Amy
Maartensi Management is one of the biggest management consulting firms in the world. I'm in my final interview with them. Mergers & acquisitions, risk management, resiliency consulting, reputation management, taxes and auditing, legal, marketing–you name it, they have a division for it.
And I'm here for a risk management position. If anyone knows how to protect against risk, it's me.
“Amy, we're at the final interview stage, as you know,” Quintana Lopez says to me, folding her hands neatly on the desk in front of her, the dove-grey tailored suit she's wearing set off by a perfectly tied red-patterned scarf and white silk shirt. Dark eyes meet mine, her face framed by a short salt-and-pepper cut. She's a rare woman in business letting her hair go natural, and I admire it.
There's a gravitas to her, a calm power I hope to emulate one day.
“Yes.”
“And we have a bit of a change in the job offer.”
Nothing good can be coming next.
“Okay.”
“As you know, there are normally different roles for risk management, reputation management, and marketing, but this is a special case.”
I'm intrigued but also a little sick. What's she getting to? This is my seventh interview. They've done a full background check. I'm here in New York City and this is the third interview in two days. A wall of windows spreads behind Quintana, with a sweeping view of the city that I covet.
In my own office like this, someday.
“Sounds special,” I reply, unsure how to handle this.
She sighs, which makes my pulse jump. “There's no easy way to say this. We have a new project that just came up, and your connection to the McCormick family is exactly why we think you'd be perfect for it.”
That's not what I expected to hear.
“Because my sister is married to Declan, you think I'm perfect for it? Is this in the coffee industry?”
“No. It's in athletics.”
“Oh, so the connection is to Andrew McCormick? He owns a chain of gyms in the Boston area. I talked about it with him at Easter, just last month, in fact.”
“It's not Declan or Andrew McCormick.”
I frown. “Then it's James?”
A manila folder, under her manicured fingers, slides toward me. “It's him.”
I open the folder to find Hamish McCormick's brooding face staring back at me, in black and white, from a high-end fashion house shoot.
“You want to hire me because of Hamish?” I choke out.
Bzzz
Quintana's assistant interrupts us. “Ms. Lopez? Mr. Previte is here.”
“Send him in.” Quintana gives me a sympathetic but firm look I can't interpret. “Hamish McCormick's agent is here. Jody Previte. He can explain the details.”
So many questions swirl through my mind, most of them involving expletives, but I'm not blowing my big chance at a six-figure job because Hamish McCormick is somehow wreaking havoc on my life.
A man in his early forties comes in. He has a slight paunch but the stride of a former athlete, and he’s wearing a sport coat, dress slacks, and loafers. Every part of his clothing is pressed and immaculate, all of the pieces perfectly tailored and hand-stitched. I'm guessing it's a ten-thousand-dollar ensemble. Maybe twenty with the watch.
He has half-rim glasses and very short hair, almost military-style, like a crew cut that decided at the last minute not to have such hard edges.
“Amy. I've heard so much about you. Jody Previte,” he says as he walks in, shakes my hand, then moves on to Quintana.
“You have?” I shouldn't squeak like that, but I'm losing the self-control I've cultivated so carefully when it comes to corporate life. The introduction of Hamish into all my plans is unraveling me.
I have to stop this. Now.
“Hamish speaks quite highly of you. Heard your family rescued him on Thanksgiving.”
“You tried to warn him,” I reply, remembering. “He turned off his phone.”
Quintana gives me a shrewd look. “Amy's already zeroed in on the issue without knowing a single detail about the job, Jody. I knew she'd be perfect.”
“The issue?” I ask politely, appreciating the compliment but not understanding what it implies.
“The issue is Hamish,” Jody says with a sigh. It's a knowing sound, the kind made by someone who’s weathered many years in a challenging industry. “Or Hamish's libido, to be precise.”
Oh, I have plenty of experience with that, I think but don't say.
“You mean the sex tape.”
“I wish I only meant the sex tape, but yes–that's one example.”
