THE ARTICLE WAS PUBLISHED quickly, only highlighting The Independents editors need to stay ahead of the news cycle. It was in the Sunday papers, officially earning me my second real writing credit.

Sunday morning, I woke up to two different messages. The first one was from Trent, as expected. I clicked on it, still curled up in my blankets and soaking in my own accomplishment.

Trent Crimm
[8:40 AM]

Trent:
[attached link]

Congrats on your second
published article. Enjoy your
Sunday, you deserve a nice
day off.

I smiled to myself allowed my heart to swell a little with pride. Every time I was praised by Trent, It was like my brain forgot I had worked with him for months. Trent Crimm congratulated me. He thought I deserved a nice day off.

Sabrina:
Thank you for letting me work
on it. Enjoy your day off as well!

As I hit send, I returned back to my Notification Center on my phone. That's when I noticed the second message, blending in with all my other Instagram notifications. Typically, those notifications were for Variety, Time, Rolling Stone, other magazines or news outlets. If not that, it was celebrities (i.e Taylor Swift) posting on their stories. If I had a new post up, I'd get likes and comments.

I hadn't posted about the article yet, so there was nothing new to like or comment on. No celebrity had posted to their story. No breaking news had occurred in the pop culture or real world.

No, no this notification came from one source in particular. I clicked on it, already feeling a headache coming on.

@TheJamieTartt
2.2 million followers

TheJamieTartt:
[attached link]

Cant write an article that
doesnt mention me?

I stared at the message for a moment, re-reading it to make sure it was real. I clicked the profile to make sure it was really him, and when I did I was face-to-face with the biggest prick in the northern hemisphere.

The blankets I wore around myself suddenly felt way too constricting and I threw them off of me, sitting up in my bed.

"No fucking way," I muttered to myself. My eyes scanned his profile, taking in the millions of followers and links to whatever brands he worked with in his bio.

His bio was way simpler than I thought it would be, telling me he had some kind of social media management. Probably Keeley, though I wasn't sure the logistics of ex-girlfriends managing ex-boyfriends. At least, I was pretty sure I'd read that Keeley Jones was dating Roy Kent. I'd have to ask Jess to double check, though, since I was pretty sure she followed at least two 'Keeley Jones Update' accounts.

I shook my head to almost physically clear my head. Why would he message me? Why would he feel the need to involve himself in what I'm writing?

As though they had a mind of their own, my eyes traveled down to Tartt's feed. Before I could fully process what I was doing, I clicked on the most recent post. It was a picture of the Manchester City locker room and his little locker area. The caption was simple in an entirely infuriating way: "good 2 be home @manchesterunited."

I rolled my eyes and scrolled to the next photo, which I immediately realized was a mistake. The next set of photos was some kind of shoot he'd clearly done. He was shirtless in a park, his classic 'I'm-better-than-you-and-we-both-know-it' smirk plastered across his face. Most footballers looked like they were being held at gun point to do photo shoots. It's not way they got into it, they didn't sign up for the press and pizazz. Tartt, though, was one of those rare kinds that somehow felt completely comfortable underneath a camera lens and had the skills on the pitch to back it up.

Sub-consciously, my fingers pinched in on the photo and I zoomed in it. I was not so lost in my dislike for him that I couldn't admit that Tartt was fit. I was certain he made himself and the poor women who slept with him very happy.

"Fucking prick," I muttered, swiping off of his photos and forcing my eyes to not look at any of the other brand sponsorship/thirst trap photos he posted.

I clicked off his profile, now certain that the account was real, and returned back to my messages. Annoyance filled my body in place of the awkward kind of stubborn, almost 'attraction' that was there before. Clearly, he hadn't meant what he'd said in the car the other night. Clearly I had been a little too hasty to write him off.

Clearly Tartt was a dick with an ego bigger than God. He felt the need to make these achievements of mine into something about him.

A fleeting thought of our conversation in the car
from the other night crossed my mind. How he'd been civil, damn near almost likable. How he'd managed to make that conversation cross my mind at least twice a day the last few days.

I stared at the message one last time before closing out of Instagram. My thoughts were running faster than I would've liked them to be on what was supposed to be my relaxing day off. Defeatedly, I leaned my head against the wall and placed my phone face down on my lap.

"Sabrina," Jess said as she opened my door abruptly. I jumped, not used to any signs of life pre-eleven from my roommates on weekends, let alone words.

Jess' eyes narrowed at my reaction and flickered from my face, to my torn off blankets, and my turned off phone. "Right," she said, dragging the word out slowly. I rolled my eyes and threw a pillow at her.

"What do you want?" I asked, rearranging my position on my bed to a more natural one.

Her lips quirked slightly which I could tell meant she was more than amused. "Is there anyway you could get yourself and Lily out of the flat tomorrow night?"

Then, it was my turn for my eyes to narrow. Awfully suspicious that Lily had been attempting (almost successfully) to convince me to do this double date thing. "Did she put you to up to this?"

Jess looked at my confused. "If by 'she' you mean my date who I promised I would cook for after I bragged about my job, then yes."

Jess was a chef, that was true. And she did often use that fact to pick up girls. Damn, this really was just the coincidence to end all coincidences.

I groaned slightly, realizing I now had really no excuse to not do Lily's elaborate double date scheme. "Yeah, fine," I said, finishing my whining. "Please don't burn anything."

That was also true; Jess had a bad habit of burning and/or messing up things when she was trying to be fancy and new.

"I'm making the same pasta I make almost every night at the restaurant," Jess reassured, her eyes now rolling. "And I really only burn things when I'm baking, thank you."

I held up my hands in defense as she turned out of my room. As the door closed, I flipped backwards onto my pillows and looked back at my phone.

I could practically feel the DM sitting in my Instagram messages. Pushing all thoughts from my mind, I clicked on Twitter. If nothing else, I resolved that mindlessly scrolling for a little would take some of my mind off whatever the hell my morning had been so far.