The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  An enormous emblem of the OTU Crimson Knight mascot was stamped into the floor of the athletic complex as Shane stepped through the front doors. It was the same traditional logo that had been in place for decades, a galloping knight with helmet visor pulled down, lance at the ready. Beneath the knight was his trusty steed, eyes wide, nostrils snorting steam.

  Whatever this tandem of terror is headed at is in for a world of hurt, make no mistake of that.

  Without a second thought to the impending doom that the duo might bring him, Shane strode across it and through the circular rotunda to the single desk on the far side of the room. A handful of student-athletes shuffled out as he entered, none giving him even a passing glance.

  A young black man with close cropped hair sat behind the desk, a dog-eared paperback in his hands. In front of him was a half-full sign-in log, a computer off to the side. He seemed to sense Shane as he approached, setting the book off to the side and folding his hands atop the desk in front of him.

  “Good afternoon,” the young man said, his voice much deeper than expected.

  “Um, hi,” Shane said, his own coming out a decibel lower as if by a subconscious attempt to keep up. “Shane Laszlo here to see Marty Graham, please.”

  “Okay, please sign in,” the young man said, motioning towards the page in front of him while lifting the receiver on the phone. He spoke into it for a moment, mumbling only a few words, before placing it back in its cradle. “Be down in just a moment.”

  Shane thanked the young man and retreated away from the desk, circling to his left around the room. The entire rotunda was lined with floor-to-ceiling trophy cases, all of them bursting with team memorabilia.

  Each of the cases represented a different sport, at least one for all twenty-seven OTU competed in at the Division-I level. The first in the order was synchronized swimming, the centerpiece a trophy three feet in height. Surrounding it were team photos and newspaper articles, all of them touting national dominance.

  The next in line was golf, followed by softball.

  Fourth in line, located right in the middle of the wall, was football. Formed by several sections with the partitions removed, it was far and away the largest compartment in the room. Even at that, it could have filled three or four more with ease.

  Conference and Centennial Bowl championship trophies served as the focal points of the display, everything else spiraling out away from them. It included an oversized photo of Coach Valentine, his body bent forward as a shower of lemon-lime Gatorade was poured on him after a win. To the sides, stretched out ten feet in either direction, were footballs, photos, articles, and trophies of every kind.

  Front and center in every one of them was Tyler Bentley.

  Shane moved to the far side of the display and stared at a life-sized cutout of Tyler for several seconds. The team was on the road somewhere that still used natural grass, his white jersey streaked with mud and field paint. His eyes were aimed downfield, veins bulging in his arm as it cradled the ball against his body. Beneath him his legs pointed straight ahead, no doubt in search of a distant goal line.

  The picture held Shane’s gaze for several moments before he stepped back and pulled his phone out. He held it at arm’s length in front of him, taking a quick picture of the entire display, followed by a close-up of Tyler.

  The phone wasn’t even back in his bag when a voice behind him said, “Shane Laszlo?”

  Shane whirled to see a woman no more than thirty-five standing before him. She was wearing a pant suit and heels, short black hair spiked on top and combed back on the side. She seemed to sense both his guilt at being caught and his surprise at seeing her standing there.

  “Marty Graham?” Shane asked, walking forward and extending a hand.

  “Short for Martina,” she replied, returning the handshake. She pumped it twice and released her grip, waving a hand towards the case. “They’re something aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, they are. First time I’ve ever been in here.”

  Falling in beside him, Marty began walking, directing without having to tell him where to go. They walked in silence until they were past the front desk before she leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry, I took pictures my first time too.”

  A flash of color rose to Shane’s cheeks as they walked on. “I assure you, that wasn’t what you think it was.”

  “Mhmm,” Marty replied, her voice belying obvious disbelief. She came to a stop outside a glass door with her name on it, the title of External Relations Consultant on the frosted pane, and waved him inside. “After you.”

  With a nod of thanks, Shane stepped in and slid his bag from his shoulder. Marty circled around her desk as he took up the chair opposite her, his eyes doing a quick pass around the room.

  Two things jumped straight out at him. There was not a thing out of place, and there was not a single shred of Ohio Tech merchandise anywhere.

  “So, Mr. Laszlo, what can I do for you?” Marty asked, leaning back and leveling her gaze on him.

  “Please, just Shane.”

  He pulled his gaze away from the room and removed a legal pad from his bag. He slid out the tape recorder and held it up, an inaudible question, to which Marty replied with nod and a wave.

  Once the tape was rolling, he began.

  “So, Ms. Graham-“

  “Please, just Marty,” she interjected, smiling.

  Shane matched the smile. “Okay, Marty, I’m not sure what your assistant told you when she set this meeting up, but I am the counsel of record for Tyler Bentley.”

  The mirth faded from Marty’s face at the mere mention of the name. “That’s why you were taking pictures.”

  “Yes,” Shane said, nodding. “But let me be clear, Ohio Tech is not a named party in this case, nor does my client have any intention of going after the university.”

  The same even stare looked back at him.

