Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Amy
Calling my workspace in the condo a "home office" is a stretch.
In theory, it's a tiny but efficient area carved out of the corner of our living room, with a compact desk, floating shelves, and a framed print of the Luview, Maine hot springs that we bought in a gallery there.
In reality, it's my laptop, two mismatched mugs full of pens, and a stack of pregnancy books I keep pretending I'll read once I get through all the work tabs open on my browser, yet the number of open tabs only seems to grow, never shrink.
And then there's Hamish's knee brace. The brace is not on the shelf, where it belongs.
The brace is under my chair.
"It's like living with a large, excitable, injured golden retriever who forgets where he put his chew toys," I mutter, nudging it back with my heel.
"I can hear ye, pet," he calls from the kitchen.
"Good. Now come fetch your toy like a good boy."
To my surprise, Hamish comes running in, arms wrapping around me from behind, hot kisses on my neck making me dizzy.
"What are you doing?"
"Claiming ma toy."
"I meant that." I point to the brace.
"That's nae toy." His hand cups my breast, thumb turning circles about my nipple. "This is ma favorite plaything."
"My breast?"
"Aye. So big." He inhales slowly, savoring the moment. "I need ta keep ye pregnant fer the next twenty years if it means I get these."
His grip goes firm. So does my nipple.
"I'm trying to do my work!"
"So am I, pet. So am I."
My laptop screen shifts as Zoom moves from "connecting" to "make sure your background doesn't show messes." Jody's name flashes, and then there he is, taking over my monitor.
"Hamish, behave!" I bat him off me but my blood's racing now, and I know what we'll be doing after this call.
Jody Previte looks like a man who sleeps in a suit and never plagues his spouse with misplaced knee braces.
Crisp white shirt, navy jacket, tie straight, hair perfect.
Behind him is an office with framed jerseys and plaques, a clear signal that he can get you more money if you're world class at the game.
"Hey," he says, smile turning on like a floodlight. "There's my favorite power couple."
Hamish drops into the chair next to me with the careful economy of a man working hard to maximize healing, toilet fiasco notwithstanding. The erection in his pants isn't helping, either.
"Afternoon, Jody," he says. "Or morning. Or whatever time zone ye're in."
"I am always in the money zone," Jody replies lightly. "How's my favorite mother-to-be?"
"I'll let you know when she gets here," I say. "Right now, it's just me and my sore boobs."
Jody's smile flickers, then comes back twice as bright, a dimmer switch he adjusts as he reads the room.
"Week thirteen now, right?" he asks, tapping something off-screen.
"Tomorrow," I say. "We graduate from 'closely held secret' to 'oh, no, here comes TMZ.'"
"That's what we're here to talk about," he says. "Well, that and this."
He clicks something on his end. A window pops up on my screen: The Str1kecast Sports logo, followed by pages of contract language. My stomach does a weird ripple, the baby figuring out how to do a flip turn in a swimming pool.
The numbers are right there. Salary. Signing bonus. Incentives. All the zeroes that mean we don't have to worry.
A voice in my head whispers, You don't have to work anymore. And right behind it, the panic: Then who am I?
"Open your calendar," Jody says. "Check out the season opener date."
I scroll. The date is circled in red. I don't remember circling it, which means Hamish did it because he knows there's a problem.
"It's four weeks before your due date," Jody says, reading my face.
Hamish goes still beside me.
"And onboarding starts...?" I ask, even though I've already seen it.
"Two months before that. Light training at first. Shadowing in the studio. Chemistry tests. Branding shoots. But we've built in plenty of time for rehab, Amy's OB appointments, all that good family-man content the network loves."
Family-man content. No one prepares you for how it feels to have you and your baby talked about like a marketing asset.
"Show her the clips," Hamish says. His voice is steady, but his fingers have curled into his palms.
"Thought you'd never ask." Jody clicks again.
My screen splits: contract on one side, a sizzle reel on the other. A logo spins, then cuts to Hamish on a set I recognize from his last guest spot. The studio has flag graphics, a sleek desk, and someone in his ear telling him when to smile.
There's my husband, in a simple black T-shirt under a blazer, headset on, hair pushed back like he's been running a hand through it.
He looks so relaxed. Not pretend-relaxed, the way he does when he's trying to keep things light for me or my family. Actually relaxed.
