Chapter Thirty-Two #2
The chill hadn’t lifted from the air, but Georgia was still buzzing, still warm from the match, the close win.
She’d played well, even by her own standards.
She’d stopped Rach from making things worse, and she’d managed to avoid hitting JJ herself.
And now, smiling for phone after phone, autographing match programmes and kids’ jerseys, Caroline hovered over her shoulder, moving her on from fan to fan, keeping her interactions brief, bland. Marketable. Palatable.
Just as Georgia started to feel like she was losing the shape of herself beneath the smiling, nodding, camera-friendly version, a familiar voice cut through the noise.
“We’re so proud of you, love.” Her mum handed her a coat across the railings, beaming.
“I’m proud of me too,” Georgia joked, hugging her mum with one arm, shrugging the coat on with another. “Where’s Dad?”
“Got side-tracked talking to someone about lineouts.” She rolled her eyes affectionately. “You’d think he was the star player, not just her father.”
Georgia laughed. Then she spotted Erin, standing at the bottom of the stairs, just out of easy shouting distance, hanging back from the railings.
Georgia’s heart skipped at the sight of her in her Westcliffe shirt, the white of her collar peeking out from under her coat.
She’d even joked she’d have Georgia’s name printed on the back.
The idea made Georgia grin even now and drove a desire to strip the coat from her back to prove it one way or the other.
Erin was smiling too, but there was something careful about it. She raised her hand in greeting, came closer, squeezing through the crowds to the edge of the pitch.
Next to her stood a tall man in a wool coat and an old England beanie, posture military-straight, features weathered and sun-lined. His eyes were the same as Erin’s - sharp, dark, assessing. She stepped closer, tugging him along.
Georgia stepped forward too, ignored the hands held out, clutching match day programmes for her to sign.
“Hi you,” Georgia said, cheeks aching from so many smiles.
She’d missed her, missed the sight of her.
Between their various work commitments, they'd seen each other less than Georgia would have liked. Text conversations and stolen moments for video calls just weren’t the same.
They didn’t capture how Erin's hair fell around her shoulders, how the light caught in the brown of her eyes. Georgia ached to reach for her, to pull her into her arms like Jess was doing with her husband. To act like she didn’t have to worry about optics, about brands, about headlines written by people who didn’t even watch women’s rugby.
Caroline hovered over her shoulder.
Close enough to hear, just far enough to pretend she wasn’t listening.
A young girl next to them was filming, the flash on her phone pointed straight at Georgia’s face. Georgia straightened instinctively.
“This is my dad,” Erin was saying. “Frank. And Dad, this is Georgia, my-”
“Friend,” Georgia cut in. “We used to play together as kids, back at Redford.”
Even as they were sliding out of her mouth, the words hit like ice water.
Erin blinked.
“Right,” she said after a beat, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. Her eye twitched once, before her face slipped into something bland, expressionless. “Yeah. That’s me. Dad, this is Georgia, who got us the tickets. We knew each other years ago, at Redford.”
Erin’s father shook her hand with a strong grip. “She speaks highly of you,” he said. “Very good match today.”
“Thank you,” Georgia murmured, heat crawling up her neck.
Georgia's mum watched her with a slightly furrowed brow. The polite parent face. She clearly sensed something was off.
Georgia barely remembered the rest of the conversation. She nodded when she should, laughed once or twice. Then Caroline’s hand was on her elbow again, subtle, practiced. A reminder. Time to move on. Time to earn the sponsors’ goodwill.
Georgia went.
After a few more meet and greets, a few more matchday smiles, she heard herself telling a pink-cheeked and pink-kitted kid to never give up on their dreams. As if she hadn’t just gutted hers five minutes ago.
The girl beamed up at her, wide-eyed, gripping her Sharpie in a tight fist. Georgia signed her programme with the neat, looping signature she’d practiced for fans.
“Work hard, be brave, and don’t let anyone tell you it’s impossible,” she said.
That was what captains were supposed to say. The creed they were supposed to live by. The words felt brittle, hollow. She wondered if this girl would still want to grow up to be her if she knew what it cost.
She couldn’t take it anymore.
Georgia pretended to hear the coaching staff calling her and headed back across the pitch towards the tunnel. The fans she hadn’t reached objected, calling out for just two more seconds of her time.
Georgia crossed the grass with long strides, tugging her coat closer around her as the cold finally started to sink in. At the entrance to the tunnel, she turned around, seeing her parents still waving the flag against the railing.
Erin and her father had gone.