Model Boyfriend

by Stuart Reardon

  But Anna wasn’t laughing. Instead, she was staring at him with a thoughtful expression.

  “Which one?”

  “Which one what?”

  “Which charity did he want to do the calendar for?”

  Nick scratched his beard.

  “Dunno. I deleted the email. I thought it was a joke.”

  Anna slapped her forehead.

  “No! I read about this in the newspaper! Was it from Massimo Igashi, the famous photographer?”

  Nick blinked at her excited expression.

  “It was just a joke, luv. I thought you’d have a laugh.”

  Anna was on her feet, reaching for Nick’s iPad and sliding it across the table to him.

  “See if you can find the email.”

  “But…”

  “Let me just see if it’s the real thing.”

  She was excited. Nick wasn’t. He thought the idea was barking mad, but if it made Anna happy…

  He pulled up his deleted emails, found the one he was looking for and passed it to Anna to read.

  Her eyes lit up as she scanned the email rapidly.

  “Nick, I’m sure this is real! Oh, the charity is for testicular cancer—you did that Movember moustache for them two years ago. And I remember Bernard Dubois talking about this calendar—it’s really big in France. You should do it, you should definitely do it! It’s Massimo Igashi!”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Oh my God!” squeaked Anna, appalled. “He’s the photographer who did Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s wedding photos! He’s one of the top photographers in the world—his mother was Italian and his father Japanese. You must have heard of him! He shoots for Vogue and GQ and all the top magazines.”

  Nick stared at her, bemused. In all honesty, the only thing he ever read in the newspaper was the sports pages.

  “Should I send an email back saying you’re interested?” she asked.

  Nick shook his head.

  “Bloody hell, no! It said that he wanted me to pose naked. I’ve had enough dick shots in the Press already, and it wasn’t even my dick!”

  That was true.

  Nick’s teammate had once texted Anna a dick pic on Nick’s phone, and a journalist had found it when their phones had been hacked. Hundreds of websites had published the picture of Gio Simone’s penis, but with Nick’s name attached to it. It had been a humiliating experience.

  Anna cocked her head on one side.

  “I don’t think Massimo Igashi would do anything that wasn’t tasteful—he’s built his reputation on beautiful but erotic images. And anyway, if there was anything even slightly concerning about him, he wouldn’t have been picked to do the Royal photos.”

  Nick appreciated Anna’s willingness to think the best of people, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was right.

  “You sure? Mario Testino did all those pictures of Princess Diana, and now they’re saying he sexually exploited models.”

  Anna’s face fell.

  “Oh, you’re right. I’d forgotten about that.” She paused. “But you could still talk to Massimo Igashi, couldn’t you?”

  Nick gritted his teeth.

  “Why are you so excited for a bunch of strangers to see my tackle?”

  Anna’s smile vanished.

  “I’m not … it’s not that. It’s just … it’s different.” She bit her lip. “It sounds … fun.”

  No, it doesn’t.

  “It’s kind of funny, right?” she added lamely. “What do you think? Will you find out more?”

  “Yeah, if you like.”

  Anna frowned at him.

  “If I like? It’s you they’re asking, not me.”

  Nick was caught between a rock and Anna’s hard stare. He gave her a quick, insincere smile.

  “Yeah, why not.”

  Anna grabbed the iPad and flung herself on the sofa, jabbing the screen hurriedly as if she was afraid that Nick would change his mind.

  If he could have crossed his fingers and hoped that he never heard about the calendar again, he would have, but his fingers had been bent and broken so many times, they’d didn’t always behave the way he wanted them to.

  He sighed and slumped in his chair.

  Ah well, if it made Anna this happy, it was fine by him.

  Or it could all go horribly wrong.

  ANNA WAS GRABBING at straws. Why the hell had she pressured him into this calendar idea when he was clearly uncomfortable about it? She had no idea if this was a good idea or not, but it was something different, something to break the stalemate, something to break through the glass wall that Nick was locked behind—and they desperately needed that, both of them.

