Chapter Thirty-One
The walls of the Westcliffe backroom offices were too white for January, the fluorescent strip lighting overhead too harsh. The room needed some softening. A cheese plant, maybe. A mural on the walls. An occupant with some remnants of human feeling.
“You’ll want to see this,” Caroline said, three days after the showdown with Matt. She was waiting at the changing room door, iPad in hand and an expression like Georgia had murdered her labrador. Then she turned and clicked all the way to her office.
Georgia stared at the glossy cabinet across from her and tried not to fixate on the tiny chip in the laminate. She sat on the edge of the chair, joggers still damp from training, hands clamped between her knees, and waited for Caroline to speak.
“Five sponsors, Georgia.” Caroline waved the iPad, the beads on her bracelet jangling like windchimes in a storm. “Five. And those are the only ones who’ve called me directly. There’s every chance others have gone to the board, too.”
Georgia swallowed. Her mouth tasted like electrolytes. “What – what are they saying?”
“Oh,” Caroline drawled, scrolling the screen, jabbing at various emails. “The usual. That their brand just doesn’t align with this kind of… persistent controversy. Their name in the spotlight, and not for good reasons.”
Georgia stared at the floor.
Caroline paced again. Her heels echoed on the floor.
“Do you understand how this affects the club? Your teammates? We’ve worked for years to build something that businesses want to be associated with.
Something safe. Something clean. And now, thanks to you, we’re trending – and our associated keywords are meltdown, unprofessional, man-hating. ”
Georgia looked up sharply. “I haven’t done anything since the interview. I've kept it professional, and kept it as bland, as beige as I could.”
Caroline turned the iPad toward her, a grainy photo of her outside the stadium, face twisted, shouting at Matt.
You could only see the back of his head, but his hands were raised in surrender, as though he was retreating.
As though she’d sought him out to yell at, as though he hadn’t ambushed her at work.
“And on some of the –” Caroline coughed delicately. “– less salubrious corners of Reddit, they’re saying you practically assaulted a man over the Christmas break, pushed him to the floor.”
Georgia’s stomach flipped. “That’s not –”
She’d bashed into him, sure. Pushed past, her shoulder crashing into his. She was taller than him, solid. It wasn’t her fault he’d stumbled, drunk enough to be unsteady on his feet.
She hadn’t pushed him. She certainly hadn’t assaulted him.
“I don’t care,” Caroline snapped. “It reads like drama. And the people who fund this club do not want drama. They want feel-good stories and heartwarming girl power and pretty clips of players handing boots to schoolchildren. Not televised shouting matches.”
Georgia sighed. Nothing she could say would convince Caroline she hadn’t been in a brawl in the middle of Christmas day. That she wasn’t deliberately creating bad press for the club or searching out controversy.
Caroline rubbed the bridge of her nose. “And don’t get me started on the memes.”
Georgia had seen those. Rachel had sent them to her, and Riley had been quoting them at every opportunity. She groaned, leant forwards, elbows on her knees. “This is a nightmare.”
“No, darling,” Caroline snipped. “This is PR.”
There was a long silence. Outside the office window, the grey January sky drooped like a wet paper towel. Rain streaked down the glass.
Caroline sat down at last, folding her hands in her lap.
“Look, if you were going to have a semi-public showdown with an ex-lover, then you should have discussed it with the club first. Or, at the very least, waited until the cameras were off. You’re not just a player anymore.
You’re the face of the team. You have a responsibility. ”
Georgia looked at her. “Am I not allowed to have a personal life? I didn’t exactly ask him to turn up or arrange the press myself.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Georgia. That isn’t helpful. Of course everyone has a personal life. But there’s a way to do that. Thoughtfully. Strategically. Not storming into a post-match interview like a rampaging Joan of Arc.”
Georgia blinked. “I – what?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Caroline said, flipping her hair back with a sigh. “The gay thing’s great.”
Georgia started to protest. Bisexual was its own thing. Caroline waved her off.
“It tests really well with the under-thirty crowd. But full-on feminist righteous fury? Meltdowns in kit, on the stadium grounds? That doesn’t play so well with the corporate wellness sector.”
There was a flicker of something dark in Georgia’s chest. “So, I’m allowed to be queer,” she said slowly, “as long as I’m marketable. Not messy. Not angry.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Georgia blew out a long breath through her nose. “You didn’t have to.”
Caroline’s gaze cooled. “You’re very young.”
Georgia laughed, short and bitter. “I’m twenty-nine.”
“Exactly. Young enough to forget how precarious this all is.” Caroline leaned forward, manicured fingers laced together.
“Do you know how many years it took to get regular coverage of women’s rugby on national TV?
How many meetings, and sponsorship pitches, and glossy media kits it took me to get us onto magazine covers and into primetime interviews?
I built this space. Dottie, Maggie, all the players before you built this space.
And now you’re trashing the set while the cameras are still rolling. ”
Georgia opened her mouth. Closed it again.
The silence burned.
Caroline stood. “Look. Something else will come along soon enough to call off the vultures sufficiently for us to move on.”
Georgia gave a short laugh. “Like Hugh Grant in Notting Hill said, ‘Today’s papers will be lining tomorrow’s dustbins’.”
