Page 30 of Brat on the Ball

“Blod?” I asked.

“Short forBlodwen,flower in Welsh,” explained Elsie. She turned her phone to face me, where an adorable little girl who looked about eight years old looked out of the screen.

“So, you’re doing this for her?” I asked.

“Yes. Well, and me. Though I tell everyone it’s just for her, makes me seem less selfish. I had her at eighteen. Her father is worthless, and I’ve been working at a supermarket ever since. Four years ago, I decided it was time for me to make something of myself. I’ve always had a good nose for gossip, and I used to write stories in school, so the lady at the Job Centre recommended I try getting back into education. How about you?”

I explained my career so far, and how close I was to the likely end, as well as the conversation Steve had with me. “…so once I’m done with this, I’ll play rugby for a few more years. But at least I have a qualification under my belt. Which is more than most players can say at the end of their career.”

“Nice,” Elsie nodded. “I saw you’d started that blog. It’s going well, then?”

“I hadn’t realised it was,” I admitted. “Checked the views yesterday, though, and it seems to have blown up a bit.”

“You bastard. The rest of us work hard at this course, and you sail into a sports blogging career like it’s nothing.”

“Don’t be stupid, it’s just a blog! My thoughts,” I said.

Elsie rolled her eyes. “Got your laptop?”

I opened up my bag, pulled my laptop out and put it on the table.

“Right, log in to your blog.”

I logged in, and Elsie turned the screen to face her, then clicked my analytics page. “Let’s say you double this, get you up to a hundred thousand readers a week. Automated ads will net you…let’s see…about a thousand a month of additional income. Then, if you had a sponsor, say a sports advertiser who’d pay you commission on clicks…”

I could understand what she was getting at. “I would have money just from blogging?”

“Yes, stupid.” Elsie grinned. “Smile, there’s your pension.”

“Damn.”

“Yup, and if people are clicking just to hear your opinion, they’re more likely to buy from you. Start a podcast and you could be rolling in the sponsorship dough. YouTube, TikTok, all ways to monetise what is essentially the same content, just in different formats. Do you cover women’s rugby?”

“No,” I admitted. “I know a few players, but I’m not completely in it the same way I am with men’s.”

Elsie held out her hand. “Get me a separate login for your blog, and I can cover the week-to-week happenings in women’s rugby. You publish a weekly opinion piece, as well as a round up of the men’s Premiership scores. We will take this blog to new heights.”

“What are you, some kind of superwoman?” I asked.

“Better. I’m a mother.”

Elsie took me through the process of setting up a separate login and giving her admin access to the blog. “I’ll work out my profit split once I’ve set you up some ads, lovely boy. But stick with me, and you won’t be looking for jobs once your rugby career is finished. Just don’t say anything so controversial it gets you fired from your team in the meantime, OK? I already look after one child.”

I smiled at Elsie. I really, really liked her.

Then my phone buzzed, and my smile grew wider.

Ollie: Is tonight too soon to come over again?

Chapter Sixteen - Ollie

Over the course of a couple of weeks, I started to fall into a routine. I had hardly slept in my penthouse; I was texting George all the time. I found that I was starting to rely on my time with him to de-stress after a tough day. And there had been a lot of tough days.

John was a constant thorn in my side, always needling me with the prospect of a forced move across teams. Not only did he think he could convince me, but that the transfer fee would be too good for Tim to resist. So it seemed either way I cut it, I was London-bound. And despite a couple of good games, the call-up to the Wales squad for the European Cup qualifiers hadn’t yet come, and it was looking like it wouldn’t anytime soon.

So I’d gravitated toward George. Though he was rough, and liked me to do as I was told, at least in the bedroom, it felt like I was being taken care of. And afterward, we would shower together and crawl into bed. Almost like a real relationship.

Almost. Because I still wasn’t out, and we couldn’t do anything that arealcouple might do. We couldn’t date, or hold hands in the street, or meet one another’s friends. And I could see that was bothering him. But I didn’t know what to do.

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