Chapter Eighteen
Three weeks later, with the end of the year looming on the horizon, Georgia chucked an emergency chocolate bar at Rachel, who caught it one-handed without looking up from her phone.
Rachel was still in her pyjamas, eyes glued to her phone, hair unbrushed, a fresh scar along her cheekbone where it had split under JJ’s fist.
She hadn’t said what had happened after the Camden match in Maggie’s office, but she didn't need to. The eleven week suspension had done the talking for her. Over her shoulder, Georgia could see Rachel watching replays.
“Come with me,” Georgia said, zipping up her weekend bag. “I’m gonna watch the Redford girls. They’re really sweet and they’d love to have two internationals watch them play.”
Rachel squinted at her. “You mean watching you watch Matt ref.”
Georgia shook her head, perching on the arm of the sofa. “No,” she said. “He’s reffing the men later. You could leave before that, if you wanted.”
For a second, Rachel looked half-tempted.
“Or,” Georgia said, drawing out the word. “You could stay. Come out with us in the evening. It won’t be late – I’ve got that BBC interview in the morning, so I have to be in the stadium by ten. Come and party like a granny with me.” She gave a little shoulder shimmy that normally made Rach smile.
Today, it didn’t even summon a flicker.
“Come on, Rach,” Georgia wheedled. “It’ll be good for you. Get you out of the flat. You can’t mope around here for your whole suspension.”
“Hotchkiss,” Rachel said, ripping the wrapper off the KitKat and taking an oversized bite. “I don’t need captaining right now.”
“I’m not trying to captain you,” Georgia protested. “I’m trying to, like, friend you.”
Rachel considered. “Are they playing anyone decent?”
Georgia blinked. She didn’t actually know. She’d just looked at the dates, cross-checked them against her own, and picked this one.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. It’ll be chill. I’ll buy you a coffee or three.”
Rachel snorted. “I’m not standing out in fucking arse-freezing November weather like a pitch-side mascot while bloody Erin gives inspirational talks on sportsmanship, just on the promise of a shitty coffee.”
Georgia sighed. She knew Rach was getting serious when every other word out of her mouth was a swear word.
Rachel swiped away the replay video and dropped her phone onto the sofa cushion. “Look, G, I’m not in the mood to be playing role model. And I’m certainly not in the mood to watch you playing piggy in the middle between Erin and Matt.”
“I’m not playing piggy in the middle!”
Rachel scoffed. “No, course not. Look, I’m gonna sit here, with my painful face and my even more pained pride, and wallow. I’ll come and watch you give your interview, if you like, but between now and then I want to curl up and hermit.”
“Alright then.” Georgia nodded. She grinned at Rachel, trying to ease the tension. “I’ll see you at the stadium in the morning, all suited and booted, unless I meet some bikers. You know, big ones.”
“Full of sperm,” Rachel finished the film quote with a grimace. She only pretended to hate Georgia's old movie obsession, and Georgia knew she had a particular soft spot for Ten Things I Hate About You. “You’re gross, you know that?”
“You love me,” Georgia threw over her shoulder, shutting the door to the flat behind her.
***
Georgia stamped her feet on the sideline, gloved hands buried deep in her long Westcliffe training coat, hood up against the wind. The Redford playing fields stretched out before her, wide and flat, nothing to break the fierce swell of wind.
Rachel had been right to stay home in the warm. It was miserable already, and she had hours of standing on the sideline to go.
She watched as one of the Redford forwards made a neat steal at the breakdown. Not bad. A bit reckless, but promising. Georgia yelled encouragement as the girl took off down the pitch, teammates and opponents hot on her heels.
“Which one’s yours then?”
Georgia turned, finding a middle-aged woman bundled in a grey parka and Redford beanie next to her.
Georgia opened her mouth, then closed it. “No,” she spluttered, distracted from the game. “I’m…”
The woman turned her attention back to the game, yelling along with the other parents as Redford crashed over for a try. Her coffee slopped out through the hole in her travel mug, splashing onto the ground at Georgia’s feet.
“Not a parent,” Georgia finished.
The woman looked her up and down. “I suppose you are a little young.” A sudden knowing look crossed her woman’s face. “Oh. You’re not Erin’s new girl, are you? I was wondering if she’d met someone, but she hasn’t said anything, the sly dog.”
Georgia choked on absolutely nothing, her whole brain short-circuiting, fizzing, rebooting and then keeling over again.
The idea sank to the bottom of Georgia’s stomach like a block of lead. At the Halloween Festival, Erin had been keen to emphasize that she was there with friends. That didn’t mean she wasn’t seeing someone.
