#also completely unbeta'd so here's to all the typos i'll find when i wake up
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oooh how about “Is it too early to have a breakdown this week?”“It’s Monday.”“That doesn’t answer my question.” Maybe erm...Zimbits orrrrr NurseyRans, or Camilla/George? Any ship you want, really
ooooh, im always in a Camilla/George mood also on ao3)
George isn’t ashamed to admit it, but she’s cried over her job before.
The first time was when she got the Assistant GM position and became one of the first woman with such a high level management position in the NHL. Those were happy tears and came after years of fighting tooth and nail to get recognized for her hard work. Those tears happened in a bathroom stall of the rink she’d been at when she got the news, and also got her kleenex handed under the stall when the woman next to her heard and worried. Those tears make her smile now when she looks back on them, not least because she still has coffee with Tai when they’re in the same city.
She’s cried over trades, over wins, over loses, over shitty interns and shittier men who think they can do her job better (they can’t). She’s cried in the bathroom nearest her office, the ones down by the ice and locker rooms, and she’s cried in the car on her way home. George is an emotional person and managing a hockey team takes a lot out of her and her way of dealing with the emotions is crying.
Today’s tears are angry; borne from frustration with the job, on top of a day where everything that could’ve gone wrong has; a textbook case of the Mondays.
First, George came into work without coffee because she got distracted last night before she set the coffee maker and then Camilla distracted her again this morning, so George had to rush through her morning routine which left no time to wait for the coffee to percolate. Her regular Starbucks’ parking lot was under construction so she drove around it twice looking for the entrance to the before giving up and giving into the arena coffee that’s never very good, no matter who makes it.
She got to her office to find that something happened to her computer over the weekend, causing most of the files saved to her hard drive to corrupt. This wouldn’t normally have been such a big deal—she backs everything up onto an external hard drive daily—except last Friday’s hadn’t saved properly, so she lost all the progress she made on the quarterly players reports that are needed for tomorrow’s front office meeting. She had to work through her lunch to redo everything she did on Friday, forgoing the player development analysis that she was actually looking forward to working on. It was such a stupid, ridiculous, busy morning that she had to eat a cold, premade sandwich from the canteen during a business call with the league’s other assistant GM’s about new concussion protocols, a call that was basically a giant waste of time that could’ve been spent on one of the other many things on her to-do list because the league still doesn’t take concussions seriously enough.
The biggest catalyst for the tears happened after the business call though, at an afternoon scouting meeting. It took twice as long as it should’ve because one of the newer scouts hadn’t listened when George said she was looking for a two-way, fast blueliner to balance out Tater’s hard shot and his tendency to pinch up as a fourth forward, and instead brought in yet another big D-man who’d need to spend at least a season in the AHL developing his game before he’d be quick enough for the show, but “at least he used his body and had a good shot.” The scout argued with George about the poor kid’s chances in the NHL in front of the entire scouting team, management, and half of the coaching staff until other George, the Falcs’s GM, snapped at him and the meeting finished as quickly as possible. George has spent most of her NHL career sweating and bleeding to make the men in this stupid league take her seriously, and she’s been mostly successfully what with ten years as an Assistant GM under her belt. It’d been a while since someone had questioned her scouting decisions though, so the meeting knocked her back on her heels, and off balance in a way she hasn’t been in a long time.
George feels justified in kicking off her shoes the moment the door to her office closes behind her and she’s alone. They might scuff the wall a little bit, but it’s nothing that a purposefully placed plant can’t hide. George locks the door and leans back against it just as the tears spill over; a culmination of an absolutely shitty day, coming out in quiet tears and an unfortunate runny nose.
The Falconers have been a great organization to work with, and other George and the owners have made it clear that they have George’s back since she started with the organization, even before the team started playing into the postseason more often than not. It’s when new people are hired on into roles that technically make George their boss that she’s reminded what a boy’s club the NHL can be. It’s exhausting when her every move is questioned by people who don’t know half as much as they think they do, especially because George has the degree and the experience that makes her really good at her job, but no one seems to count her playing on while managing a Div-I hockey team through college, and winning an Olympic gold because it’s women’s hockey.
There’s kleenex on George’s desk, the extra soft ones for moments like this, so when she’s done crying, she crosses the room to pull one from the box. She dabs it under her eyes, making a face when it ends up black from the mascara that was advertised as waterproof. She grabs a clean kleenex to scrub all over her face, hoping to rub away the salty tear tracks that have dried on her cheeks.
The clock on the wall only reads 2 o’clock, and George still isn’t done with the player reports so she settles into her chair to finish them after unlocking the door in case someone needs her. She hopes the glare that she left the scouting meeting wearing will discourage that though.
George is left alone until 4, but then is called into an emergency managers meeting when news breaks that one of the players they’d been ready to trade draft picks for broke his ankle. It’s a long debate about whether or not it’s worth going through with the trade and rehabbing him in Providence or trying to find someone else to play on Jack’s wing without putting them over the salary cap so it’s after 8 o’clock by the time George leaves the office and then there’s traffic from an earlier pile up accident on the way home so George doesn’t actually get home until 9 o’clock.
