Printer Friendly Version ] [ Report Abuse ]
>>

A Woman's Guide to Professional Quidditch by ScarletRoses
Chapter 1 : Gigi Jacobs-- NOT Genevieve
 
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 12


Font:  
Background:   Font color:  

 



See that pretty thing? Done by Chocolate_Frog @ TDA

 




 

I held up the Quidditch robes in front of my body. A little big, but it would do. The robes were dark grey with white outlines. A falcon was embedded into the chest. I looked down at the back of the jersey. I beamed with pride. The number 4 was etched into the back and right above that was the stitching of my last name: JACOBS.
 



 

 

A flash made me blink a few times, but didn’t get rid of my pride. Me. I was here. I was the one standing, holding these Quidditch robes in front of me. Nothing could bring me down.




 

 

 

Except another flash. And another. Another lit up the whole room.




 

 

 

I came back to reality. People were all around me, shouting things to me. Questions. Ones I couldn’t hear over everyone else’s. I clung to the robes for dear life. I felt as though I had done something horribly wrong and that I was about to get executed by these reporters. Is this what Britain was like? If so, I think I might go back to America. Less press for people like me. No one cared about Quidditch in America; Quad was important there.
 



 

 

“Ms. Jacobs!” They all seemed to be shouting. I would let myself focus on one reporter before my eyes darted to another who seemed to be talking louder than the one I was looking at, just for the process to repeat itself. I’m only one person, I can’t answer a million questions at once.




 

 

 

“Excuse me!” A loud voice screeched from behind me. I looked gratefully at my manager, Sally Harvest. Immediately, all the press shut up, staring up at her with fear. I was a little fearful myself at her loud, demanding voice.




 

 

 

I have to admit, this woman had power. No matter how much I didn’t really like her. Curse Mother for knowing just the type of woman I would need to help me in my Quidditch career. This woman was brilliant. Loud, but brilliant. She knew what would make me a Quidditch star.
 



 

 

“One at a time or you’ll be wasting her time.” She hissed into the microphone. It was like a frenzy, all the press hopping up and down like school children. Sally was the mean teacher that taught her children all too well. She looked at me with raised eyebrows and gestured towards the crowd for me to pick.




 

 

 

“Uhm…yes, you?” I pointed to the nearest reporter who looked ready to wet his pants.
 



 

 

“Yes! Ha, in your face Daily Prophet!” he said, sticking his tongue out at the guy next to him who looked crest-fallen. Really? These really were children I was dealing with. “Marcus Theodore, Quidditch Weekly! Are you excited to be playing for the Falmouth Falcons, Ms. Jacobs?”




 

 

 

Falmouth Falcons. A team that everyone adored. I had followed them since I was little, even though I rightfully should have been following the Sweetwater All-Stars (they sucked too much to get my support). The Falcons had won the British Cup last year and two years prior to that. They were not only an amazing team, but honorable players. Now I was one of those players.
 



 

 

“Of course I am. The Falcons have an amazing organization and I’m honored to now be apart of it.” I said, containing the squeal that I really wanted to do. Sally had made sure I was extremely punctual in doing this.
 



 

 

What I really wanted to do was dance with my robes above my head and make fun of my old school friends who said Quidditch was stupid. Look who’s stupid now.  




 

 

 

“The Falcons have never had a girl on their team before.” The Daily Prophet guy cut in. I nearly narrowed my eyes on him for being so childish, but coughed to hide my detest. “Are you worried?
 



 

 

I nearly laughed. Worried? No. Terrified? Yes. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t terrified of the idea of going to an all men’s team that had never had a woman player. They had done amazing without a girl before, why would they need one now?




 

 

 

Because their star chaser had decided to retire, that’s why.




 

 

 

Curse Harley Chilton and all of his amazingness. He will be the downfall of me, I’m sure of it.




 

 

 

“I’m sure they’ll welcome me with open arms.” I heard my voice rise an octave, but none of the reporters seemed to notice.
 



 

 

“I think that’s enough. If you have any further questions, we shall schedule a press conference at a different date.” Sally interrupted the next reporter.




 

 

 

Sometimes, I’m glad Sally is here.




 

 

 

She grabbed onto my shoulder, nearly pulling it out of its socket, as she dragged me off the stage. Cameras were flashing every which way as we exited, but Sally didn’t seem to notice. She probably didn’t. She was a stunning 6 feet and decided that heels were the way to go. She was thin, but had a terrifying look to her face. She looked like she swallowed something sour, the way her face was contorted. Her unnatural blonde hair looked orange if you looked at it in the wrong light. I could see her roots coming in. I better mention that to her. She’d be mad. I’d have a good laugh at her.
 