“And it's a problem because some of the endorsement deals are being threatened,” I guess, earning nods from both of them as if I've passed a test.
A test I know damn well I'm taking now. Think, Amy, think!
Jody's waved over to a seat next to me by Quintana, who looks at us both after we're seated and asks, “Coffee? Tea?”
“For this conversation, we might need something stronger,” Jody mutters.
“Red Bull?” I joke. We all laugh. It's ten in the morning, so surely he doesn't mean alcohol.
Right?
“I'll get to the point. Hamish is being considered for an eight-figure endorsement package.” He names an international athletic brand so big, I gasp.
“And his behavior has put that in jeopardy?”
“Yes. If it were just Hamish, that would be bad enough. But it's affecting two teammates, rising stars in Europe trying to break into the American endorsement market. Sleeping with his team owner's daughter was bad enough. Having her jealous ex video them without permission was worse.”
“Once it's on the internet, it's forever,” I say as Quintana nods. “What do I have to do with any of this?”
“We need a wrangler.”
“Wrangler?”
“Someone to accompany Hamish for the next few months. Keep him in line.”
“A babysitter?”
“Much more than that,” Quintana says smoothly. “You'll immerse yourself in soccer – football – Learn the business. Spot and track trends. Help with product pitches and match endorsements. Keep Hamish focused, yes, but you could do more. Carlos Boraso is considering starting a new Latin American league, and Maartensi will be handling all financial aspects if it goes well. There's a growth opportunity for you here.”
“In sports? European soccer?”
Jody chuckles. “You'll lose your head in interviews if you call it that. It's always just football from here on out.”
I smooth my skirt over my knees and try to find equilibrium. I’ve spent the last three years, in college and grad school, taking internships that would put me on the path to the executive suite, and this is what I get?
A job that involves making sure a famous Scottish soccer – er, football – player doesn’t have sex?
All so he can promote a product?
You have got to be kidding me–I’m going into an industry so shallow, it gives people entire careers devoted to cockblocking? I'm getting paid to babysit a penis?
To make it adhere to curfew?
To make it heel?
Obedience training wasn't in the curriculum for my MBA, and yet here I am.
The penis whisperer.
“This is the offer? There are no other jobs with Maartensi that I'm qualified for?” I ask, feeling cornered, flailing for a way out.
“Let's put it this way, Amy,” Quintana begins, but she doesn't have to say another word. She's already said no without saying it. “You've been interviewing for a senior consultant position. This project comes with that title. You'll follow Hamish. Learn how the team works. Understand his modeling and endorsement deals. Look for new opportunities. We're guessing three to four months on the road should be enough to smooth any ruffled feathers.”
“Three to four months of following him?”
“And when you're done, you slide right into the business development group. Or risk management. The new league will need both.”
“And that position would be interim principal.” I control my voice so I don't ask it like a question. Interim principal is a huge leap up for a brand-new MBA like me. It's the fast track to partner.
Suck it, Davis. Who's making a scene now?
“Amy,” Jody says. “How much do you know about Hamish?”
I cannot blush. I cannot blush. I cannot blush.
Damn it.
I'm blushing.
Sharp and able to read a room, the guy notices, one corner of his mouth popping up a bit.
“We were in my sister's wedding together. I've seen him at family events. He was even at my graduation a few weeks ago.”
“He was? Why?”
“Said he was doing a girls' soccer–er, football–clinic at Amherst College.”
Jody turns to Quintana and says, “Reputation management.”
She nods. “Perfect. Amy, we'll need you to find more opportunities like that for him. His image needs to be scrubbed clean. Bleached and made fresh.”
“You think I can do that?”
“It's about to be your job, if you accept.”
“Is this... normal? Are other people employed at Maartensi doing... this?”
“Reputation management? Of course. It's an entire department.”
“I meant babysitting grown men who can't keep their todgers in their pants.”
Jody leans in. “I see you do know Hamish.”
Quintana's gaze narrows. “How well do you know him?”
