“Sim, what have you got for me?”
I know technically it’s not my agent’s job to find me a new place to live, but Sim is just one of those “bend over backwards to help others” type of people, and sometimes I can be a real shit and take advantage of that. And really, what other work does she have from me at the moment? I’m stuck in the ass end ofWiltshire with a team who . . . okay, they don’t seem to hate me, but the boys and the fans are two separate entities.
There was a time, a few years ago, when Sim was rushed off her feet with work. She earned her four point seven per cent then. I had offers coming from every direction, and not just rugby. Everybody wanted to sponsor me. Sports brands, fashion lines, even an organic milk company wanted my image on their ads.
I’ve been genetically blessed, can’t lie there. I’m tall, dark, traditionally attractive, and I’ve got that whole moody, brooding demeanour mastered. Most of the contracts were offered because I no doubt fitted a certain look they were after, but I can’t deny that my face alone secured me those deals.
I played well; people took notice. I got into the Six Nations and more people noticed. The right type of people. In 2021 I made more money from standing around posing with a ball than I did passing or kicking it.
But when my game took a hit through injuries and poor performance, so too did the side hustle opportunities. The offers got fewer and farther between, and since I failed to make the Six Nations these past two years, or even get re-signed to my team this season, those gigs have dried up entirely.
Nothing, not a whiff. Just remote, barren nothingness.
“It’s natural, babes,”Sim had said.“Happens to everybody. You were the hot new thing and now their attentions are elsewhere. Doesn’t mean anything about you or your playing.”
“Bosley had sponsorships right up until . . . he quit the sport,”I’d replied, mentally chastising myself for bringing up his name. Again.
“But Owen Bosley had . . .”Sim had trailed off. I finished her sentence in my head.
Personality. Kindliness. Warmth. Legions of adoring fans. The kind of amiability people adored. Amiability that let them believe they could be just one pint away from becoming his best buddy.
And since beggars can’t be choosers, and I guess I should be grateful to have a team I can call mine—even if it is temporary—I should suck it up and make the best of the few months I have with theCenturions.
“Babes, you still there?” Sim says, pulling my focus back.
The signal is patchy as fuck in these tiny country lanes. Sim knows that too. If she says anything about my attention lapsing, I can always blame that.
“Yeah, still here.”
“Perfect. Okay, I’ve got three places you could look at tomorrow after practice.”
An unusual, uncomfortable feeling settles in my gut. “Shoot.”
“The first is just outside of Marlborough. It’s another old thatched cottage, but it’s had extensive expansion work. Absolutely gorgeous. Three beds this time, with a home gym,” she says.
“How far is it from the training ground?”
“About fifty minutes.”
“No,” I say, almost before Sim has finished her sentence. “That’s too far. I don’t want to be driving more than an hour tops each day.”
“I thought you might say that.” Over the Range Rover’s Bluetooth system, I hear the sound of a pen scratching over paper. “So the other option is in central Bath. It’s a one bed flat, but has private parking for two cars. It’s a little over budget, but—”
“No.” I’ve interrupted her this time, but I can’t be dealing with these non-suggestions. “Nothing central.”
“It’s inside a gated community. Really exclusive. In fact, so exclusive that your neighbours, who I’m told include some famous Hollywood actors, are almost never there.”
That gives me pause. The solitude would be welcome.
But I’d still be in the centre of a city. A city where I’m largely unwelcome.
“No. Next?”
“Okay, the last one I have for you today is in a little hamlet in Somerset. It’s twenty minutes max to the grounds. Two bedrooms, fully furnished, large garden, no drive, but assigned off-street parking.”
“Sounds . . . promising,” I say, and I don’t know why, but that uneasy sensation bubbles up again.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Sim says.
