40. JULES
JULES
With many spicy margaritas and all the dulce de leche snacks we could find in the airport, the three of us sit in a private corner of the American Airlines lounge, waiting for the vlog.
We’ve sent a very peppy congratulations text to Tom for winning the Grand Prix (who hasn’t replied), and I’ve ignored four calls from Tiago.
I’m sure they’ve both heard about Logan’s livestream, but I can’t face them before I know the extent of the damage.
Social media’s going wild. Clips are circling of where I sat far apart from Logan; where I dodged his kisses; where I smiled blandly as he blabbered on. Complicated timelines appear fully formed in hours. It’s like they were waiting for this to happen.
Two drinks deep, the holding screen changes and Logan’s face flashes up.
Fucking hell, this is it. He looks like he’s in a hotel room.
It’s tasteful and well-lit, and definitely not his palatial mansion in California – the wall behind him is missing portraits of bears and lions wearing crowns.
I sit on my hands to stop them from shaking.
‘He could’ve shaved for the occasion,’ Ash mutters.
Logan launches with, ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but I think people deserve the truth.’
Ash and Minnie groan theatrically.
‘Knob,’ Ash says, adjusting her American Airlines notepad and branded pen.
‘How noble of him,’ Minnie chimes in, turning the volume down to make sure only we can hear it.
‘I’m not here to settle scores. I’ve moved on. I’m happy. But when you care about sport – and honesty – you can’t just sit idly by while a brother is misled.’
Minnie pretends to yawn.
Ash starts writing, mumbling, ‘Motive disclaimer.’
‘He called qualifying “rehearsal” this time last year,’ I chip in, feeling no less like I’m standing on a precipice.
Ash beams. ‘That’s the spirit, Julesy.’
‘When I met Jules, in February of last year, the 49ers had just won the Super Bowl, and I’d scored the winning touchdown.’
‘What a perfect opportunity to toot your own horn,’ Minnie says.
‘It was love at first sight.’
Ash makes a retching sound.
‘Who’s omitting the truth now?’ I growl.
‘I’d heard rumours about her so-called “pattern of dating elite athletes back-to-back”, but I didn’t want to believe them.’
‘He knew!’ I counter. ‘He slid into my DMs – I was going to go for Joe Burrow. That should’ve been a red flag. He outright admitted he wanted to go to the next level in his career on our first date.’
‘So it’s not documented?’ Ash asks.
‘Not that bit…’
‘The next season started in September, and it didn’t go well. We didn’t even reach the playoffs. Not only do I find myself going home early, but single too.
‘I loved that woman with everything I had. I was so broken, I couldn’t sleep.
And suddenly she’s pictured going to Formula 1 races “with brands”,’ he makes jabbing quotemarks with his fingers.
‘I was all, she wouldn’t, but then I hear she’s dating Formula 1 driver Tom Webber.
I’m devastated, right? Like, I can’t even look at another chick, and she’s got someone new.
Another elite athlete. So it got me thinking. ’
‘Wow, that must’ve hurt,’ Ash comments, doodling.
‘The timeline’s strange,’ he continues. ‘Like, she dumped her swimmer ex Dom Johnson after the Olympics in August, and starts seeing me the next February. Then dumps me in the September, and starts dating Tom in the spring. Can you see a pattern here?’
‘IMPLICATION WITHOUT ASSERTION!’ Ash shrieks, and a plate crashes to the floor around the corner.
‘Well done Logan,’ Minnie huffs, ‘you’ve worked it out three years after everyone else.’
Logan raises his phone and swipes through screenshots.
‘I’ll post these on my IG later so you can see them in more detail, but they’re basically messages from Jules saying why she doesn’t want to stay at mine, why she won’t kiss me.
Like, we were together for eight months; I expect more than a little peck every time we’re in front of a camera, am I right? ’
I cringe, hoping to God Tom isn’t watching.
‘Defamation!’ Ash declares triumphantly, and scribbles on her pad. ‘This would’ve been a fun legal drinking game.’
‘Things like “I don’t really do feelings”, “we need to keep this light”…’
‘All this proves is she didn’t like you, bro.’ Minnie crossly sips her drink.
I want to scream. ‘If this was coming from Tom, I’d totally get it. But Logan wanted our arrangement too. I didn’t mis-sell him anything. It was a business agreement. I shouldn’t be punished for his feelings growing. If he didn’t like it, there was nothing to stop him leaving.’
‘…Messages about brand deals and meetings. I was a pawn in her plan. She’d only come to my games where she had a brand attached. She would only buddy up with the WAGs who would benefit her. We wouldn’t go on a date unless it was in some public place – even for my grandma’s birthday.’
I bury my face in my jumper.
