Her Melting Point

Make Yourself Comfortable

"Jocelyn!" Rhys Holyoake rose in all his impressive height and waved his arm, from the second row of the make-shift stands. "I've got a seat for you!"

Under the curious stares of pretty much everyone around her, Jackie made her way to the man, who stood, his feet wide apart, his hands pushed deep in his pockets.

"Morning," Jackie greeted him.

"Hiya." He grinned. "Ulla rang me up last night, said you'd need a seat."

Jackie gave him a surprised look.

"Oh, that's impressive," he said, nodding towards her camera. "And judging by the length of this gizmo, you mean business."

"Size isn't all, Rhys," a sardonic voice said behind them.

Jackie turned and met the eyes of an attractive blond man in a Fleckney kit.

"Shouldn't you be on the pitch, Whitlaw?" Rhys grumbled. "Who's going to make an arse of themselves if you're here?"

"On my way. Trust me, I'm not skiving. I'm wooing an Eastern European woman," Whitlaw answered with a throaty chuckle "They take football seriously. Fingers crossed, I might even get injured. It'll score me extra points."

Rhys scoffed. "James Whitlaw," he introduced the blond to Jackie. "Our resident diver. And this is Jocelyn Burns, the Comprehensive's new Headmistress. You want to get on her good side, mate. Firstly, she's as tough as nails. Secondly, your Eastern European woman has two young nephews who were suspended from school twice last year for aforementioned skiving. I know it because it was my site that they were loitering at. So it's points with Ms. Burns here you should be worried about."

The one called Whitlaw gasped in a hilarious exaggerated manner and bowed to Jackie.

"Enchanté," he breathed out. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Jackie laughed and stretched her hand to him. He shook it firmly, beaming. The man's charm was impossible to resist. He reminded her of her very first teaching job - a flock of mischievous unruly thirteen-year olds in an all-boys school.

"Alright, I'm off to the pitch, or our captain will ramscootrify me balls before the match even starts," Whitlaw said. "Jocelyn, pleasure. Rhys, you better sit, rest. Men of your age who don't exercise regularly, say, playing footie, should take it easy."

The blond bounced away, and Holyoake glowered at his receding muscular back. He seemed to quickly forget about the other man, though, preoccupied with making Jackie comfortable. She was offered a folding chair, a parasol, a choice of drinks from a cool box, a tube of sun cream, and a Fleckney Kestrels shirt, brand new, still sealed in plastic. Jackie accepted the chair, insisted on paying him for the shirt, and started laughing when his list of available snacks and drinks went into the second dozen.

"How old are your sons, Rhys?" she asked, taking a bottle of coconut water from his hand, and sitting down. "Aren't you starting to butter me up too early?"

"They are eight months old," the man said with pride. "Triplets. Do you want to see a picture?"

"I know you want me to see their picture," Jackie answered, chuckling. "And I might fancy that ice lolly you've got in your bag. So go ahead, show me."

He guffawed and turned his phone screen to her. The babies were adorable - there was no other word for them - with their identical tubby faces; surprisingly thick eyebrows; bright blue eyes; full heads of glossy black curls; and their cupid's bow lips pouted in an uncanny resemblance of their father.

"I've got to say, your wife makes exceptionally photogenic babies," Jackie drew out; and the man burst into rumbly laughter.

"Vi excels at anything she does," he confirmed, ogled his screen, and then put the mobile away. "Even Holy Oli's offspring might not be as cute. We'll see soon."