I manage a good-natured laugh but defend my question. “I thought maybe you’d heard more details in the rumor mill.”
“Nope. Probably the usual, though. You don’t get to be where that guy is without making sacrifices in other areas. He’s not just one of the best QBs around; he’s busy with a ton of things off the field. Endorsements, business partnerships, hosting Saturday Night Live…”
“Is that what you want?”
“No!” He bends his knee and rubs at a spot that’s been bothering him lately. Then he reaches across the space between our chairs and grabs my free hand. “No. I don’t. That’s too much. I’m perfectly happy doing my job on the field and doing my work in the community, then coming home. To you.”
I smile at his sweetness, despite its technical inaccuracy. For one thing, he has endorsements, too. And more offers every day. For another, he doesn’t “come home” to me every day. I still have my own place and spend as many evenings there as I do here. That’s how I’d like things to stay for now.
Steering us away from that volatile topic, however, I say, “I’m glad they didn’t have kids. Makes things easier, I guess.”
After setting down his smoothie, he grins and drops to all fours on the patio between our chairs, then bites the swimsuit tie at my hip.
“Hey!” I set down my drink to avoid spilling it on us.
He kneels beside me, nibbling on my shoulder strap. “Divorce talk is depressing.”
“But it happens. Often.”
“Everywhere. To everyone. Not just football players.”
“Yeah, but certain lifestyles make marriage more difficult. You can’t deny that.”
That brings to mind Ginny and the nugget Gloria dropped about her cheating on Jet, something he seems determined to keep from me forever. I haven’t had the guts to broach the subject, and today, with all of its other distractions, doesn’t seem like the right time, either.
He sighs. “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“I would have found out eventually, and I would have been annoyed that you didn’t tell me,” I say, returning my attention to the Jays’ situation.
“Which is why I ultimately did tell you.” He kisses my throat. “Mmm. You smell like coconut.”
I laugh. “You’re the master of distraction.”
“It’s what makes my fake hand-off one of the best in the league.”
“Oh really, now?”
He abruptly stops smooching on me and sits on the side of my chair. “I better stop before I can’t,” he says, certain physical evidence reinforcing his claim.
“Why would you want to? Rae said your silly abstinence rule was only in effect during the season.”
Looking over his shoulder, he regards me for a few seconds, then sniffs. “It’s not silly. What would Rae know about it?”
“You may ignore the trainers, but they’re still around when you guys talk about that stuff.”
“And she ran right to you to report on it, huh?”
“No, it came up naturally in conversation. She wanted me to be prepared to make plenty of my own sacrifices come September.”
“Great. I appreciate her help.” He returns to his own chair and shrugs back into his t-shirt, droplets on his shoulders soaking through and freckling the dark gray material.
“Don’t be mad at her for telling me the truth. If it were up to you, I’d still be clueless about it.”
“Everyone knows it’s a thing.”
I tilt down my chin and look at him over the top of my sunglasses. “I thought it was a myth. Because it’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not.”
“I was assured it was a regular season thing only.”
“It is. I’m just not in the mood, okay?”
“Some parts of you didn’t get the memo.”
He rubs the top of his wet hair. “Stuff on my mind, that’s all.”
“And you can’t think and split my uprights at the same time?”
We both laugh at the crassness of that euphemism, but he sobers and says, “Probably not. I’m not a good multitasker.”
After a few seconds of silence, I ask, “Are you really going to abstain all season long? Not that I’m worried about it.”
Justifiably smug, he grins at me. “You’re worried.”
“Four months is a long time! I have needs.”
Tossing his head back, he laughs, then turns his head to look at the pool again and avoid my eyes as he replies, “I do, too. Trust me. But my job has to take priority.” He bravely looks me in the eye when he makes that risky statement.
That’s it. Time to officially launch Operation: Regular Season Satisfaction. “You know, National Geographic did an article about this—”
“What?” He snaps his towel at me. “Get the heck out of here. You’ve been researching it?”
“Yes! This is important to me.”
“Did they compare us to chimps?”
“No! It was a legitimate study about athletes and sex and how it affects testosterone levels and—consequently—aggression in contact sports, like football.”
“And? Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Use it or lose it, apparently. Sex raises testosterone levels. Like energy produces energy.”
“Come off it.”
I grab the tablet from the table. “I’m not making this up!” In a matter of seconds, I’ve navigated to the article. I hand the device to him.
“You have it bookmarked? Holy shit.” He looks down at the screen and skims the story. “Ha! They say there wasn’t anything conclusive about psychological effects in the study.”
“So?”
“It’s a mental game almost as much as a physical one.”
“But if the physical part isn’t harmed by sex, and the rest is all up here”—I tap my head—“then it’s a matter of changing the way you think. We can work on that.”
“It’s not worth it.” When all I do is glare at him hard enough to singe every hair from his body, he qualifies, “Whoa, that came out wrong. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not going to be able to change fifteen years of thinking based