Caroline gave her a sharp look. “Not quite, as you well know. That wasn’t true in 1999, and it certainly isn’t true now.
” She softened. “I have you on a panel soon, with the other league captains. Get through that unscathed, and we’ll dial back the rest of your appearances, control the narrative for the rest of the season. ”
***
In mid-February, the frenzy of their themed Valentine's weekend behind them and less than a third of the season to go, the league turned a hotel function room into a makeshift press suite. Someone had done their best to disguise the fact that it usually hosted awkward wedding discos: drapes in the league’s signature purple, a row of plastic chairs for journalists, two weak spotlights to make the backdrop look less like a tablecloth.
Georgia sat behind the foldout table, flanked by three of the other club captains.
Behind them, a branded league banner in the same purple was pegged just slightly off-centre, the logo wrinkling at the corner.
It was all supposed to be part of a new mid-season PR push, Caroline had explained, an attempt to drum up more interest while half the fans were distracted by the men’s Six Nations.
Georgia hated it already.
Caroline hovered behind the rows of assembled journalists, her ever-present iPad glued to her hand.
JJ, of course, was in her element. Camden’s captain had come straight from training, not a black hair out of place, smiling like she had a publicist feeding her lines through an earpiece.
Maz from the Humber Sirens was bouncing her knee, trying to make the cheap lanyard badge in front of her spin on the tabletop.
Lizzie Currie – fresh off a six-match unbeaten run with Aegis – sat beside Georgia, arms folded, already looking halfway out the door.
The first few questions were predictable. The competition at the top of the table. Westcliffe, the Wyverns, Manchester Forge scrapping it out in the middle. Fixture congestion and balancing recovery days with media duties.
JJ gave a gracious, glowing answer about squad rotation. Becca Yuen from the Leeds Archangels waved her hand and said something about letting the game speak for herself, and Georgia nodded her agreement. Maz made a quip about having a spare hamstring on back order.
Then a journalist from one of the rugby podcasts leaned forward. “Georgia, Westcliffe’s been through a bit of a rollercoaster this season. Tough results, a new captain, and of course that interview. How’s the squad holding up?”
It wasn’t the words so much as the way they were said. Light. Like she was asking about the weather.
“We’re still in it,” Georgia said. “Still fighting.”
The journalist smiled. “And how have you handled that as captain? Given… everything.”
Over the journalist’s head, Caroline was gesticulating frantically. Georgia ignored her, shifted in her seat, forced herself to breathe evenly. “It’s been a challenge. We’re rebuilding. Trying to play with heart.”
JJ gave her a sidelong glance. Not unkind, but curious.
Another reporter jumped in. “Do you think your style as a leader’s changed since the start of the season?
The public saw a very raw, very vocal side of you back in November, and on live television, no less.
You’ve been noticeably quieter since, publicly at least. Bu there’s been plenty of speculation online about your behaviour privately. ”
In the background, Caroline was mouthing words Georgia couldn’t make out. No doubt the other captains could see how tightly she needed to be controlled. Georgia’s jaw flexed. “I’ve been focused on my game, on my squad.”
JJ shifted slightly, and Maz was still tapping, now with both index fingers. The sound was oddly comforting. The journalist pressed. “Was that your choice? Or were you asked to dial it back?”
Georgia stared at the man for a moment. “I’m the captain of Westcliffe. It’s been a learning curve, and some of that includes learning when to speak – and when to let the rugby do the talking.”
There was a pause.
“Sounds a bit rehearsed,” the journalist said.
Georgia’s mouth opened slightly. It was rehearsed. She’d said exactly what Caroline had prepped her to say.
Before she could come up with a snappy reply, a younger woman near the back raised her hand.
She had a notepad balanced on her knees, a shock of platinum hair, a pair of chunky boots tucked under her chair.
“If I can just follow up. Georgia, I don’t mean this in a negative way, but do you think the controversy earlier this season affected your performance?
Your confidence? You’ve been quieter both on and off the pitch. ”
It was polite. Framed like concern. But Georgia could feel the undercurrent of criticism. The undercurrent of truth. She met the woman’s eyes. “I think it’s been a long season. And a complicated one. It’s not just me – it’s the whole league.”
The journalist didn’t back off. “But you, specifically, has it changed how you lead? Are you still the kind of captain who’ll speak up?”
She thought about Caroline’s voice in her ear, all press training and panic: Stick to the message. No more surprises. Be calm. Be clean. Think of the sponsors, of the core fans. Think of the whole reason this panel exists.
“I think calling out misogyny when it’s in your face is part of leading. Especially when it’s systemic.” JJ leant forward. “Also, if we’re handing out red cards for passion, half this room would have had a permanent ban long before we made it to captain.”
Georgia blinked at her in surprise. If she’d expected anyone to come to her rescue, it wouldn’t have been JJ.
Under the table, JJ nudged her foot. Not enough to be seen on the camera, but enough to be felt.
JJ continued with a shrug. “If you’re looking for theatrics, go rewatch the clip.
But if you want leadership? Come watch us play the Sirens next weekend. ”
The room broke into laughter again, the tension ebbing away. Caroline gave her a tight smile, a short nod, and Georgia let herself breathe again.