 

 

Most importantly, Sally was my manager and a damn good one. Mom had hired her last year when I had gotten drafted to the Meteorites (much to Dad’s dismay). I had been drafted straight out of Salem’s Institute. Yes, I’m American and no, I am not dumb. Contrary to popular belief.




 

 

 

I beamed down at my robes as Sally pulled me into a hallway to apparate. 
 



 

 

“See, not hard. You’re lucky you have me here, Genevieve.” She scolded. I immediately cringed at the use of my full name.
 



 

 

"It's Gigi," I growled at her. She waved a hand dismissively at me.



 

 

 



 

 

“Tomato, potato” She said, with a wave of her hand. I didn’t bother correcting her. Wasn’t really worth it, since she’d be calling me Genevieve in a matter of time.




 

 

 

“Ms. Jacobs!” a chubby man was running towards us, nearly out of breath. I smiled at him, knowing him as my brand new team manager. The guy who had asked me to come join the Falcons.
 



 

 

“Mr. Collins!” I said, stopping as I heard Sally sigh. He finally caught up to us, huffing and puffing. I felt bad for him. It was quite obvious that he hadn’t even tried to become a Quidditch Player ever, but had stuck to managing.
 



 

 

“I had someone put all your-“ insert his wheeze here. “-things into your new flat. If they didn’t arrange it the way you like, I will fire them and find someone new. Just let me know.”



 

 

 



 

 

Well isn’t this fancy? I knew that Brits were nice and all, but I have barely been here for a few hours. Seriously, I haven’t. My first stop when I apparated in was to get my robes and to show off in front of press (per Sally’s advice). I didn’t think it was necessary, but she insisted on getting my face out there.
 



 

 

“No, no! I could’ve unloaded it all. I know I have ridiculous amounts of stuff…” I tried, feeling my face flush, but Mr. Collins waved it off immediately.
 



 

 

“Nonsense! You’re one of my players now, one of the best! That’s how you are going to get treated here.” He beamed at me; his rosy cheeks made me feel slightly uncomfortable. It was probably the accent. I wasn’t used to it yet. I’m not sure I’d ever get used to it. British accents were damn attractive…even if he wasn’t.




 

 

 

“I’d like to discuss her salary,” Sally said, pulling her business jacket tighter around her. I felt my face flush once again.
 



 

 

“Sally, that is highly inappropriate right now!” I hissed at her. She waved her arm at me again.
 



 

 

“No, I understand!” Mr. Collins chimed in, though he looked slightly taken back as well. 




 

 

 

“So? I’m thinking seven hundred thousand galleons a year.” She started talking. I nearly choked on my spit. I got paid half that from the Meteorites.




 

 

 

“Sounds reasonable.” Mr. Collins responded. I felt my eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets.




 

 

 

“A bonus on games she wins.” Sally added. Mr. Collins nodded in response. This didn’t make Sally happy. She wanted to be able to negotiate (which was really her arguing). “Well..maybe we should up it to eight hundred thousand galleons…she is amazing…”





 

 

 

“She’s got a year contract. I’m pushing it giving her seven hundred thousand galleons a year. Especially for her being a chaser. I paid Chilton 1 million and he was established, signed a five year contract, and was our captain. I’m capping it at seven hundred thousand.” Mr. Collins suddenly got a business-tone. I looked at Sally, not daring to jump in.




 

 

 

“Well, we can take her elsewhere!” Sally hissed.




 

 

 


“No! I’ll accept that offer, Mr. Collins!” I jumped in.


Who’d turn down 700,000 galleons a year? Not me. I’m not dumb.
 







 



 

 

The flat was breathtaking. It was large, my things looking completely out of place within it. I’d definitely have to invest in some new furniture (when I start getting paid, that is). The living room was painted brightly; my television and sofa set spread throughout it. My old jersey was hung on the wall, bearing the same number “4” on the back of it, but looked a little more worn. The kitchen had a large sunroof above the refrigerator, which whoever had moved my things in, had taken to stocking it.




 

 

 

The bedroom was also incredibly large. It had a walk-in closet and a large, three paneled window facing the country side. Thank Merlin for making southern England a mostly magical area. Muggles would have ruined it. Not that I’m a pureblood maniac, but muggles just make a mess of things. They put up huge factories and buildings and the works. America used to be pretty before muggles went all out on it.
 



