Chapter Fourteen
Westcliffe lost, of course, but the match ended closer than it might have. Closer than it had looked to be before that first Westcliffe try.
Back in the locker room, Georgia peeled her jersey off, tugging it over the padding she wore between the shirt and her underlayer, wincing at a developing bruise on her shoulder.
Around her, the locker room buzzed with quiet chatter and the low hum of disappointment.
Boots thunked onto the floor, tape was ripped off shins, and everyone helped themselves to protein shakes and hot food.
Maggie had been there briefly, her face as smoothly controlled as always. She’d said a few vaguely positive sentences and disappeared, the rest of the coaching staff following close on her heels.
In the middle of the room, Riley picked her way through the offered spread, cup of chocolate milk in one hand. She alone seemed unbothered by the loss, dancing to whatever music she had in her headphones.
Georgia grabbed her phone from her bag and settled back into her cubby. She swiped past the notifications from BBC Sport, from her email app. There was a string of messages waiting from Matt.
Matt Mitchell
Shit luck on the score.
Bet you looked hot shouting at people though.
Two minutes later, he’d sent another barrage of messages.
Drinks later?
I’ll come to you.
You’ve earned something fizzy and irresponsible.
Georgia smiled. He texted like he was bouncing on a trampoline - light, unserious, words coming in short bursts.
Even so, he was right - she had earned something fizzy and irresponsible.
Maggie and the coaching staff would probably object, reciting long scientific studies on how alcohol impaired muscle glucogenesis or something.
Alcohol on game day was strictly for big wins or end of the season matches.
This had clearly not been a big win.
Her phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with Erin’s name this time.
Erin
Watched the stream. Tough game.
The three dots flashed as Erin typed another message.
Whatever you said under the posts before half time made all the difference.
Georgia tapped her phone against her leg a few times, watching the room as everyone stripped down, took bites from the buffet, and got themselves ready to leave. Her fingers hovered over Erin’s message.
Another message from Matt arrived.
Matt Mitchell
How about tequila? My mate says there’s a good Mexican in Westcliffe.
Somehow, Matt had suggested the thing most likely to tempt her. Los Parados, in the cobbled Old Town, was her favourite restaurant in the whole city. She loved the brightly coloured walls, the mismatched tables, the authentic feel of a Mexican taqueria crammed into a Tudor-beamed English shop.
She could use a distraction, a break from the mental spiral waiting for her at home. She could just about murder a queso fundido and at least six of their signature tacos al pastor.
Going out would mean escaping the team, covering her developing bruises and styling her hair into something vaguely presentable, but once she was home Georgia knew all she’d want to do was sink into the sofa and stay there.
Not sure my pride can handle tequila. How about wine and chicken wings instead?
The typing dots appeared almost instantly.
Sounds right up my street. You order the wings, I’ll bring the wine.
I finish at 6 - be with you for 7.30?
Someone stepped in front of Georgia’s cubby, casting her deep into shadow. Georgia looked up at the back-lit figure, squinting to pick out the outline of Rachel’s two lines of braids across the top of her head.
“Jess and I were thinking about going out for a steak,” she said. “She’s been offered a freebie by that new Brazilian barbecue place. You in?”
Georgia shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ve…” She flashed her phone in Rachel’s direction, as though it was evidence. “I invited Matt over.”
Rachel lifted one eyebrow. Her eyes made a slow sweep of Georgia, still in her match kit, socks rolled down, shorts grass stained, the clear imprint of someone’s boot on her thigh.
“Didn’t have that down as the most effective post-match thirst trap look, but I stand corrected.
Maybe you should have gone in full kit on Friday. ”
Georgia rolled her eyes, lifting one foot to her knee and starting on the socks.
“Or maybe,” Rach continued, “it only works with guys who’ve been eyeing you like Sam’s eyeing those strawberry protein shakes.”
Georgia laughed, despite herself, and flung her rolled up sock at her friend. Rachel caught it one handed, dropping it into the open gym bag at Georgia’s feet.
“We’re getting wings.”
Rachel held up her hands in mock innocence. “With the guy that looks at you like you look at wings then.”
Georgia flung the other sock at her. Rachel stepped back as Georgia stood up and started stepping out of her shorts.
“It’s good, is what I’m saying,” Rachel continued. “Getting wings with a guy who you like and who likes you. That’s what we’re after, right? Something that could last.”
