We head back downstairs, Millie trailing after me. As we reach the bottom step, she glances up toward Fergie’s room. “So… do you ever let him out of his cage?”
“Yeah. Mornings, and when I get home. He’s usually got free rein then.”
Her eyes land on mine. “Why not let him out now?”
“Because I have to watch him,” I say flatly. “He’s a menace. Can’t concentrate on anything else when he’s flapping about.”
She snorts. “Or maybe you’re just worried I’d get all the cuddles.”
I don’t even dignify that with a reply, just swing a left into the kitchen. “Want a drink?”
“Sure. What have you got?”
I gesture toward the fridge. “Water, juice, leftover energy drink from training. It’s not exactly a cocktail bar.”
“I’ll take some juice,” she says, hopping onto one of the stools at the kitchen island. She watches as I grab two glasses and pour. Her coat is hanging on the back of her chair now. Her damp curls are slowly drying, cheeks still a little flushed.
I slide a glass across to her and settle in beside her, resigned to my fate. “Fine, then. Let’s get this over with.”
She wrinkles her forehead. “You know, I don’t get why you’re so against social media. I’m sure it’ll be good for you.”
I snort. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that. In case you haven’t noticed, the media and I don’t exactly get along.”
“Yeah, I havenoticed,” she says, weaving her fingers together. She’s different now, calmer, not overexcited like she usually is at the training centre. “I looked you up.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Oh, you did?”
“Had to understand what I was dealing with, didn’t I? You weren’t exactly the most talkative.” She takes a sip of her juice. “And I’ve seen the headlines—the altercations with the paparazzi, how much attention you get from them. It’s a lot.”
“See? Now you understand why I don’t need any more.” At least we’re getting somewhere.
“I do.” She nods. “But having your own social media accounts will help, I’m sure of that. It’s your chance to take control over your image, steer the narrative. Paparazzi won’t chase you around at the grocery store or at the dentist if you’re already posting your own content online. People don’t know who you are off the pitch. That’s why those articles thrive. If you give the people what they want, they’ll choose to get their info directly from the source—you.”
I frown. “I never really saw it that way. So, those tabloids and trash sites will become irrelevant?”
She flashes a big smile, clearly ecstatic that she’s making progress with me. “For the most part, yes. You’ll strip them of the exclusivity they’ve always had. And the best part: you can postwhatever you want and set your own boundaries. People will get to know the real you, not the problematic bad boy the press crafted. Here, let me show you.”
She pulls her tablet from her bag and taps it awake, sliding the device across the counter to me.
I glance down. A tidy little presentation fills the screen, slides with clean images and bold titles. She’s gone full professional on me.
“See this tennis player? The press used to hound her constantly, calling her volatile. Then, she started a campaign to turn every troll comment into a charity donation. And this sprinter—always dubbed ‘angry’ by the media. Now, his Instagram stories show him joking around with teammates, pulling pranks. And this rugby player? Everyone thought he was reckless until he went viral cooking with his gran. Showing another side of you can really help your image.”
I frown, staring at the slides longer than I mean to. It does sound appealing. First, to get back at those vultures who have made my life a living hell since I started my career. And second, to show who I really am, not this distorted version that the press loves to throw under the bus. “Aye, all right,” I finally say. “If it can stop them from printing lies about me, it’s worth a shot.”
“You mean thedrunken night thing?” she asks, then covers her mouth. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have pried. It just came out.”
The corners of my lips twitch. “It’s okay. Yeah, that entire thing was twisted out of proportion. I was at that bar, and I did get into a fight, but I wasn’t drunk—I actually don’t drink alcohol—and I was only in that fight because I was defending someone. I didn’t even know the bloke. But next thing I know, cameras are flashing in my face, and my name is slapped on the headlines. I wasn’t charged or anything, but the media didn’t care. They kept harassing me, and—well—I have a short temper, so it doesn’t always end well.”
She sighs, shaking her head. “I can only imagine. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
I nod. “So, you really think this can help, eh? Posting on social media?”
She meets my eyes with confidence. “It can definitely take some of their power away, yes. But I can also work with you on other skills—how to talk to the media and what to do if you’re approached by paparazzi in the street. Philip said you all had training for media encounters, but maybe I’ll have some fresh tips to offer?”
I wince, scratching my head. “Aye, I didn’t really pay attention to the media training.”
She rolls her eyes, and for the first time, I notice how pretty they are. Different shades of blue, like the sea when a storm’s coming in. Sharp, dazzling, and hard to look away from. “Wow, real shocker.”