 

 

That’s why people thought America was trashy. Muggles. I’m half muggle, so I suppose it’s half my fault too. Oh well, America can suck it. I’m not there anymore. I’m in beautiful Britain. I sighed.



 

 


What was I supposed to call my new home anyways? Great Britain, England, Britain, the UK? There were so many options; I wasn’t sure which one wouldn’t insult the people here. That would be something I’d have to ask a teammate when we became more acquainted.




 

 

 

I flopped down on my overly sized bed and felt as though everything was fresh. The sheets were probably cleaned fifty times. Egyptian cotton. Mmmm. It felt nice against my bare legs sticking out of my shorts.




 

 

 

I could get used to this. Even if I didn’t get used to it, I would force myself to like it.




 

 

 

I felt the air conditioning blowing through the vent right above my bed. I didn’t like fresh air, I liked air conditioning. It might be an American thing, since we take so many things for granted, but I didn’t care. It was boiling out for it being August and England had a dry heat. It felt disgusting. This is why air conditioning is key.
 



 

 

I heard the chime of the doorbell (a doorbell on a flat? Yes, it was that fancy). It sounded like some Christmas carol that I should know. I bounded out of the bedroom, ready to receive my welcoming pie or something along those lines.




 

 

 

When I pulled open the door, ready to see an older lady holding a casserole, but instead was greeted with a tall, tanned man with a goofy grin on his face. He was wearing no shirt and had khaki shorts on. Good lord, he was attractive, but something told me he already knew that. Probably was the way he leaned against my doorway in a cocky manner. That was it.
 



 

 

“Can I help you?” I asked him, raising an eyebrow. He grinned, showing perfectly straight, shining teeth.
 



 

 

“I’m your hot neighbor. This is the part where we shag.” He told me, his thick British accent booming around my flat.




 

 

 

“Excuse me?” I asked him. This was something I was not familiar with. Shagging. It didn’t sound pleasant, however. Something told me it was incredibly dirty.
 



 

 

“Yeah, I heard Americans are incredibly kinky.” He stated, ruffling his dark hair.
 



 

 

Now I understand. I nearly hit him on the spot. I was a professional, damn it! I was here to play Quidditch! Surely he understood that! I was in no way some play thing. I glared at him, crossing my arms in defiance.




 

 

 

“You do realize that you aren’t talking to one of those Americans, right?” I asked him. He blinked at me a few times, making it incredibly obvious he was eyeing me up. I smacked his shoulder immediately in anger. I didn’t want to be checked out by some pig!




 

 

 

“Sorry, got a bit distracted!” He claimed, rubbing his arm. I was about to slam the door when someone called down the hall.



 

 


”Fred! Oi, Freddie! What the bloody hell are you doing?!” another British male voice called. I groaned. I was sure to have two perverted neighbors. Joy.




 

 

 

“Meeting the neighbor!” the boy in front of me, now with the name Fred (what a generic, boring name), called back.




 

 

 

The next boy that came into view was easily recognizable. The untamed hair, the charming smile as he walked into view, the tall figure, the muscles, and most importantly, the Falcon’s t-shirt he was wearing. I would be able to recognize him from a mile away.




 

 

 

“You’re James Potter.” I said it more like a fact than an exclamation or a question. He was my fellow chaser and a damn good one at that.




 

 

 

“And you’re Genevieve Jacobs. Nice to meet you.” He told me back, but I immediately cringed, as per usual.




 

 

 

“Please. Call me Gigi. I feel like a grandmother when I’m called Genevieve.” I told him in tern. He smiled, but not before Fred could cut in.
 



 

 

“You don’t look anywhere near a grandmother. Nice perky chest!” He received a slap on the back of the head from James.
 



 

 

“You’re not coming over anymore if you’re going to harass her!” James exclaimed. So Fred wasn’t my neighbor. Thank Merlin.
 



 

 

“So you’re my neighbor?” I asked, leaning against the door. I was in the presence of a man who had knocked Igor Krum off of his broom in the World Cup last year. It was an amazing play. I watched it thirty times. Twenty more while drunk. I reenacted it whilst drunk as well. That’s just how amazing it was.




 

 

 

“The whole team is, actually. We’re required to live in the same building. You and I are on this floor. Since Williams and Piette both are married, they got their own floor. Then its really just two a floor from there.” James exclaimed. I nearly gaped at him.