  He’d refused point blank to celebrate his upcoming birthday or even talk about it. Any cards he’d received had gone in the trash unopened.

  She’d already tried everything that she could think of, used every technique at her disposal, and he’d remained aloof, unconnected. It scared her.

  Maybe desperation was making her reckless, but Anna had heard about the calendar project before. In the past, it had been focussed on a French rugby club in Paris, Stade Français, and the calendar had featured only their players—Dieux du Stade—Gods of Stade. Massimo had announced his intention to photograph different athletes, portraying them as Greek sculptures, with their musculature on display. Tasteful, suggestive of nudity rather than explicit.

  Every year, the calendar raised money for cancer research, particularly testicular cancer—but one unexpected benefit had been that it significantly raised the profile of the Parisian team, as well as popularising rugby in France.

  She wanted to trust Massimo Igashi—she desperately hoped this wasn’t going to backfire.

  It would be a great opportunity for Nick, something for him to focus on. Not that he was out of shape, far from it. He’d kept up his daily training almost as intensively as when he was still playing for the Phoenixes. Perhaps he’d lost a little muscle tone after recovering from the last operation on his shoulder to repair a torn rotator cuff, but as far as Anna was concerned, Nick’s body was already a work of art.

  She completely failed to consider how she’d feel with thousands of women—and men—seeing her husband-to-be in all his glory. It simply didn’t occur to her.

  All she wanted was a project for Nick. Was that so selfish?

  NICK ASSUMED THAT the calendar photoshoot would be simple: one day out of his life, then finished. He’d been involved with team photos before and he’d even let his tattoo artist take some shots to display in his studio. Those had ended up in the newspapers and on websites everywhere. Not that he cared or could have done anything about it if he did. Besides, his body was simply a tool with which to do his job—when he’d had a job.

  The next day, however, clued him in that this wasn’t going to be your ordinary photoshoot.

  He’d been out for his morning run, as usual, when Anna waved the iPad at him excitedly on his return.

  “You’ve had an email from Massimo. It’s been killing me not to read it!”

  Rubbing the sweat from his eyes with a towel, Nick frowned as he scanned the email, the furrows in his forehead deepening.

  “Well?” Anna asked impatiently.

  “They want to do the shoot in Cannes.”

  He shrugged, tossing the iPad on the kitchen table.

  “The south of France? Wow!”

  Anna was excited, but Nick didn’t seem impressed.

  “Just think of all the money the calendar will make for charity,” she said half hopefully.

  Nick raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s a few days out of your life,” she pleaded, unsure why she was still peddling the idea to him. She sighed. “Look, if you don’t want to, it’s fine. Your body, your choice, right? Forget I suggested it.” She hesitated then forced a smile. “Maybe you could help me round up some of your old teammates so I can interview them for my book?”

  Nick winced, his gut twisting at the reminder of the empty da
ys stretching in front of him.

  “Yeah, sure,” he muttered as he drew in a deep breath. “And I’ll do the calendar thing. Probably won’t sell any with my mug on it.”

  Then he stomped out of the room.

  Anna’s shoulders sagged, exhausted from tiptoeing around him. She read the email again. Apart from the fact that Nick was required to fly out to Massimo’s studio in Cannes, a few miles southwest of Nice, for three days—one day of prep and then the two-day shoot—Nick had been sent a strict exercise and diet sheet. The diet sheet wasn’t very different from the ones Nick had used at his rugby club, although this was considerably lower in carbs, but even so, it seemed a lot of effort and Anna was slightly appalled when she read it in detail…

  Massimo Dieux Du Sport Calendar

  One month before, the model will start to lower their intake of carbohydrates and increase their training to create a deficit that will lead to a leaner, more sculpted physique, suitable for this project.

