“What'm I supposed to do, then? Cut off ma todger? Disappoint the beautiful women who just want some attention and a nice roll in the hay?”
“The latter. Not the former.”
Now, I know the difference between someone looking to just score because I'm a name on a BINGO card, and someone who is genuinely attracted to me. I also don't sleep with every woman I can, because I am not a cad. Consent is one of the best aphrodisiacs, and someone who is pisht isn't my thing. My dad and mum taught me long ago never to take advantage of someone emotionally because of a power differential, and I've held myself to that standard, be it alcohol, an overly competitive groupie, or a broken-hearted woman looking for a rebound.
“Disappointing the women is like hacking off ma boaby. Come on, Jody. This is crazy.”
“No. Crazy is giving up millions of dollars because you can't keep it in your pants.”
“Now we've gone from no’ sleeping wi’ the wrong person to no’ sleeping wi' anyone?”
“If you could take a brief break, that would help.”
“Ye want me to stop having sex?” My heart halts in my chest, like someone took a sledgehammer to my ribs.
“Discreet sex is fine, Hamish. No fans. No relatives of coaches, managers, kit men, team owners, or anyone who works for any of the companies you have endorsement contracts with. No journalists. No bloggers, no social media influencers–”
“How long is this list?”
“I'm reading directly off the contract in front of me.”
“Ye have a contract about ma sex life?”
“Yes.”
“I canna believe this.”
“It's your own damn fault.”
Now, Jody doesn't talk like this to me. Always affable and positive, he's almost boring. The guy makes money when I do, so he has to suck up to his athletes.
We're true friends, too, so the blunt talk makes me treat him like a mate.
Which means exploding on him.
“Ma fault? Ma fault? It's ma fault the league's gone all prissy and moralistic on me?”
“It's your fault you made too many missteps, and now they're cracking down. It's my eight-figure contract, too, you know,” he says firmly. “Your biggest deal ever and mine, as well. We're in this together.”
“And are ye giving up sex, too, Jody?”
He reddens.
“I thought not. Then cut the ‘together’ shite.”
“I'm not the famous footballer with a sex problem.”
“I've nae problem wi' sex! I love sex!”
Schlomo jumps off Jody's lap, wanders over to his water dish, licks a few times, then settles into his fuzzy blue dog bed with a deep sigh that says he's not taking sides here.
“You love sex a little too much.”
A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach pulls me down as my blood races in a spiral inside my veins and arteries, the combination a bit sickening.
He's serious.
They're serious.
I've screwed up that badly.
Here's the rub: I haven't been sleeping with anyone for quite some time. The word rub is apt, because I've been a'rubbin' plenty.
Since that disastrous, leaked sex tape with the team owner's stepdaughter, I decided to go cold turkey. Appropriate, given it was on Thanksgiving that my global humiliation was launched. No one knows I've held off having sex for so long, and truth be told, I like it that way.
Sometimes a wink is just a wink, and not an invitation. I can let people think I'm the player I once was off the pitch, but in reality, I'm focused on my performance on pitch much more.
All of these companies chasing me down for a different piece of me aren't that far removed from what Americans call the “jersey chasers.” I've had to work hard to let people down – corporations, women at the end of matches – and that's a skill.
A skill I've honed over the last six months. Taking so much time to be voluntarily celibate has given me insight into my own needs.
And one hell of a callus on my right hand.
“Explain to me in simple terms why some corporation cares what I do wi' ma willie.”
“Reputation management.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know what it means, but why?”
Jody shrugs. “I'm not a why man, Hamish. I'm more of a how man. How do we close a contract? How do we get a rising footballer into the spotlight? How do we help an individual player build an empire? How do we get you to the point where you have investments to live off for the rest of your life if you blow out a knee? Those are my hows in this business. Why isn't my strong suit.”
“It damn well better be when it comes to having someone tell me what I can do wi' ma body during ma free time.”
“That's just it, Hamish–it's not your free time. Every moment of your life is up for scrutiny when you want to get paid to represent companies and products. How you are perceived is how they are perceived.”
“I have a right to privacy!”
“Not when you are asking for an exchange based on reputation.”
“How?”
“You want these companies to give you beaucoup bucks in exchange for your face. Consumers will associate their positive feelings about you with their product. Corporations that hire you signal to other companies that you're worth investing in, so their reputation affects your reputation. It's symbiosis. Once you ask for six, seven, eight figures, you're in the public spotlight, scrutinized nonstop. So, no, Hamish, you don't have a right to privacy if you want access to the money attached to these contracts.”
“I've made a pact wi' the devil.”
“In a way, yes. Look,” he says, “we both know how hard you've worked for this. How many years?”
“Ma whole life.”
“You're thirty-two. At best, you have four to six more seasons in you. I know, I know... you're going for forty. Plenty of guys try and fail.”
“I'm no' plenty of guys.”
“You've never played for a major team like Chelsea or Manchester United. It's your face, your body, your personality, and the fact that Scottish men are popular right now that gets you the contracts.”
“I'm grateful to the Outlander sensation, even if I've never read the books.”
“Right. Don't blow it, Hamish. This convergence is unique. You'll never have this opportunity again. And your family and neighborhood will be set for life if you keep yourself on track.”
“Fine. Ye've hired a nanny for me. Let me guess. She's in her sixties, fat as a coo, has a face like a battering ram, and a voice that kills dogs when she opens her mouth.”
“Ahem.”
I turn to find Amy Jacoby standing in the doorway. She marches across the room, thrusts her hand out for a shake, and smiles at me.
Reflexes make me take her hand.
“What're ye doin’, Amy?”
“Introducing myself.”
“Introducing? We ken each other. Why would ye introduce yerself to me?”
“Because I'm the fat coo.”
“Excuse me?”
She lets go of my hand and points to sleeping Schlomo, who gives a little noise, like he's dreaming of rabbits.