmly returned his gesture. "If I'm reading your character right, Rhys, that's an even more definite guarantee."

He let go of her hand and picked up his bottle. "For once, I'm glad we've got a townie on a post in Fleckney. You, pardon my oik vernacular, are a lad."

Jackie laughed, sincerely flattered by his 'colourful' compliment; and lifted her camera. The first image she saw through the viewfinder raised a whole lot of questions.

"Are the referees–"

"Catholic padres, yeah," Rhys said. "We never get enough volunteers to referee, so it's just our Father Peters, Father Pritchard from Abernathy, and some bloke from the league. Clearly Abernathy are bricking it today. They've brought four. Let me see."

He didn't need to stretch his neck or to rise to see better. Jackie felt like apologising to the people behind them. They would probably be watching clouds run the sky instead of the game.

"Ah, we're good." He chuckled. "See that lady there? That's Yolanda Roel."

He nodded towards a short woman with a magenta pixie hair who'd approached the officials. She had a gorgeous curvy figure, and Jackie saw the men shy away from the woman's advancing bust. Judging by the woman's fists pressed into her hips, the football chauvinists were on the receiving end of proper bollocking.

Rhys continued his explanation, "Yola owns a bookshop in Fleckney Woulds. She's my wife's mate. They can't refuse her after Qatar after all." He barked a coarse chortle. "Yeah, they are screwed. She might be the only person in the county who's on the same level as Fergusson when it comes to football. They won't pull off their usual tommyrot."

It seemed that Ms. Roel had indeed subjugated the football machos. The associate referee jersey passed into her hands, and she marched to her spot.

"Oh wow," Jackie exhaled.

"She's ace," Rhys confirmed. "If you get to know each other, just don't mention that you and I are getting along. I'm her least favourite person in the world. Deservingly so," he added. "She's my brother's partner. They're having a– how did they call it? Not-a-wedding in a couple of weeks. It'll be at the village green. Everyone's invited - but you especially."

He gave her a smile. There were charming crinkles near the corners of his eyes.

"Thank you." Jackie quickly returned the smile and focused on the pitch. "Fleckney's social calendar is never empty, innit?"

"Not as such, no."

The teams ran onto the pitch. Jackie adjusted the lens, moving her Canon slowly side to side, looking for a shot - and froze, staring at Alexander in the Fleckney indigo johnny-collared jersey, with white details; white shorts; with the rainbow captain armband on his massive upper arm.

"We ran a contest for the kit design last year," Rhys said. "Our local fashion prodigy, Varya Bjornsson, won it. She's Fergusson's niece. He's, of course, number 9. He's a striker, so, makes sense. Like Pelé, Maradona, and Ibrahimović."

"It's also a beautiful number for a mathematician," Jackie said quietly. "Any power of nine reduces to nine. The digits of multiples of 9 add up to 9." She stopped and cleared her throat. She was only glad that Holyoake couldn't see how much she was blushing behind her camera. "Most of the players look familiar." She started taking pictures of both teams in the starting line-up. "I know Alan Fenton. We were friends with the same people ten years ago. Is that John Oakby, the Mayor?"

"Oh yeah, he's our goalie. He's good. Very quick; and his size obviously helps."

"You don't say." Jackie shook her head. "I remember him as the Headmistress' younger brother. He's always been tall, but he's clearly bulked up in the last ten years. Married to one of my former pupils, I hear."

"Yeah, there she is, in the first row, to our right."

Jackie felt a wave of warmth fill her at the view of Imogen Fox - with a chubby infant in a wrap carrier on her chest. Ms. Fox was amicably chatting with another slender redhead.

"That's Fiona Holyoake with her," Rhys once again proved to be an excellent source of Fleckney trivia. "The two of them are our art stars. Fiona's married to my cousin Will. They're in Lower Woulds, with the rest of them. It's just Ulla and Oli who are with us in Fields. Oh, they're starting!"

Jackie faced the pitch. She gawked at the Abernathy team.

"Is that Stephen Bassey?!" she couldn't help but to ask. "Why is he in Abernathy?"

"Ah, he's the last of ours we didn't get back," Rhys scoffed. "I mean, before no one blamed them. We were rubbish. And then Fergusson whipped the team into shape; and the school club started winning; and now we're on a winning streak in the league." Rhys tapped his index finger to the wooden pole of their parasol. "Bassey is the last one who's still 'on the dark side. Pity, really. He isn't half bad."

The coin was tossed - Jackie managed to snap an excellent shot of it mid-air - and Abernathy started preparing for the kick-off.