The house smells like pizza and the candles that Camilla insist smell like the beach, but actually smell like clean laundry. It’s a weird mix, but comforting and a reminder that George has more outside of taking care of the hockey team, though she still feels like she could sleep for days and still not be ready to face to face the rest of the week.
She finds Camilla in the master bathroom, her laptop balanced precariously on the toilet seat and blasting some spotify playlist while she showers. George lowers the volume, her way of telling Camilla that she’s home, and shucks her dress pants and underwear in one go, kicking them off while she fights with the buttons on her blouse. She’s already got the shower door open when she unhooks her bra and throws it over her shoulder. She doesn’t see where it lands.
“You’re home late,” Camilla says, turning to rinse out her hair. George nods and waits until she’s finished to trade spots with her, getting her own hair wet, but mostly just trying to see if the hot water relieves some of the tension of the day. She rolls out her neck and tries to get the water on the knot that seems to have been steadily growing since this morning. Camilla finishes running the conditioner through her own hair before she steps into George’s space for a kiss, hooking her arms around George’s neck and pressing in exactly where the knot is.
“Is it too early to have a breakdown this week?” George asks when they break apart. Camilla raises an eyebrow, reaching to squirt shampoo into her hands. George lets her turn her so she can massage the shampoo into George’s hair, scritching along her hairline. Her eyes fall shut.
“It’s Monday,” Camilla replies. She taps George’s side so George leans back and rinses out her hair. Camilla gets more conditioner into her hands and runs that through George’s hair.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” George says.
“Aw babe.” Camilla’s eyes are big and concerned. “It’s a little early to have a breakdown, but I’ll support whatever you want to do.”
She drags George in for a hug and George tucks her nose into her neck, willing herself not to cry again. She won’t have to explain her day Camilla; she’s been in sports for as much as her life as George has so she gets it, gets having to fight to have her voice heard over the shouts of men who think their voices are the only ones worth listening to. She’s been so loud as a sports journalist, covering women’s sports and bringing attention to how amazing these women athletes are, with little to no reference to their male counterparts because women’s sports can, and should, stand alone. George loves her so much.
They stand pressed together, swaying slightly to the beat of whatever song is playing, until the water starts to go cold, and Camilla reaches around George to adjust the knobs.
“There’s leftover pizza,” Camilla says. She slides past George so she can rinse out the conditioner in her hair before George does the same. “You wanna eat that before your scheduled breakdown, G?”
“Don’t make fun, we were having a moment.”
“Can we finish the moment in bed? My fingers are starting to get pruney.”
George huffs out a laugh; shutting off the water and letting Camilla bully her out of the shower and into a warm towel. She pulls on the team USA sweatpants she’s been using as pjs recently and a soft t-shirt that mysterious made its way from Camilla’s side of the closet into hers. Camilla’s fingers are gentle as they comb through her hair, and George tries to be just as gentle while she braids Camilla’s hair.
They climb into bed, under separate blankets because they both learned a long time ago that they’re no good at sharing when they sleep, but they find their way to the center of the bed to cuddle.
“D’you want pizza though? You must be hungry,” Camilla says, tucking herself under George’s arm. Her shampoo smells like home and her the weight of her body on George is comforting in a way that little else is.
“I just want you,” George replies, though she really hasn’t eaten more than a couple power bars and one of Jack’s gross protein shakes since her late lunch. She’s comfortable right now and unwilling to move if it means having to stop touching Camilla.
Camilla twists and stretches so she’s right in George’s face, propping herself up on her elbows. “You have me, you giant cheeseball.” She’s slow to lean down for a kiss so George surges up and mashes their lips together, swallowing down the amused sound that Camilla makes. The kiss manages to be light and teasing until Camilla nips at George’s bottom lip so she licks past the seam of Camilla’s lips, hands coming up to frame Camilla’s face. George runs her thumb a long Camilla’s jaw and wants to flip them to deepen the kiss even further but then her stomach growls and Camilla pulls back with a wry grin.
“Okay, pizza would be nice then too,” George admits. Camilla presses another kiss to her lips and then to her cheek as she kicks off her covers.
“I love you and I’m sorry you had a shitty day,” Camilla says seriously once she’s standing. George’s heart swells with a fondness that’ll never get old.
“Love you too,” she says, and follows Camilla back down to the kitchen.
They eat the leftover pizza at the sink, trading tomato-y kisses between bites, and this time George sets the coffee machine before Camilla distracts her more so tomorrow is probably going to be better than today.
(It is.)
#omgcp#georgia martin#camilla collins#georgia x camilla#femslash#angryspace-ravenclaw#checkplease#this got outta control though i meant to do like 500 words and then i got on a rant#also completely unbeta'd so here's to all the typos i'll find when i wake up#i either beat or tied my record for fast prompt filled#so that's good i guess
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