  “Also, as his lawyer, it would be very bad form for me to bring up something with you in here that might be construed as a conflict of interest and get the entire case thrown out.”

  Her face softened a bit, though still not back to the original level.

  “I assure you, my reason for asking to speak with you is as a subject matter expert.”

  The ice completely dropped away at that, a curious smile taking its place. “And what subject might that be?”

  Shane pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the door behind him. “I’m told most of your job as External Relations Consultant is dealing with players that go pro. Is that true?”

  A small noise somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff slid out of Marty, followed by a small eye roll. “Yes, I suppose you could say that, in the same way you could say most of a lawyer’s job is writing briefs.”

  “Point taken,” Shane said, smiling in concession. “Please, tell me what you do.”

  “First of all, you must disregard the title on the door. That was just something fancy they came up with as a way to explain my position and salary. If they were interested in accuracy, it would say Martina Graham, Brand Manager.”

  “The brand being...?”

  “Yes,” Marty said, the corner of her mouth playing upward to let him know she was joking. “The university, individual players, specific teams, you name it.”

  “Okay,” Shane said, head down, scribbling notes. “So walk me through it.”

  “Alright, let’s go with, oh, say, Tyler Bentley,” Marty said, extending a hand towards him.

  “Perfect.”

  “First thing every summer all twenty-seven teams send me a list of those players we should be pushing this year. Sometimes it’s an established starter, sometimes a senior that has worked his way up, sometimes, as was the case last summer with Tyler, it’s a player poised to break out in a big way.

  “I have three people that work beneath me. Once I get those lists, I dole them out among my staff and we get to work. Low man on the totem gets fencing, lacrosse. Next g
uy up scores wrestling, track and field. My second in charge receives baseball, softball. The big ones, football, basketball, women’s volleyball, I work on.”

  “And then you build a promotional campaign around them?” Shane asked, still taking down notes.

  “Yes, but not like you think. My role here isn’t to showcase the university, there’s an entire marketing wing for that. All those trophy cases outside, commercials you see on TV, posters, t-shirts? That’s their thing.

  “What we do is manage the sports themselves and our athletes within them. We track how they’re being presented on social media, in the press, in paraphernalia. We determine how they stack up in terms of other players in the nation, formulate draft strategies, design ways to better present our players, both for helping them get to the next level and for recruiting their replacements.”

  Shane’s head shot up, his eyes a bit wider. “Damn, I did come to the right place.”

  Marty raised her eyebrows in agreement, but remained silent.

  “Alright, so walk me through Tyler Bentley.”

  A faint, sad smile grew on Marty’s face as she tilted her head back and rested it against her chair. “Ah, Tyler, easiest case I ever had.”

  “How’s that?”

  Marty shifted her head forward and turned to face Shane, her elbows resting on the table. “The kid damn near managed himself. No Facebook, no Twitter, no MySpace, no social media gaffes of any kind to ever control, no user feedback to monitor. Clean academic and criminal records. Never said a wrong word to the media, never said much of anything to them to be honest. No kids, no crazy girlfriends.

  “On the field, his numbers spoke for themselves. Guy went from a solid contributor as a sophomore to a world beater as a junior. The university didn’t have to run much of a Heisman campaign for him, he was too good to ignore.”

  She stopped there, swiveling back to her previous position, legs crossed, head leaning back. “Shame we’re not going to see what he could have been capable of as a senior.”

  Shane looked up from his notes, his face drawn, and nodded. “You also mentioned that you help with getting athletes to the next level?”

  “That we do. Put them in contact with top trainers, nutritionists, bring in agents and set up meetings for them after the season, everything. None of that applied to Tyler, but it would have this winter for sure.”

  “Hmm,” Shane said. “And what about the draft itself?”

  “We were always monitoring where our players would be taken, how they stacked up compared to others on the Big Board, what they should expect to earn coming out.”

  “All of that?” Shane asked, his eyes wide.

  “Like I said, it is as much to help the current players as to lure in the next batch.”

  “Ahh,” Shane said, a hint of bitter in his tone.

  “Welcome to college athletics,” Marty said, spreading her hands wide. “Everyone, even myself, is expendable.”

  A low whistle slid out from between Shane’s lips, a look of surprise on his face.

  “Don’t give me the shocked routine, it’s not like your firm would keep you on staff if you weren’t producing. It’s business for all of us.”

  Shane opened his mouth to respond, paused, and closed it just as fast. Nothing she’d said was wrong, he’d just never quite framed it that way in his mind. Something told him he should start, for the next few months anyway.

  “Just a couple more questions and I’ll get out of your hair, I promise.”

  Marty gestured for him to continue without responding.

  “How good was Tyler Bentley?”

  Marty met his eye and responded without the smallest hint of a hesitation. “He was the best running back we’ve had come through here in twenty-five years. A surefire first round pick, in my opinion a definite top ten, maybe even top five.”

  The declaration gave Shane pause, his pen poised just above his legal pad. “And what kind of remuneration are we talking for that level of talent?”