  Week 1

  Monday

  Morning: Back and chest

  Afternoon: cardio run, High Intensity Interval Training or circuit training

  Tuesday

  Morning: shoulder and abs

  Afternoon: cardio, run, hiit or circuit

  Wednesday

  Morning: legs

  Afternoon: cardio, run, hiit or circuit

  Thursday

  Morning: Arms and abs

  Afternoon: cardio, run, hiit or circuit

  Friday

  rest

  Saturday

  Morning: full body weights circuit

  Afternoon: cardio

  Sunday

  rest

  The model should be exercising twice a day, 4-5 days a week, with the emphasis on weights in the morning and cardio later on in the day; a split routine, shoulders and abs, back and chest, arms and abs, legs and mobility.

  As Anna scanned down the weeks 2 to 4, her eyes widened. This was a workout very similar to the preparation for a big game day. The main difference was the reduced carbohydrates—the distinct lack of rice, pasta or sweet potatoes.

  Suggested menu options

  Breakfast: Eggs or omelette with fresh vegetables, kale, spinach, nuts.

  Mid-morning: protein shake.

  Dinner: chicken breast with steamed vegetables, salad, fruit for dessert.

  Mid-afternoon snack: protein shake, chicken salad.

  Dinner: salmon fillet with steamed vegetables.

  Snack: protein bar.

  Avoid caffeine and processed sugar.

  Suggested alternatives: green tea, water, herbal infusions.

  Preparing for the Photoshoot

  For the last three days before the shoot, reduce water intake to a level of moderate dehydration.

  Anna grimaced. That was certainly not an instruction that a healthy athlete would follow—hydration was key. But she also knew that a dehydrated body emphasized the muscles and sinews, leading to a super-ripped physique that photographed well.

  But it wasn’t healthy.

  On the morning of the shoot, the model should go for a run or complete a cardio-based workout.

  No food or water, but black coffee is permitted.

  Anna gritted her teeth. She’d practically demanded that Nick sign up for this.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  She could cope with most of it, but the suggestion that he should deliberately dehydrate himself made the corner of her eye twitch.

  There was a contract attached to the email, which Anna immediately forwarded to Nick’s former manager. If there was any cause for concern, Mark Lipman would spot it in a nanosecond. Even though Nick was no longer playing professional rugby, and Mark was retired, he’d stayed in touch, earning Anna’s undying gratitude for his kindness and support.

  Wondering if she was doing the right thing by forcing Nick into this, she finished dressing, ready for the twice-weekly meeting with her P.A., Brendan.

  Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the front door and Anna smiled, seeing her friend and assistant on the doorstep.

  “Annie, darling! Gorgeous as ever. Almost as gorgeous as myself,” he said, bustling inside. “What’s wrong with his nibs? He looks like that grumpy cat meme that everyone thinks is so hilarious.”

  Anna pulled a face.

  “Yeah, um, that might be my fault.”

  “I’ve told you before, Anna,” Brendan grinned slyly, “withholding sex is a great incentive to get your own way. Just hang on in there. Although,” and he fanned his face, “I’d never turn down your delish diva of a boyfriend—excuse me, fiancé.”

  “Bren! I don’t … I wouldn’t…” she huffed, while Brendan grinned and helped himself to a cup of coffee. Then she lowered her voice. “Nick’s been asked to do a photoshoot for a calendar—with Massimo Igashi!”

  Brendan slammed his coffee cup down so hard that hot, brown liquid spilled onto the table.

  Anna threw him an aggrieved look as she wiped it up.

  “Stop the press!” he shrieked. “Why am I only hearing about this now? I’m only your best friend! I’m only the best personal assistant you’ve ever had your hot little hands on!”

  “Don’t be such a drama queen, Bren.”

  “Can’t help it,” he sang. “It’s genetic. Now come on, spill the beans.”

  Anna told him everything that had happened, starting with finding Nick at Twickenham the night before.