 

 

 

“So there are only seven flats?” I asked. James nodded, digging his elbow into Fred’s side, who was trying to work his way into my flat. And failing.
 



 

 

“Fred, go home now.” James said with a sigh. Fred winked at me, but disapparated nevertheless. “That’s my cousin. He’s a bit of a handful sometimes.”

I’d say.
 



 

 

“Genevieve!” I heard the shriek before I could react and Sally came into view, shoving her way past James. I even saw him rub one of his muscled shoulders from the shove.




 

 

 

What?” I hissed at her. She looked around the flat, wrinkling her nose in disgust.




 

 

 

“This is the first thing we fix. What is this, vintage?” She lifted up the quilt that was draped over the back of my loveseat as though it were covered in filth.
 



 

 

“My grandma made that!” I grabbed it out of her reach.
 



 

 

“Well, Grandma’s dead. Time to bury this blanket too.” Sally said. I nearly growled at her on spot, but composed myself because I could feel James’s eyes on me. I suppose I should be punctual around a teammate, right?




 

 

 

“No, actually. Grandma is not dead. Very much alive. Hates you, remember?” I said through gritted teeth. Grandma hated Sally after she had tried to make me pose nude for a magazine.
 



 

 

“Well…I’m going to go.” James mumbled from the doorway. I spun around and waved at him. Only to realize how lame I was and pulled my hand back down to my side.




 

 

 

Call me Lame-o Gigi. New chaser for the Falmouth Falcons. I grinned at that thought.
 



 

 

“We’re having a team dinner to welcome you to the team tomorrow night. ‘Round my place at about seven. I’m sure it won’t be hard for you to find!” James said, shutting the door behind him.
 



 

 

“He’s cute. I’m going to talk to his agent, see if we can set something up.” Sally started to take out her phone, but I ripped it out of her hands. Thank you, Quidditch reflexes.




 

 

 

“I don’t think so.” I told her, flinging her phone across the room.





 

 

 






 

 

 

What do you wear to a team dinner? Do you dress up? Do you dress down? Do you wear your jersey? The Meteorites never had team dinners. We had team parties, but not team dinners. I always knew what to wear to those, but not to these.




 

 

 

I stared at my closet. I was never a fashion guru, so I didn’t really have that many clothes. I didn’t find the need for them. Who needed fifteen tank tops, twenty jeans, and multiple dresses? Not me. I was fine with what I had.




 

 

 

Except for right now. Nothing seemed to say the right thing. Nothing said BAM or any other onomatopoeia that I needed at the moment. Shoot.




 

 

 

Okay, so maybe my dark jeans would work. Yes, those would suffice. I can’t wear a shirt that exposes my chest, because that’s just asking for trouble. I needed conservative, but cute. Times like these I wish I were a guy.




 

 

 

I ended up settling on a grey fitted tee. I’m not fashionable, I’m telling you. I think with this new money I’m getting, I’m going to hire a stylist. Maybe then I won’t have to spend twenty minutes standing in front of my closet in my underwear.



 

 

 



 

 

It was five after seven. If there was one thing I knew, never be early for something that is to be celebrating you. I do know a few things.




 

 

 

I went into the hallway and looked both ways. It was a small hallway with an elegant elevator at the end. I even saw potted plants adjourning the carpeted hallway. I noticed the only other door in the hall. Well, it’s not Igor Krum’s door, now is it?
 



 

 

I knocked and was immediately greeted by James’s smiling face. He pulled the door open further, and gestured for me to come in. You know that moment when you aren’t sure if you’re supposed to take off your shoes or not? I had one of those. Glancing at his feet and seeing tennis shoes covering his feet, I opted to keep mine on.




 

 

 

“Boys! Gigi’s here!” James called, shutting the door behind me. “You’re going to fit right in. Except you’re a girl…”




 

 

 

I snorted, but continued into the flat. His flat was almost the same as mine, except his things were ten times nicer, but with a boyish demeanor to them. He had jerseys, posters, and alcohol adjourning the walls. Yes, I did say alcohol. When I got further into the flat, I noticed six burley men scattered throughout the room.




 

 

 

This was my team. The Falmouth Falcons. I nearly squealed, but instead grinned rather goofily. I felt like Fred.




 

 

 

“Gigi! Welcome to our team!”




 

 

 

“It’s so amazing to finally have a girl!”
 



 

 

“Yeah, so you’re not alone now, right Piette?”
 



 

 

“Oh you’re real clever!”
 



