Chapter Twenty-Two #2
He wasn’t trying to be cruel. He wasn’t even wrong, exactly.
There were plenty of other players in the league that were taller than her, bulkier than her.
Even in the Westcliffe team, there were bigger, taller girls than her.
The front row were absolute units, just solid muscle and power.
Maja, their other starting lock, had a good four inches on Georgia.
But it was so close to what Matt said that her pulse kicked like a bruise against her chest.
Not the biggest. Not the fastest.
And that was all that counted.
“Not this again,” Georgia muttered, too loudly to keep to herself. “Give me a break.”
Tommy stopped. Vix sent her a warning glare but kept her professional smile in place.
Tommy waved her away, rolling his eyes. “What I mean is…”
“No, sorry,” Georgia interrupted. “I just want to remember - how many England caps did you get?”
Tommy spluttered, shaking his head as his mouth worked uselessly for a second.
“And I mean senior caps, not under 21s. Was it three? Four?”
“Four,” he confirmed, a red flush working it’s way up his neck. “But that doesn’t…”
“I’ve got fifty-three,” Georgia continued. She pointed at Dottie. “And she’s got a hundred and twelve, from the women’s game. Which is what we’re discussing right now. I know whose insight on how players are thinking and feeling I’d rather listen to right now. Newsflash: it’s not you.”
Tommy’s blush covered his whole face, the tips of his ears crimson.
“Well,” Vix said, her tone warning, placating. “Speaking of physicality, there are obviously differences between men and women…”
“But that’s my point: why not ask people who have actually been there, done that?
Why not call in one of the men's stars, Brick Whitehouse, maybe? At least get someone on the same level.” Georgia was in full flow now, unstoppable, undivertable, like one of Westcliffe’s rolling mauls.
“Have you seen that video, online, where all those men take on Serena Williams, convinced they can take a point off her? And they just keep adding more and more men until their side of the court is full, and she still wins?”
Dottie smirked, her arms folded across her chest, lips pressed into a thin, tight line. She looked in danger of bursting into laughter at any moment.
“We’re supposed to listen to these mediocre men who think that because their private parts dangle they know more than objectively exceptional women.”
The cameras were moving, training themselves on Georgia. The Westcliffe media officer waved at her from the shadows in the back of the studio, frantically gesturing for her to stop. Maggie leant on the barrier to the pitch, and Georgia could see the frown etching two deep lines into her forehead.
Georgia took a shaky breath.
Go big or go home. It was live TV - they’d have to pull the broadcast to stop her, and she was betting they wouldn’t do that. She turned to face one of the camera operators dead on.
“And you know what? We’re wise to it, we see right through you.
You might be taller, heavier. You might be faster.
You might have a podcast…” She rolled her eyes in Tommy’s direction.
“But you’re not better at rugby. You’ve refereed for the same amateur team for years and years, and you’ve never made county level.
Not even for the veterans. Your footwork’s shit, you don’t pass into space, and everyone can see your dirty plays in the ruck. And yes, that means you, Matt.”
A stunned silence settled over the set.
Tommy let out a strangled laugh. Too late, too loud. His neck was now an alarming shade of purple, a trio of veins standing out on his forehead. “Alright, alright - bit harsh, that-”
Vix recovered first. “I think that’s what we call a mic drop, here at the Westcliffe stadium.”
Dottie was fighting a full-blown grin, leaning on the tall table, arms cross, eyes twinkling. “About time someone said it,” she murmured, not quite off-mic.
“And before we say anything more,” Vix finished, “that’s it from us. Back to the studio.”
The camera light blinked off.
Georgia stepped away from the table, pulling the mic from the collar of her polo shirt. Her pulse was still pounding.
Tommy opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn’t follow her as she stepped away.
Georgia didn’t apologise.
She didn’t wait for the production team to dismiss her, just headed for the tunnel, for the safety and privacy of the locker room.
Other than a few abandoned gym bags, their owners working out elsewhere, the locker room was empty.
Georgia flung herself into her cubby, back hitting the seat with a thump.
She found the power bank she kept there and unwound the cable, plugging her phone in. The little lightning symbol lit up the screen, but it stayed otherwise stubbornly blank.
She leant her head back against the seat, feeling her eyes sting with tears again.
Well. If there hadn’t already been a clock counting down until the end of her career, there certainly was one now.
It was fine to be passionate. It was not fine to have a breakdown, live on air.
The club had sponsors to appease, a men’s team to market.
The captain had to be palatable, saleable, and she had just effectively made herself neither.
Her pulse was starting to even out when the door opened. Without opening her eyes, she could pick out the unmistakable click of Maggie’s boots on the concrete floor.
Georgia didn’t open her eyes.
“Figured I might find you hiding in here,” Maggie said, dragging a stool over to Georgia’s cubby.
“Not hiding,” Georgia sighed. “I was charging my phone.”
“Ah,” Maggie said. “Strategic retreat then.”
Georgia cracked open one eye.
Maggie didn’t look angry. Not exactly.
“Go on then, boss,” Georgia muttered. “Yell at me.”
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to yell?”
Georgia offered a one-shouldered shrug. “I didn’t mean to go off like that. I’ve just…” She swallowed. “I guess I’ve got stuff going on, and it spilled over. I’m sorry.”
Maggie said nothing for a long moment. She was probably thinking through the consequences. Trying to work out how a third captain in almost as many games would look for the team.
She sighed.
“Tommy’s already made a complaint, of course. Dotti’s still laughing, and Vix says you’re great telly, but a PR nightmare.”
“Sorry,” Georgia said again. Her phone buzzed beside her as it hit enough battery to turn back on. She turned it over so she wouldn’t have to see the stream of notifications.
“Look,” Maggie said, reaching out and patting Georgia’s knee awkwardly. “We’ve all thought it.”
Georgia blinked. “Oh.”
Maggie nodded towards Georgia’s charging phone. “I don’t know what prompted it-” She held up a hand to forestall any interruption. “And I don’t need to. But your world’s about to explode. You ready for that?”
Georgia looked at the back of her phone case, the little cartoon bananas staring up at her mockingly. “Not even slightly.”
“Good luck, then,” Maggie said. She stood from her stool, hands on her hips as she looked down at Georgia. “And Hotch?”
“Yeah?”
“You better back it up on Saturday. You gonna talk that big of a game? You've got to play it too.”
Georgia straightened a little and sat up in her seat.
“Don’t worry,” she promised. “I will.”
“Good.” Maggie gave her a rare smile and left without another word.
Georgia took a breath, picked up her phone. She clicked the side button, and the screen blinked to life.
Thirty-four new messages.
Seven missed calls.
The Westcliffe team chat had 126 unread messages. Another four buzzed in as she looked at it.
There was one familiar notification at the top.
Matt Mitchell
What the fuck, Georgia. You made me look like a dick on national TV.
Georgia stared at the message, thumb hovering. That was what he led with? Not: Are you okay? Not: That was intense, what happened?
Not: I’m sorry.
Just deflection.
She swiped it away without replying.
The next name that lit her screen made her heart lurch.
Erin Redford RFC
Not exactly how I saw you using that Serena story.
Call me when you’ve caught your breath.