  Turning towards her computer, Marty made a few clicks and brought up a spreadsheet. She turned the screen so Shane could see it, using her finger as a pointer.

  “These are the salaries from last year’s draft, the only one you can rely on because of the new collective bargaining agreement and rookie salary cap that just took effect. You can see here, the very last player in the first round took home almost seven million in guaranteed money.”

  Shane smirked and shook his head, trying to fathom the figure.

  “The tenth player selected pocketed just over twelve million,” Marty said, scrolling up a little further. “And last year the top overall running back walked off with a cool twenty-one-point-five and change.”

  The number sent Shane back in his chair, Marty smiling as she spun the monitor back around to face her. She sat with a bemused expression on her face for several seconds, an elbow propped on the desk as she chewed at her pinkie nail.

  “Pretty incredible, huh?”

  “Wow,” Shane said, shaking his head from side to side. He sat in complete silence for several long moments, trying to comprehend the enormity of what Tyler had before him, of what now lay on his shoulders to try and secure. Through the tangle of thoughts, one in particular jumped out to him.

  “Tell me,” he began, the words met with an upraised chin from Marty, “what were top players going for before the new system was put in place?”

  A knowing smile crept across Marty’s face, her eyes leveled on his. “Well, there isn’t a usual amount per say, but two years ago the top player drafted was a quarterback. He signed for just shy of eighty million dollars.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Shane came within an eyelash of bringing Heath and Abby with him, but in the end decided against it. Despite whatever perceived leverage he might lose from being outmanned on his side of the table, he couldn’t take the risk of having either one show up underdressed or even worse revealing themselves as first year law students. As invaluable as their research and input had been thus far, they were nowhere near ready to go into a room with Connor Reed and whatever contingent he brought along.

  Even after a year working with the Rex Hartman’s of the world, Shane wasn’t sure he was either.

  The thought of asking Professor Prescott to join him also entered his mind, but he decided against it as well, choosing to walk in alone. If this didn’t go well and a trial loomed right around the corner, he wanted to save as many surprises as he could for the courtroom. That included the jolting appearance of Tyler on one leg, of Margie’s raw emotion, and a front row loaded with co-counsel.

  At seven minutes before ten, Shane entered the lobby of the Omni Waterfront Hotel, just five blocks off campus and three from the federal courthouse. It was far and away the nicest hotel in the city, the kind of place visiting professional sports teams and foreign dignitaries stayed at while in town. There was no doubt this is where Reed and his crew were staying right now, and would be for as long as the matter took to resolve.

  Shane walked right through the front desk and across the main foyer, past an open air fountain and a row of boutique shops selling coffees, clothing, and organic soaps. He followed the signs to the executive conference room, arriving there four minutes before the agreed-to time.

  To his surprise, there were two men in the room, both already seated at the table, no conversation between them. They both rose as he entered, the man on the right motioning towards the door.

  “You can go ahead and close that behind you, nobody else will be joining us.” He was an older man, somewhere between fifty-five and sixty-five, with thick hair combed back and an impeccable pinstriped suit draped across narrow shoulders. He extended his hand as Shane approached. “Connor Reed.”

  “Shane Laszlo.” He gripped Reed’s hand for a moment before shifting to the other man, a fleshy Hispanic with dark hair buzzed short, a close-cut beard and wire-rimmed glasses.

  “William Ramirez.”

  “Good to meet you both
,” Shane said, sliding his briefcase to the opposite side of the table and taking a seat. Neither of the men could be construed as warm or friendly, though they didn’t seem hostile either. The fact that just the two of them had come was a good sign.

  Shane thought for a moment about unpacking his bag, but noticed the blank table before each of the men and opted against it. “Gentlemen, you asked for this meeting, so why don’t I let you take the lead?”

  Without even a glance between them, Reed began. “Well Mr. Laszlo, it goes without saying we’re here because of the complaint you filed earlier this week.”

  “Mhmm,” Shane said, leaning forward so his forearms rested on the table, his fingers laced before him. “Is your concern with something found in the complaint, or with the fact that it was filed at all?”

  Reed studied Shane for several moments with a wary gaze, as if trying to size him up. Shane met the gaze, staring back without giving an inch, forcing himself to not so much as even blink. The air seemed to withdraw from the room as the two peered at one another, neither giving the other the satisfaction of looking away first.

  Age and experience on one side of the table, trying to assert his will on a situation. Youth and conviction on the other side, refusing to be pushed around.

  Ramirez might as well have not even been in the room.

  After several long moments, Reed lowered a hand to his side, his eyes never wavering. He lifted up a document almost a quarter inch thick and set it on the table beside him, placing his hand atop it.

  “You know why we’re here, so we might as well just get down to it. This is our formal response to your complaint. At the conclusion of this meeting, one of two things will happen. Either you will accept our settlement offer and your client will become a wealthy man, you take what should amount to a very nice salary for the year, and we all part as friends.”

  Reed paused there for several moments, as if willing that option onto Shane, trying to force him to realize it was the only acceptable choice.