Minnie exhales roughly. ‘Low blow.’
‘I had that Hyrox competition in Madrid with your mum,’ I say, my voice distant through the fabric.
‘Don’t you dare explain yourself,’ Ash commands. ‘He’s a defaming madman with a terrible beard and hopefully a sloppy lawyer.’
My face emerges. ‘He’s not wrong, though.’
‘She wanted a project, but I only wanted her,’ he continues, the picture of self-pity. ‘I just wish I’d known what I was a part of.’
She wanted a project, but I only wanted her.
Honestly.
‘She preaches independence, but who do you think funds her lavish lifestyle?’
‘LIES!’ Minnie, Ash and I roar in unison.
‘I have receipts for the bags I bought her, the food, the flights…’
‘I didn’t ask him to. Those bags were fugly.’
‘Tom better check his credit card bill closely,’ he adds.
My blood boils. If he were here, I’d tear him to pieces.
Ash writes ‘CHARACTER ASSASSINATION’ and underlines it twice.
‘I’m shooketh,’ breathes Minnie.
‘She didn’t just lie to me. She paints herself as this vulnerable, open voice – she’s built a successful podcast around it – but she’s as emotionally disengaged as they come.
What’s she really saying about herself? What do you actually know about her?
She talked to me about being an “aspirational everywoman”.
She played me just as much as she’s playing you. She’s a god damn actress.’
Holy shit.
‘She’s constantly pictured with alcohol in her hand, but she doesn’t drink.’
‘Oh God,’ whispers Minnie.
‘She films all those cutesy vlogs about packing and “come fly with me”, but she’s an awful flyer. Takes a bunch of pills and knocks herself out.’
Ash points at the screen. ‘Being curated online is not fraud, you legally illiterate moron!’
‘And behind closed doors, she’s a little crazy.’
Minnie inhales. ‘I swear to God—’
But I shush her. I have to hear every word of this.
‘Not like cute crazy, like crazy crazy. She counts when she’s nervous, she checks plug sockets before she leaves hotel rooms, she tracks everything on apps, her routines are more set in stone than the fucking statue. Now I’m not saying Autism, but c’mon.’
The colour has drained from my entire body.
‘But I loved her despite her weirdness. She was my Jules.’
Minnie rubs her eyes. ‘For the love of God.’
‘All conjecture, no proof, and littered with big, shiny false statements of fact,’ Ash says, practically vibrating with rage, and maybe a little joy.
‘He’s accusing you of professional misconduct, deception, dishonesty in trade, fraudulent misrepresentation, and exploitation for financial gain, amongst a host of baseless inflammatory statements that suggest a lack of integrity, and he’s omitted all exculpatory context.
I’d say we have a very solid libel case.
My colleague Simon is an excellent defamation barrister—’
I nurse my head. ‘I don’t want to sue him, Ash.’
‘Think about it. He worked on the David Beckham affair. Also makes really excellent tea.’
‘I just want to go home.’
He called me a liar.
He implied I was a gold digger.
He accused me of having Autism. I don’t have words for how unbelievably tactless that is – not to mention hurtful to hundreds of viewers – but I’m going to settle for him conflating it with ‘crazy’ four times.
I didn’t know he knew so much. I feel like I’ve been stripped naked for the world to scrutinise, suspended in full view. It was even worse than I imagined. What will I say to my brand partners? My followers? My listeners? Nyla?
Tom?
Bile rises up my throat but I push it down. I need to keep it together for a few more hours. In the American Airlines lounge, surrounded by businessmen, and about to get on a long-haul flight is not the place or time to spiral. I need to sleep and think this over.
What’s suing going to do? A year-long trial where we’re both dragged through the mud for him to pay a fraction of my lawyers’ fees in compensation? My reputation would be in cinders before an outcome.
And what am I suing for? Assumptions? Conjecture?
Plausible deniability? Most of what he said weren’t technically lies.
Would I even win? Logan’s credible as hell.
He has screenshots and receipts of who knows what, not to mention heartfelt statements – he even brought up his grandma.
I’d forgotten all about that. I’d been dating her grandson for three weeks, it would’ve been inappropriate for me to go.
But it doesn’t matter because footballers are like gods.
And I made him into one of the most powerful.
‘These are horrible,’ Ash says, frowning at our dulce de leche crisps.
I’m just a silly little influencer, who would listen to me?
I could stand up for myself, but what would be the point?
Soundbites would be taken out of context, and invalidating feelings is a losing game.
The only concrete evidence I have is that initial message, but is the damage done?
Drawing this out would make everything worse.
I think Ash is wrong. I think I’m out of options, and nothing’s in my control. Let’s face it: I’m royally fucked.