Her Melting Point

Knocking Knees

She knew exactly the moment when Alexander realised that she was on the stands - because she saw it in her viewfinder. If anyone checked her camera, they'd find an equal amount of pictures of all players on both teams and of the officials; as well as of the spectators - only from the back, and no minors, of course. No one would check, obviously - but the fact that her 'lensed' gaze kept straying to him, was alarming.

She could blame it on his physique of course, not that other footballers disappointed. Fleckney's gene pool was well-known for its fitness, both in biological and colloquial meanings of the word. And yet, one couldn't help but watch him on the pitch. He didn't do the Portuguese or Brazilian style choreographic 'dancing;' his movements were precise and clean, almost austere - but he was magnetic! Jackie had spent her youth among athletes, she could appreciate how much practice and dedication went into developing this level of mastery over the ball.

Twelve minutes into the game, a player tackled him; and it wasn't against the ball, but the dive was definitely reckless, and there was 'excessive force.' They'd been marking him from the start, two on one; not that it particularly helped.

"Referee!" Rhys roared near Jackie, and she almost toppled over with her chair. "C'mon! Peel your eyes!" Holyoake's voice truly carried.

Fergusson jumped to his feet.

"He could've milked it for a bit," Rhys grumbled.

Jackie laughed - and that was when Alexander's eyes met hers, figuratively speaking. Her voice caught in her throat. She lowered the camera; and before she knew what she was doing, her hand flew up in an awkward childish wave. Nothing changed in his face, and then he waved back at her.

As soon as he turned away, the spell was broken, and Jackie swore under her breath. So much for treating him like everyone else.

A few minutes later she knew that the consequences of her blunder were much more dire than she'd thought initially. In the words of her Nana, Alexander Fergusson went off and 'gave it laldy.' She wouldn't have been vain enough to assume that it was for her sake that he'd just turned into an amateur-level, full-head-of-hair Zizou. Except, every time he'd cut through Abernathy defence, like a cake knife through a flan; or assisted with a sharp, perfectly executed cross; or scored with his Robben-esque left foot kick - he'd throw her a long look, as if to confirm that she had indeed seen this latest feat of his.

To make matters worse - or better, if one were to consider how beneficial for the club's PR his suddenly emerging showmanship would be - he now made a point of taking the other team to the proverbial cleaners. He didn't taunt or goad; but if anything, his deadpan expression combined with extra lush 'Zidane's roulettes,' Cruyff turns, and even an occasional flip-flap, made Abernathy simply rageful. They were losing composure, getting sloppy - and four-one was the best proof of it.

She'd been wrong before, he did do 'dancing' - just not salsa; but meticulous, errorless, 'Fred Astaire in football boots' tap.

During half-time, Jackie mingled and schmoozed, which was significantly bolstered by the fact that she was so obviously coddled by Rhys Holyoake. She never found this part of her job tiresome: networking came naturally to her. Plus, quite a few locals still remembered her. The young tended to stay or return to Fleckney. By the time she sat down back in her chairs, her 'net' had returned with the haul of about a dozen families, which in Fleckney terms could mean up to a third of the county's overall population, considering Fleckney's tendency for clannism.

The second half started, and Jackie asked herself what sort of teacups Fleckney's coach-captain had been throwing in the dressing room. They had been sufficiently bright before - and now they were simply ripping through Abernathy. The Mayor looked bored out of his mind in his box.