“Not like that! No! We're related.” I frown. “He's been to my family's house for holidays. Came to my graduation.”
“Anything intimate?” Quintana ventures.
“He kissed me twice.” It's better to admit it up front than to have it show up somewhere on social media. Who knows if someone snapped a pic back in Amherst? “At Thanksgiving under the mistletoe in front of family, and at my graduation.” I brighten up. “Which makes this job a conflict of interest, doesn't it?”
A hooting sound, half owl, half snort, comes out of Jody. “If we redlined every woman Hamish has ever kissed, we'd have no candidates for this position.”
“If you feel conflicted about this job in any way,” Quintana says seriously, “by all means say so now.” Jody’s face remains professionally impassive, but now he's studying me, too. “Because this isn't going to work if all we're doing is trading one scandal for another.”
“I assure you, I'm totally professional in every way possible.”
“That's not a direct answer,” she replies.
“I believe it is.” I'm holding the line while walking it. This is a perfect example of damned if you do, damned if you don't. If I admit I'm attracted to him, that could disqualify me. Which...
Hmm.
Maybe I should just say yes.
But then what? I know the business world can be harsh, and here's a perfect example. Quintana's got some directive she's following.
The bottom line: Eight figures.
Hold on. That’s a decent chunk of money, but not that much to a place like Maartensi.
Think, Amy, think. Why would they pay me six figures a year to babysit Hamish? Something bigger must be at stake.
“Quintana,” I ask slowly, “is Hamish being groomed to headline the new Latin American league? And that's why he needs to be controlled? A cleaner image needed before Carlos Boraso moves forward?”
Something flickers in her eyes. Ah. I did it.
Passed another test.
“You're thinking bigger now, Amy. Good. It's that insight we'll need for the next three to four months as you follow Hamish. You're the perfect set of eyes and ears for us. Look for other players who might be a good fit. Keep Hamish McCormick's attention where it needs to be.”
Quintana didn't answer my question, which tells me I'm right.
“On the game,” I respond.
“On anything but sex,” Jody counters. “Sex with the wrong people.”
“Can you define 'the wrong people'? Obviously, he shouldn't sleep with his team owner's daughter and get caught on tape, but who else?”
“You'll know it when you see it, but for the most part–anyone.”
“I'm supposed to block a walking testosterone test tube from having sex with anyone?”
“If he wants to call someone from a discreet service, no problem,” Jody says.
I freeze, a rippling horror covering my skin. “Hamish uses services like that?”
“No.” Jody shakes his head. “Some guys do, but not him.” He sighs. “In some ways, it would be better. The professionals don't put up pictures of the footballers they screw on social media. The jersey chasers are the worst.”
“I'm focused on these jersey chasers, then. Like groupies? The ones sleeping with him to use him?”
“Yes. Anyone who represents possible scandal.”
“That's not what you just said, Jody. You said to prevent him from sleeping with anyone, period.”
“It's... tricky.”
Quintana gives him a sharp look.
“Some of these footballers really are–how did you put it?–walking testosterone test tubes. They pump themselves up on the pitch, and when the game's over, they have to eject all those hormones somehow. The problem is, it's as if all the testosterone erases executive function from their brains.”
“A neutralizing agent.”
He laughs. “Exactly. We need someone who sees that. Who understands that the job is about discretion, pattern-matching, stepping in when needed and backing off when it's smart. If all we needed was someone to cockblock–”
Quintana clears her throat with implied meaning.
“Sorry.” He shrugs. “But that is eighty percent of the job.”
“Not one hundred percent, though,” I say, slowly beginning to understand. “This is a full-time, on-the-road position, but it's more than stopping him from dipping his wick. It's a combination of marketing, PR management, sports psychology, and good old-fashioned scold.”
“Scold! That's about ninety-nine percent of the job. The rest is the final one percent, combined,” Jody confirms.
“And Maartensi is prepared to put these sorts of resources behind Hamish?” I ask Quintana, who looks at the clock and nods.
