Chapter Seventeen
The stadium was loud in that specific, chaotic way Westcliffe always managed on a themed weekend: a mix of genuine supporters in their usual blue and gold replica kits alongside gangs of roaming zombies, werewolves and vampires, amped up on slime-green cocktails and too many fizzy sweets.
A huge crowd of university students congregated in the south stand, all in fancy dress and already halfway drunk.
The DJ played nothing but horror film soundtracks over the loudspeaker, and the pitch-side announcer shouted increasingly cheesy puns about ‘trick or try!’ and ‘scare-ums’ instead of scrums.
Georgia bounced on her toes near the halfway line, trying to settle her shoulders, trying to block out the roar of the crowd and the weight of all those eyes. Somewhere in the east stand, Matt was sitting with his mates. Already more than three pints in, if she had to guess.
He’d sent a series of increasingly badly typed messages before the game, chronicling his, Deano and Stu’s choice of greasy fry-up en route, their pub stops and the long queue for the stadium bar.
She’d got him tickets last minute. He’d texted her Thursday, caught her buzzing from a clean run of phase play on the training pitch, and she’d thought: why not? But now, with the chill end-of-October wind stinging her ears and a tough game ahead, she wasn’t sure that she wanted him to see.
Above them, just under the concrete overhang, was a group of smaller figures in the same black and red quartered shirts she still had framed on her wall.
Georgia had clocked them during the warm-up, pressed to the fence and waving wildly in her direction.
They had adults with them, also in black and red.
One was clearly Tam, her outline familiar, easy to spot.
Tam had texted her good luck, but had said nothing about being in the stands.
Next to her was another woman, dark hair tied back, large sunglasses obscuring her face. Georgia didn’t need to squint to know exactly who the Redford U18 girls had with them. She hadn’t known they were coming.
It wasn’t really a game she wanted an audience for.
A match against the Camden Ironhearts was never pretty.
Rachel had sent her at least three social media edits of the Ironhearts digitally edited to look like evil witches, eyes turning red and electricity pouring from their fingers.
Georgia had laughed and liked them, before noticing that all the edits had been made by Camden’s own fans.
At the far end of the pitch Camden were already lined up, their bright red shirts practically vibrating. Their captain, JJ Singh, gave Georgia a lazy once over across the coin toss.
“Hello, baby Fleur,” she cooed, plastering a fake smile across her face. “I have to say, didn’t think Maggie was going to pick you as captain. I mean, Maggie did use to play for us, after all, so maybe it makes sense.”
Georgia stared at her blankly, waiting for the ref to join them in the middle of the pitch.
“After all,” JJ continued quickly, rushing her insults out before anyone except Georgia could hear them. “If she wants us to win, I can’t think of a better choice for Westcliffe's captain.”
At least the referee for this match was up to the challenge of Camden’s dark arts.
Sian Gallagher was the only woman Georgia had ever met who could silence a stadium with one raised eyebrow.
She didn’t give more than one warning, just penalties.
She didn’t do long speeches, didn’t take any back chat.
Players swore she could see through rucks, mauls, and even lies.
“Respect the game,” she said as she wrote down the result of the coin toss in her notebook, and Georgia had every intention of obeying.
Back in the starting line, Georgia glanced over at Rachel, stretching one leg behind her as if she was warming up for a bar fight.
“You good?”
Rachel cracked her neck, adjusted the strap of her scrum cap, and gave Georgia a grin full of mouth guard. “I love Halloween. Disgustingly sweet drinks, bad dates, legally sanctioned violence.”
Georgia laughed but then forced her face into a stern mask. “No violence. Don’t let them rile you.”
Rachel shrugged, and Georgia turned round to the team. She raised her voice, shouted out across the field. “We play our game, not theirs. Don’t bite. Got it?”
The team, fanned out behind her, nodded.
“Right lads! Let’s ruin some weekends!”
The whistle went, kicking off ten minutes of pure chaos.
Camden caught Kamsi’s kick, then smashed in Westcliffe’s back three like they wanted blood.
Georgia barely had time to get into position before the first scuffle broke out.
She was still scrambling to fill a defensive gap when Westcliffe’s diminutive scrum half, Jen, was practically flattened under Camden boots.
“Walk away!” Georgia shouted, pulling Jen out by the back of her shirt. “Let the ref see it.”
But for once, it seemed the usually sharp-eyed ref wasn’t looking. Or choosing not to.