 

 

“That’s what your wife said last night!”
 



 

 

“Ooooooh!”
 



 

 

“The lot of you, shut up!” James shouted at everyone going back and forth. They all turned to James with grins on their faces. "Now, introduce youself to our new teammate."
 



 

 

Well, at least we knew who was going to be team captain this year. They all stepped forward in an unorganized fashion and I felt my face grow hot. Now, I understood why people said the Falcons had some of the most attractive players. I recognized them all, but let them go through the formalities.
 



 

 

“Scott Williams. Twenty-nine. Beater. Married.” A large, very attractive man said, sticking out his hand. I shook it, but felt my fingers nearly fade away in his large hand.
 



 

 

Another man stepped forward, looking identical to Scott. “’Ello, love! Barry Williams. This twats twin. Beater as well, but I’m single.” He sent me a wink to which I smiled at.
 



 

 

“Pleasure.” I told him, going to shake his hand, but he took mine and kissed it. I had to remind myself it was a British thing. Still didn’t keep my face from turning red.
 



 

 

“Adam Freeman..because I’m a free-man.” Another guy said, pushing Barry out of the way. He had the most charming smile I had seen. I almost melted on spot.
 



 

 

“Nice to meet you, Adam.” I said, returning his charming smile with one of my own.




 

 

 

“I’m twenty-five. I’ll be the keeper to your heart.” He told me. I nearly gagged, but kept my composure, nodding at his words.




 

 

 

“That’s cute. Try using that on someone who isn’t your team member.” I told him. The boys all started to chuckle, while Adam looked crestfallen.
 



 

 

“Christopher Piette. Married as well and the seeker.” Another handsome boy said, but this time with a French accent. Oh, the things I could get used to over here.




 

 

 

“Matt Hankin. Chaser.” A guy grumbled from the couch. He was holding his head and seemed to be contemplating even talking to begin with. “Incredibly hung-over.” He added. Well, that explained it.
 



 

 

“There’ll be a few people by later, but thought we’d get to know you first before we have this shin-dig.” James crossed his arms and sat down on the arm of the couch.



 

 

 



 

 

The whole team was looking at me now (minus a hung-over Matt). I hadn’t really thought of what they wanted to hear. Should I tell them what they told me? I opened my mouth, but closed it once again. Telling them I was a fan of all of them probably wasn’t an ideal way to start this off.




 

 

 

“Well..” I started. Even a worse start. ‘I’m Gigi Jacobs. Twenty-one. Single.” Adam went to speak up, but James shoved a sock in his mouth. Where he got the sock, I’m unsure of.




 

 

 

“You need a shot.” Matt stated, pushing himself off of the couch and over towards the bar in the corner of the room. He was still groggy, but managed to grab a shot glass and pour green liquid into it.
 



 

 

“No, I really don’t-“ before I could object any further, Matt shoved the shot into my hand.



 

 


”I’ll do one with you!” James called, running to get himself a shot. All the boys shot towards the bar and were pouring themselves shots now. I stared down at mine and sniffed it. Ugh. Smelt like vomit.




 

 

 

They all returned, each holding a shot glass and a big grin. “Welcome to the team, Gigi!” James called, as did everyone else, tapping their glasses together.




 

 

 

I let the liquid slide down my throat and immediately cringed at the taste. 

 



 

 

This was going to be a long night, I could already tell.




 



 

 

Author's Note: Should I be starting another story? Probably not, but the idea of James Sirius Potter has been so appealing to me lately, I couldn't resist. I have a lot of chapters written for this story, but for those who read my other story, I will update them both! No need to worry. I'm pretty good about being a fair Mother to my two children (aka these stories).
 



 

 

So what do you think? Do you like Gigi? Like the way the story is? Please let me know! Just an fyi: 700,000 galleons is  roughly 7 million U.S. dollars and 3.5 million pounds. That's what a good quarterback makes in the NFL and what a good baseball players makes, just so you understand the significance of it! 



 
 
 


Next Chapter

Favorite |Reading List |Currently Reading

>>


Review Write a Review
A Woman's Guide to Professional Quidditch: Gigi Jacobs-- NOT Genevieve

Review

(6000 characters max.) 6000 remaining

Your Name:
Rating:

Prove you are Human:
What is the name of the Harry Potter character seen in the image on the left?


Submit this review and continue reading next chapter.
 




Other Similar Stories


I Hate You A...
by onigirishi

The Sisterho...
by awkspenguin

Get in Line
by dobbyismy...