Chapter Sixteen
This is it, surely. Charlotte warned me that this was not the job for someone who wanted to be a WAG, and now she’s found me literally in the arms of one of Mersey’s star players.
I should have heeded Sadie’s warning and been more careful about interacting with Lachlan in public, and Kieran too, for that matter.
All of them. I should have remembered that this job is more important than my relationships, no matter how good they make me feel, no matter how much they ease the loneliness that has barely relinquished its grip on me.
Without this job, it’s back to Boston, to my parents’ house, to the lurking, lingering presence of Steven.
Back to the constant onslaught of pitying looks and the suffocating stasis of my former life.
Back to living in my brothers’ shadows, fielding unsubtle questions from my mother about what I’m going to do with myself. How could I be so stupid?
Charlotte is on the phone when I reach her office, and my mind obviously spins out an elaborate fantasy that she’s speaking to someone from the British government, arranging for an armed guard to come and escort me out of the building posthaste.
She hangs up the phone and gestures for me to take a seat. “I’ve been meaning to call you in for a few days to congratulate you on how well your campaign is going, the one where people guess who will win Man of the Match.”
“Oh, thank you. We’re calling it ‘Earn the Shirt.’ ”
“Yes, I’ve seen the hashtag. Shirt sales are up compared to last year, and the data science team seem to believe there’s a correlation.”
Okay, so maybe I’ve misread the whole situation and I’m only in here to be praised? I sit up a bit straighter.
“I’ve put off complimenting you, though, because I’m starting to wonder if we’ve got a problem on our hands.”
…or maybe not. My stomach plummets, possibly down through the actual crust of the Earth. I’m toast.
“You know what I’m about to say, I assume?” Charlotte asks.
I nod. “Charlotte, I promise—”
She holds her hand up, and her lips are a thin line. “At your interview, I warned you that Mersey F.C. was no place for someone hoping to become a WAG. Do you know why that is?”
“I assume it’s because that person would be distracted, and it would affect their work.”
“That’s right, it would be a conflict of interest. And I’ve been burned before, by young women with promising résumés who come in, do good work for a few weeks, and then get so wrapped up in their new relationships that the team has to spend ages reediting clips to keep the balance of featured players right. We don’t play favorites here.”
“I understand, and I’m sorry. I really didn’t think I was doing that.”
“No, what you’re doing is even worse.” Charlotte turns her monitor around to face me and I see several pictures from the past few weeks displayed on her screen.
There are a couple clips of me stripping off my hoodie on the team bus, for #EarnTheShirt.
There’s raw footage from today’s BFFs session, where Phil captured the interaction between Matty, Lachlan, Kieran, and me.
There’s the footage of my spectacular failure in Top Bins.
The weight in my stomach doubles, triples, and I have to take a few deep breaths to stop myself from shaking.
“Mersey is not the place for someone who wants to boost their own fame or following on the back of our social media presence.” She turns the monitor around.
“And yet, despite this, I find you consistently at the center of videos that are supposed to focus solely on our athletes. This little incident in the hydrotherapy room is becoming increasingly typical of your interactions with certain members of the team. So I suppose what I’m asking is, do we have a problem, Abby? ”
I don’t think I would have felt worse if she had actually spit in my face.
And I get it, because if I saw all those pictures and videos lined up together, and saw myself being grappled by a soaking-wet Lachlan Ramsay, that’s exactly what I’d think too.
Just some self-absorbed American idiot who came over here to tap into a new market, become an influencer, and bag herself a millionaire for good measure.
How can I convince her that there’s nothing sinister going on?
I’m not trying to be a WAG, I couldn’t care less about my own fame, I’m just a lonely girl clinging with all the strength I have to the only life raft that’s been thrown my way.
“I have three brothers,” I start. I can tell by the shape of Charlotte’s brows that she doesn’t see what I’m getting at.
“What I mean is I grew up surrounded by boys. Men. So I’ve tended to have close male friends my whole life.
Athletes in particular, given the industry I’m in.
And that means I probably get too familiar with them too fast, because it’s just… what I’ve always done.”
“It’s not necessarily a problem if you’re familiar with them—in fact, it makes for good content, because they like and trust you.
That much is clear from the footage, and as I said, ‘Earn the Shirt’ was a clever idea and I have every belief you will have more clever ideas in the future.
But I cannot deny that there is a growing trend of clips featuring your face and your voice.
In other words, of you being a presence on our channels.
People do not watch our content to see our backroom staff.
If that’s something you’re doing intentionally, if you’re using Mersey F.C.
as some sort of springboard, then I think we need to have a serious conversation about your priorities. ”
Her words are a dagger at my throat. I sit even further forward in my chair.
“I swear, Charlotte, there is nothing I care about less than my own social profile. I don’t even know the password to my Twitter account.
If I were to become famous, it would be a nightmare.
I hate the sound of my voice in the videos, I hate seeing myself onscreen, it’s just sometimes unavoidable if I’m the one asking the questions.
Seriously, what you think is happening could not be further from the reality of the situation.
I’ll talk to Phil, I’ll talk to the squad, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep myself in the background only. ”
She studies me for a long moment, and I try to make my face as compelling as possible.
This is not an act: I could not care less about fame.
I just want to stay here with my new friends until the ache in my heart lessens even a tiny bit.
Until I can prove to my mom and my dad and Steven and everyone that I’ve been rebooted, reborn, better than ever.
That I’m in control, that I’m doing something that matters.
At long last, she relents. “Okay, I believe you. But just a note about Lachlan Ramsay and Kieran Campbell and all of the players here.” She pauses, twists her mouth.
“I won’t tell you how to run your social life, and I apologize if this is inappropriate, but speaking not just as your employer but also as a woman who has been in this industry much longer than you: Be careful.
These men expect the world to fall at their feet, with little to no regard for any collateral damage. ”
There’s genuine concern breaking through her facade, and it catches me off guard.
My mind rockets away from the panic of being fired and toward the terror of her warning and the mortification that she’s found it necessary to say something to me.
Like I’m a wayward schoolgirl being told to stay away from boys so I can reach my full potential.
It’s humiliating. I suppose it’s also quite touching, but I’m too petrified to see it in that light right now.
So I simply nod, thank her, and try to smile, despite the rampant thumping of my heart.
I leave her office feeling like I’ve gotten a death row pardon, a last-minute stay of execution. But what do I do now?