She remembered the woman beside her, waiting for a response. Heat rushed to colour her cheeks despite the cold. “Oh, um, no, I-”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I didn’t mean to offend. I know she’s private and everything, doesn’t discuss her life outside the club. We just want her to be happy.”
Georgia shouldn’t have flushed at the suggestion, shouldn’t have felt anything. It was just a misunderstanding. A nothing moment. The way her heart lurched said it was anything but.
She liked Erin.
Rachel was right.
She liked Erin again. And not just in a ‘lingering crush from your teenage years’ kind of way. In a ‘oh shit’ kind of way.
In a piggy in the middle of two people way.
Georgia felt the need to explain, gloss over the suggestion, the revelation. “No, no. I’m an old teammate of Tam and Erin’s, just here to support.”
“Ah,” the woman took another look at her, losing interest. “Do you still play?”
“A bit.” Georgia shrugged. Westcliffe had played two games since Camden, one outright loss and one they’d only just managed to win. She didn’t want to talk about it. Talking about it would only lead to questions, and more pressure.
The whistle blew for halftime, the Redford girls jogging off the pitch, cheeks flushed, arms crossed over muddy kits. Georgia stayed on the touch line, watching as Tam pulled them into a huddle with a clipboard and an energy drink.
Erin lingered a little back from the group, arms folded, eyes sharp and scanning.
Now that Georgia was aware of the way she felt, she needed to feel the crush, acknowledge it, and understand that that was all it was. All it could be.
Put it aside, like she always did with distractions.
After all, she was with Matt now.
Georgia bit her lip, worrying at a loose fragment of skin. Erin’s comment about timing replayed in her head. What had she meant by that? Just that they’d missed their opportunity, no doubt. That they’d both moved on.
Like poking a bruise, Georgia made her way over, hands stuffed in her pockets. “Bet this is when you wish you’d taken up coaching beach volleyball in Brazil, eh?”
Erin shot her a sideways glance, her mouth twitching into a half-smile. “You have no idea.”
Tam was gesticulating wildly, spewing a nonsensical story, the girls hanging on her every word.
“Tam looks pleased to be back, though,” Georgia said, watching her friend with deep amusement. “Married life hasn’t quietened her down at all?”
“Nope.” Erin smirked. “She told them before the match that defending was like dancing.”
“Ah. I did wonder,” Georgia said, “what that curtsey thing was mid-tackle.”
“Yeah. I almost walked off.”
Georgia laughed. It came easier than she expected. “They’re good though.”
Erin shrugged, modest. “Mostly. When they’re listening.”
Georgia shifted her weight. “One of the parents thought I was here for you.”
That made Erin’s eyebrow arch, but only slightly. “And are you?”
Georgia looked at Erin, the way the wind had worked loose a few strands of hair from her ponytail, and the way she wasn’t smiling but wasn’t looking away either.
“I came…” Georgia swallowed. “I came over to ask if you wanted a coffee.”
She could hear how that sounded. Like she was asking Erin out.
“A coffee from the clubhouse,” she clarified. She waved her hand about, gesturing unnecessarily at the squat building on the side of the pitch. “Or a tea. A squash, whatever.” She was rambling. Fuck’s sake, Georgia, get a grip.
Erin watched her for a moment, then dragged a hand across her face, rubbing her nose to warm it up. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”
The Redford clubhouse hadn’t changed since Georgia was a teenager.
It still smelt like old sports tape, frying chips and the cloying citrus of industrial floor cleaner.
It was warmer than the pitch at least, and louder - players from various teams in mismatched kit and tracksuits, shouting over each other for ketchup sachets and the last of the squash.
Georgia leaned against the radiator, half-watching the chaos, half-not, letting the heat seep through her clothes. She could still feel the cold trapped under her layers. Erin appeared beside her without warning, two plastic cups of tea in hand.
“One’s got sugar,” she warned. “But I forgot which is which.”
Georgia took one, sniffed it, then shrugged. “I’ll take a gamble.”
Erin raised an eyebrow. “Brave.”
“Oh, I’m very brave,” Georgia said, taking a sip. “Ugh. Sugar.”
She grimaced and passed the cup to Erin, holding her breath as their fingers brushed lightly over the plastic. She took a large gulp of the other tea, wincing as it burned it way down her throat.
They stood quietly for a moment, watching a girl slide across the tile floor on her socks while someone else filmed on their phone. It was fun, carefree. Something the Westcliffe locker room had been lacking this season.
Georgia missed playing grassroots, when it was just for fun.
Something of her thoughts must have shown, for Erin leant in. “You know, I used to hate this clubhouse.”