Roatan Plunge | Love Travels #2

Three - Lorena

Óscar Calderón, it turns out, is a money pit.

No, that's not the right word. Whatever you call it when someone is worth a lot of money–a cash cow! That's it.

I mean, he was already worth a lot of money to him, but this morning it seems he's worth a lot of money to me. My blog post is already trending on social media and, despite the correction I made when I discovered the woman was his cousin, I seem to be the top source for all things Real Barcelona.

Posts that are six years old have gained tens of thousands of reads this morning. I've made at least thirteen dollars off ads overnight. And my inbox is lit up with replies, comments, and...

"Holy Shit!" I shout, bolting up in bed.

"Can you be a lil quieter?" Carla mumbles from the floor. "I think there's a whole circus practicing line dancing in my head."

"Sorry," I whisper to my temporary roommate. My own head felt very similar until I saw the words "Sponsorship Request" in the header of that email from Xabal Athletic Wear.

If I'd known breaking my morals would get me this kind of opportunity, I'd have caved years ago.

I tiptoe out of the room to get some toast, typing out a reply to Xabal as I do. They haven't given me much to go on, so my reply is mostly not asking the hundred questions racing through my head and trying to appear professional.

The stairs slip out from under me and I spend the last three steps on my butt instead of my feet but even then I'm not mad.

Nothing can ruin my perfect day.

Not the hangover I'm nursing. Not the bruise surely growing under my pyjamas. And definitely not the fact that I burned my first three pieces of toast.

I cannot contain my bouncing, buttering a piece of toast as I watch the constant flow of messages, comments, likes, and shares flowing through my inbox. But the sponsorship opportunities stare up at me like my saving grace. Could this be how I save my financial situation?

"Hey Carla," I call upstairs. "Do you have champagne? We should have champagne."

"Why?" she calls back.

Shit. Shit shit shit. She doesn't know I write that blog. Okay. Think quickly. "I think drinking should make me forget my hangover."

"Then why do you need champagne? Grab a beer or a shot of vodka or something."

"Right, uh. Yeah. Thanks."

My phone, still buzzing constantly with notifications, somehow draws my attention with a new message from Real Barcelona. Some guy named Domingo is thanking me for my accurate reporting and offering me tickets to an exhibition game later in the year. Too bad I don't have enough money to feed a caterpillar, not to mention get all the way to Spain.

I leave that one alone. I'm not going to say no until I have to. For now, I'm going to pretend I'll get to see my favourite fútbol team live. And maybe I will. Maybe these sponsorship deals will be enough to cobble together a ticket.

Once I figure out that pesky finances problem.

I need a job. But instead I have a viral blog post and a sponsorship deal I can't make heads or tails of. I'll need a lawyer. Who I cannot pay.

Maybe I do need that alcohol.

I flip over to my personal email, muting my phone notifications so I can focus. Seven rejections. One spam email offering to enlarge a piece of anatomy I don't possess. And three new posts from blogs I follow, all covering the Óscar Calderón situation. I flag those for follow up — I like to keep an eye on the competition.