“Right,” Georgia agreed, reaching for the towel folded on the shelf above her cubby. She was mentally cataloguing the flat - how messy had they left it? Was it Matt-ready?
It was only half past five. She could do her hair here after her shower, makeup in the taxi home. She had time to change the sheets and sweep their empty lunch plates into the dishwasher.
Rachel was still talking, still hyping up Georgia’s choice. “I’m happy for you, Hotch. Something nice and easy with someone who doesn’t have the emotional range of a tactical game plan, without any of the structure.”
“That is not very nice,” Georgia chastised her, wagging an exaggerated finger. “Even if it is quite funny.”
Rachel sidestepped, keeping up with Georgia as she moved around the refreshments table towards the showers. “I’ve got more if you want.”
Georgia lifted another flapjack from the table as they passed. “No, thanks.”
“You sure? Reddit had a lot of suggestions I thought were very funny.”
Georgia huffed a laugh, pausing at the door to the showers. Georgia punched her lightly on the shoulder. It was loyalty, dressed up as mockery. “Thanks, Rach.”
Rachel shook her head. “All credit to the denizens of Reddit.”
It was a deflection, but Georgia knew she understood.
“You coming for steak, Hotch?” Jess asked as she passed them, already showered, hair slicked back, water running into her towel in rivulets.
“Nope,” Rachel answered for her, popping the final ‘p’ as she broke away from Georgia, turning back into the locker room. She raised her voice, put her hands to her face, framing her shout.
“Hotch is getting laid tonight,” Rachel cat-called the locker room, a chorus of whoops and cheers following Georgia out of the door towards the showers.
***
By 8.30 pm, the mountain of chicken was mostly demolished, washed down with lakes of blue cheese sauce and the restaurant’s signature spiced fries. Matt reached for a piece of chicken and grinned at her from the other side of the sofa.
“You seemed a bit down after the game. Better now?”
“A bit.” Georgia stayed non-committal. He had helped.
He'd distracted her from circling the missed tackles, the plays gone wrong over and over. The self-recrimination was still there though, barely held at bay, waiting for a quiet moment to slip back in.
“I reckon these wings could solve almost anything,” Matt said, reaching for another. “But if rugby ever gets too intense, you could always go on one of those reality TV shows. Strictly Come Dancing, or I’m a Celebrity, or that SAS one where they make you cry.”
Georgia laughed. Even after the match today, the thought of leaving the club, the pitch, voluntarily for anything felt like a parody of herself.
A girl with muscles and banter. “I was offered a spot on Question of Sport, once, after the last World Cup. I think I’d be better off taking them up on that.
Sports trivia and a buzzer. I could do that. ”
Matt laughed. “That’s such a safe answer.”
“Exactly,” Georgia said, emphasising her words with a hand on his leg. “I like safe. I like quizzes. And I like not having to eat bugs or have the whole country watch me have a mental breakdown on live TV.”
“I’d go on the SAS one,” Matt said. “I’d take the mental breakdown as fair payment for being able to say I’d done it.”
The bottle of wine he’d brought sat open on the low coffee table in front of them, already two-thirds empty. Matt leant across and topped up her glass without asking, the grease from the wings leaving smears on the clear bottle and onto the label which, ironically, had a chicken on it.
“Thanks,” she said. “Nice wine.”
“Well,” Matt shrugged. “Second date, gotta splash the cash. Especially on a fancy girl like you.”
“I’m not fancy.” Georgia threw a napkin at him, which he caught one-handed, still grinning.
“You are,” he said, wiping the corners of his mouth with the napkin. “Just look at this place. Very swanky.”
“How about you? What’s your place like?”
Matt leaned back. “I’m over in Maple Gardens, round the back of Sainsbury’s in Redford.”
Georgia smiled. She knew the road and could picture the neat, 1970s red-brick houses with their neat front gardens, brown tiles around the upstairs windows, and resin driveways. Her parents lived right around the corner on the same estate.
“No way! That’s my old stomping ground. My parents are still on Redwing Close.”
“Cool. Bought the house cheap a few years ago,” he continued. “Old lady had gone into a nursing home, and the kids wanted rid of it. Needed work doing, too, but that’s alright by me.” He winked at her. “You know I’m good with my hands.”
Georgia blushed, hiding her face behind another sip of wine. Matt was fishing in the pocket of his jeans for his phone.
“Ripped up all the carpets first,” he said, unlocking the phone and flicking back through his camera roll. “Whole place absolutely stank of cats.”