  Brendan looked at her thoughtfully.

  “So, basically you’ve bullied Nick into doing a nudie calendar, when he’d instantly dismissed the idea and deleted the aforementioned email from his inbox.”

  Anna frowned.

  “It wasn’t like that!” Then she groaned and dropped her head to the kitchen table. “It was exactly like that!” she mumbled, then sat up. “But Bren, what was I supposed to do? He’s drifting, lost, and I don’t know how to reach him!”

  Brendan sat astride a kitchen chair, his long limbs folding underneath him as he adjusted his glasses, tortoiseshell today, that gave him a hot librarian look as he listened intently.

  “All those years he was with different clubs—it’s been nothing but rugby since he was a child,” she tried to explain. “In a way, he’s been institutionalized. He had a whole team behind him: doctors, physios, managers, coaches, agents, publicists, other players—his friends. Now … he just has me.” She shook her head. “I’ve seen this so many times before, but being so close to it—it’s hard.”

  Brendan nodded.

  “I know. I read in the paper about that retired rugby player Scott Moore…”

  Anna shuddered.

  “Oh, that was just terrible! That poor guy!”

  “He got sentenced to 23 months,” Brendan said. “He was driving at 150mph and police chased him for fifty minutes.”

  “He could have killed someone.”

  “Yeah, but when they caught him, they had to taser him like five times or something before they brought him down. He just kept on getting up. They make rugby players tough—even ex-rugby players.”

  Anna grimaced.

  “It’s the kind of story that makes it into all the sports psychology magazines as a case study of how not to handle a career or retirement. Apparently, he was the youngest ever rugby Super League player at sixteen, although he was disciplined many times during his playing years. But prison! What a way to end a career when you’ve played for your country.”

  “At least he didn’t rob a KFC like that other ex-player, Malcolm something,” said Brendan.

  They sat in silence, staring into their coffee cups.

  “Nick’s doing pretty well by comparison,” Brendan said, at last.

  Anna gave a short, disbelieving laugh, and Brendan looked up sharply.

  “Comparing him to two ex-players who are currently in prison? Yeah, definitely better than that!”

  Brendan raised an eyebrow, a sure sign that he was coming back swinging.

  “How long did it
take you to go from being a sports psychologist to an Agony Aunt?”

  Anna bristled.

  “I’m an advice columnist,” she said indignantly.

  “It took you … what, six, seven months?”

  Anna paled.

  “My father had just died. And then all the Press intrusion—I lost my job! I was fired! Publically vilified and humiliated! It was a little different.”

  “I know,” Brendan said calmly, reaching across the table and squeezing her hand. “All I’m saying is that any major adjustment in your life takes time to get used to. It’s only been three months for Nick.”

  “Four.”

  “Okay, four months since his testimonial. That’s not very long in the course of a lifetime.” He levelled her with a look. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, Dr. Scott.”

  Anna squirmed. She loved and hated that Brendan didn’t let her get away with anything. Even though she was his employer, he’d never paid much attention to those sorts of boundaries—it was part of what made him a fantastic assistant and true friend.

  “Am I pushing too hard?” she said quietly, staring down at their joined hands.

  Brendan pulled a face and pushed her coffee cup toward her.

  “Yes, no, maybe. Does Nick think you’re pushing too hard?”

  Anna matched his expression.

  “Probably.”

  Brendan gave her a sympathizing smile.

  “It doesn’t mean that the nudie calendar is a bad idea. I’ve always said that Nick was hotter than lava. I’d definitely buy a sexy calendar of Naughty Nick.”

  Anna groaned. She hated the nickname that the media had come up with, or worse, ‘Nasty Nick’—it bore no resemblance to the quiet, sincere man she knew.

  Brendan’s grin grew wider.

  “Of course, I’d expect mine to be signed, ‘To the incredible and unbelievably gorgeous Brendan Massey, with love.’ You know: something simple, heartfelt.”