“We are. And behind you, Amy. You could be a rising star if this all works out. The endorsement deal that's on the line is eight figures. A completely new football league is worth far more.”
“This is not the job offer I thought I'd be contemplating when I walked in this room, Quintana.”
Unreadable eyes meet mine. “It's in your email. Password protected.”
“More details are in there, I assume?”
Jody nods. “It's quite detailed. Hamish is highly disciplined when it comes to football itself, and physical fitness. His body really is his temple.”
“His ability to worship himself is not in question,” I reply, earning stunned laughter from Jody.
“As I said, you really do know him well.”
“I know his type.”
“If you take the job, you'll be surrounded by his type.”
“Will I have an ibuprofen budget, then?”
“Expense all your alcohol,” Jody says in a jovial voice, but I can tell he's serious.
As I take a long, deep breath, we three sit in silence. The view behind Quintana is intoxicating. Everyone starts somewhere–right? I may be offered this specific position because of my connection to the McCormick family, but I have to earn the right to climb the ladder, the same as anyone else.
By doing the best job possible.
Can I handle being on the road with Hamish McCormick, though? After that kiss at graduation, the one last Thanksgiving, and all the vulgar come-ons?
My entire, full-time-plus job will be fending off his advances, and worse–stopping him from sleeping with anyone else who, in my professional opinion, would be inappropriate.
Given Hamish's tastes, that probably does mean everyone.
“If I succeed, it's a guaranteed promotion, Quintana?” I ask, deciding to be bold. Walking out of here and saying no is an option. A painful one, but an option.
“Do this, and as I said, you'll be considered for interim principal, working on the league account. If you get the risk management angle on this assignment, we can consider you for something in that division, too.”
Interim principal. When I said it earlier, I was taking a leap. Hearing it out of her mouth, it becomes my potential future.
Oh, boy.
I thought it would take years to reach that point.
This job is a shortcut. An opportunity. A stepping stone.
But it's also a free fall.
When you're on the verge of doing something daring, the longer you wait, the more the fear invades. It can build until it paralyzes you.
Leap, or walk away. Don't dither.
So I leap.
“I'll do it on one condition. Let's talk about the contract. There's a clause I'd like to add.”
Hamish
“I canna accept this shite!” I shout across the desk. Jody's tone is one of conciliation. I've heard it before, but never under these circumstances.
“I know it's not what you want–”
At the sound of my bellow, Jody's little bawtie, Schlomo, jumps into his lap. It's a Havanese, all beige puff. Jody absentmindedly scratches the beast's ears as I take in his words.
“That's the understatement of the year.”
“But the league is requiring it, and so is the company dangling eight figures in front of you, Hamish. To put it bluntly, you don't have a choice.”
“I can still walk away.”
“Yes. You can. Is that really what you want?”
“I want ma freedom!”
“Freedom? Is that what you call being the victim of a secret sex tape?”
“Ach. I dinna care about that. It's silly and embarrassin’, but I've done nothin’ wrong.”
“You slept with your team owner's daughter.”
“Aye. Two consentin’ adults.”
“You don't see anything inappropriate there?”
“Naw. She liked it. I liked it. What's wrong wi' that?”
“And the time you slept with the daughter of the football writer doing that big investigative piece on the league?”
“Wasna ma fault she was in the same nightclub as me that night.”
“It's never your fault when you sleep with the wrong person, is it, Hamish?”
“How can ye sleep with a person who's 'wrong,' Jody? Ye ever have guid sex? If it feels guid enough, it's always right. I canna disappoint a sweet hen when she's givin’ me the eye. I have somethin’ that she needs, and it costs me naught but time to help her. Ye know how that feels?”
“Your reputation matters.”
“Ma reputation isna what gets the endorsements or wins games. It's ma body and ma footwork. What I do in ma sex life has naught to do wi' either.”
“You may think that, but the corporate sponsors and the league have a very different opinion.”
“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.
“And look. My voice didn't kill him.”
Then she smirks at me, and it sinks in.
No.
Oh, no.