Georgia gritted her teeth, and took long, slow breaths to calm herself. It was fine. There were no surprises in Camden’s game: they were strong and physical, aggressive but sloppy. All Westcliffe had to do was stay calm, and they’d be fine.
By the time Jess crashed over the try line from the back of a Westcliffe rolling maul, everyone was already bruised and restless. The crowd roared.
Five – nil to Westcliffe.
Riley Carter jumped on her sister’s back like she’d scored the try herself, posing for the flashing cameras as usual, arms up for the crowd’s adoration.
Georgia couldn’t help herself, turning to look up at the stands, allowing herself a small smile as she saw the excited frenzy of those red and black shirts.
***
Late into the second half, Rachel took the ball into contact, driving forward as a Camden girl clung onto her shoulders. Two more Camden players arrived, piling into the maul, keeping Rachel on her feet, her red scrum cap clear in the mess of arms and heads.
Just as Georgia arrived, one of those flailing elbows made solid contact with the back of the red scrum cap, and Rachel went down, the ball pulled away by Camden.
Sam stepped in, pulling the offending player out of the mass of bodies by her shirt, swinging her onto the grass feet away. Georgia followed her, a hand on Sam’s solid bicep.
Even from the other side of the pitch, Georgia could hear Maggie screaming at them. The other Camden players were closing the distance, the run of play forgotten in the anticipation of a full-on fight.
Georgia clenched her jaw and looked down at the player on the floor. “You do that again,” she warned, one finger pointing down at the girl, “and I will make it personal.”
The ref blew her whistle, stepping in between the rapidly forming knot of players around Sam and Georgia.
“Captains,” she said, “control your teams. There won’t be any further warnings.”
Georgia shot the girl one last dark look, and turned away, heading back to where Rachel was heaving herself to her feet, the medics hurrying off the pitch.
“You good, Rach?”
Rachel gave her a shaky thumbs up, shaking her head. “This match sucks,” she said.
The game only got worse from there.
Camden had stolen another try from a set piece on the twenty-two line. With fifteen minutes to go, Westcliffe were losing. The score flashed in huge red numbers on the screens at either end of the stadium. Twelve for Camden, seven for Westcliffe.
Georgia's mind was racing, trying to find a last-ditch tactic to get one last try, when she heard it. A sharp, startled yelp followed by the unmistakable thud of someone hitting the grass hard.
She spun.
Rachel was flat on her back, boots in the air, teeth bared in a feral smile. JJ was already pulling her arm back into the ruck like nothing had happened, pretending to roll away, but Georgia had seen it.
She'd seen JJ’s hand, sneaking out as Rachel stepped over, closing round her ankle and yanking.
Rachel was already back on her feet and moving. No hesitation. She launched herself into JJ with a force that startled even Georgia. Fists, not just shoves. A proper pile-up. Bodies scattered, everyone else getting out of the way.
Sian Gallagher and her two assistants went flying past Georgia, whistles shrieking. She already had the red card in hand, decision made.
“Number Six, Westcliffe. Off.”
Rachel didn’t flinch. She shook off the restraining hands of her teammates, scrum cap pulled back from her hairline, face flushed and chest heaving. Her right eye was already swelling, no doubt about to blossom into a massive bruise.
She took three steps, stood toe to toe with the referee.
“She tripped me,” she spat. “Deliberately.”
The referee stared back, impassive, red card still held high. She raised one eyebrow, unimpressed. “And you thought that was an appropriate reaction?” She waved the red card again. “Off. Now.”
Georgia caught Rachel’s arm as she stomped past. “Rach -”
Rachel yanked her arm from Georgia’s grip. “She tripped me, Hotch,” she complained. “And fucking Sian Gallagher says it’s my fault.”
“I know,” Georgia said softly, trying to usher her out of the ref’s hearing. “But now we’re a player down, and you’re probably out for weeks.” At least until the New Year. Too long. The team needed Rachel and her fire. Georgia needed her.
Rachel didn’t answer. She ripped her mouthguard from between clenched teeth and stormed down the tunnel.
Once Rachel was out of sight, the referee awarded Camden the penalty, the clock ticking down the last few minutes.
It was going to be another loss.
Camden were still six points ahead. If Westcliffe scored and converted a try, they could just squeak a win. But that was unlikely. There was less than ten minutes to go, and Westcliffe had only fourteen players on the pitch.