She flops her head to the side with a rough exhale. This chick doesnotlike opening up.
I think about what Isa said about Jules being sad. At the time, I didn’t know where she got that from. Overbearing, stressed out, a pain in my ass, sure. But now? I see it. It’s quiet, in the heaviness in her eyes, in the way she keeps a tight rein on herself, in how she seems to reveal everything to her followers but reveals nothing. Even lying here, the brightest I’ve seen her, it looms over her like a shadow. I don’t know where it comes from. She’s not my girlfriend, but fuck, if I were Tom, I’d make it my full-time job to take her pain away.
‘Come here.’ I cock my head and she hesitates before slowly leaning into my open arms. She feels smaller than she looks.Fragile, even. I run my hand down her warm back, fingertips dancing over impossibly soft skin.
Her swallow’s audible. ‘You asked about my dating history on the flight. It started with Damian. He was my only real relationship; my dad was his coach and I’d known him for a million years. I loved—at least, I thought I loved him. Then he dumped me.’
There’s a lot more to it – I picked up on that salty comment in Martinelli’s hospitality – but I know better than to press the issue. It’s a gift she’s sharing anything at all.
‘I wanted revenge,’ she says carefully, like she’s choosing how much to disclose. ‘I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to show him he was wrong. So I set out to be the biggest WAG in the world. The most coveted bachelors, the highest follower count, the most devoted fans, the shiniest sponsorships, the most exclusive brand trips.’
Most dumped girls get drunk and shack up with some dude who takes gym selfies. She’s original, I’ll give her that.
‘That’s why you hop from sport to sport,’ I say.
‘I’d date the biggest sharks in the world and make that cunty twelfth seed look like plankton.’
‘I can’t see you going for him now,’ I muse.
I can feel her smile against my chest. ‘Exactly.’
‘So, what? You keep cycling through sports until you’re seventy?’
‘No.’ She sounds defensive. ‘It was fun for a while but… I found I really loved having a platform. The world’s quick to point out what’s wrong with women, but if you can be the best you – feel confident in your shoes; make yourself heard; market yourself properly; heal your wounds; romanticise the little things – that toxic narrative can’t hurt you. I believe, at least.’
It’s obvious how she lights up when she talks about empowering women, I can hear it ringing through her voice.She’s hella good at it too; I read one of her Substacks and found myself doing an attachment style quiz at 2am.
‘Do you practice what you preach?’ I ask.
A pause. ‘I try to.’
Interesting.
‘Why don’t you focus on that stuff and cut out the dating part? I mean, you hate flying.’ I throw a meaningful look to the top of her head that saysif you disagree, you’re a bald-faced liar.
‘I hate flying,’ she submits.
‘If you’re a total introvert, there’s no way you like schmoozy events.’
‘I like dressing up, but that’s about it.’
‘So be a…’ What would you call it? ‘Personal… er… growth… influencer?’
‘It’s not that simple. In my line of work you have to consistently stay relevant – and, in this economy,shock– or you fall off a cliff. “Soft life” content doesn’t trend. The algorithm wants visibility; sponsors want relevance as well as reach; audiences want the next big spectacle. How do I get all that? By demanding attention.’
‘Basically you’re saying you fuck athletes so you can give my little sister eyeliner tips.’
A chuckle swells in her chest as she shoves me. ‘Didn’t work out so badly for you.’
No it did not. ‘So why rebrand your men?’
Her shoulders lift. ‘It’s my USP, I guess. It started with Brennan. His fade was messy and he drove a drug-dealer car.’
I wassonot expecting that. A snort breaks free.
‘Also he dressed like… well, like you,’ she adds.
‘Hey!’