"So what ye're seeing here," TV Hamish explains, Glaswegian lilt inflecting careful diction he's been coached through, "is a really clever high press.
The back line's sitting just deep enough ta invite the pass, but they've set a trap.
Watch the ten here—aye, there—he's cutting off the passing lane, so when that ball goes wide, they're on it in half a second.
That's no' luck. That's weeks of work on the training ground. "
The clip cuts to another segment, Hamish at a touch screen, fingers tracing arrows over player dots.
"Fer me, that finish is as clinical as it gets. First touch takes the keeper out o' the picture; second touch is but a formality. Ye canna defend against that when the run is timed so well."
He laughs with the host, this easy, deep sound that makes it seem like he's hanging out with a buddy, knocking back beers in a pub. Then he throws in a self-deprecating comment about how he wishes he'd had that kind of service in his last club. The host laughs harder.
Beside me, Real Hamish watches himself with a strange half-smile, like he's looking at an old school photo where he has a different haircut and a functioning knee.
Pride and grief pummel me at the same time, which feels unfair. My nervous system can't pick a lane.
"And this," Jody says, "is the one that sealed it."
The clip shows Hamish watching a replay of his own injury. Not the gory part, but the aftermath, him on the ground, clutching his knee, the slow crawl of the stretcher, me racing onto the pitch and forcing the staff to let me through.
The awful hush in the stadium.
"No player ever wants ta see this," Hamish says quietly on the TV screen.
"Or be this. But it's part of the game. Yer body's yer tool and yer trap.
The thing is, when it's happenin'—when it's yer leg—they tell ye, 'Ye're lucky, it could be worse.
' And they're right, but it doesna feel like luck.
It feels like kneecap death along with..
.." his eyes narrow, "...wi' a lot o' fear o' the unknown. "
The camera cuts to a close-up. You can see it on his face, the microsecond when he's not a pundit or an athlete or a brand, but just a guy whose knee—and life—veered the wrong way.
In one play.
Then he looks back at the host, smile back in place.
"But here's the thing. Unknown doesna mean bad. Different, aye, but no' necessarily bad. Same as in the game, ye take the situation at hand and do yer best ta come out on top." He winks. "Ask ma wife. She kens all about me coming out on top."
Your body's your tool and your trap.
"Hamish tested through the roof with that segment.
" Jody looks at his notes. "People called it authentic, grounded, inspiring.
The director said—and this is a direct quote—'He's got the cadence.
He can see the game and translate it for a viewing audience in a way that keeps them from changing channels.
And he charts high with women. That's all rare in one package. '"
I look at Hamish, who just nods.
"They loved you," Jody emphasizes. "You're not some ex-player they stuck at the end of the desk to look pretty. You can actually analyze. You can banter. You make people pay attention. You give them depth without getting too technical or jargony. That's craft."
Hamish's shoulders straighten. The words hit somewhere inside him, a proud spot. I can feel it, because they hit me, too.
My husband belongs in that studio.
He belongs on the pitch, too, but...
"Obviously," Jody goes on, "with the baby coming, we need to talk logistics.
Str1kecast is prepared to be flexible. They want the narrative: Injured star rebuilds his career, becomes the voice of the game.
Add 'new father' to that, and you've got a storyboard that grabs attention.
We build a controlled announcement with the baby and the contract, released as a coordinated campaign for maximum reach. "
I am mentally mapping "early summer" onto my pregnancy calendar, counting weeks.
Our baby will be roughly one month old when Hamish is supposed to be on camera for the first official match of the season.
I can see myself on the couch at 3 a.m., baby in my arms, Hamish in another country under bright lights, while some production assistant brings up a lower-third graphic that reads "NEW DAD COMMITTED TO THE SPORT. "
My chest tightens. Not with anger. With fear. Fear that I'll disappear into this, that I'll become a footnote in his story, that everything I've built will shrink to fit inside the margins of his career.
"Talk to me," Jody says. "What are your questions?"
Hamish covers my hand with his.
"What's the backup plan if a match goes into extra time and he's supposed to be on a flight home?" I ask.
"Good question. We've requested caps on in-person matches in that first month. More studio time, less travel. And the pre-season appearances give us leverage."
"And if he needs to say no? Last-minute. An emergency."
"We build a case," Jody says smoothly. "Family first. But I won't lie, that's a conversation we'll have to finesse."
"So he's an asshole," I note about the boss, and Jody shrugs.