“And…?”
“And I think I can convince Nike to do an incentive deal, with a lower base amount and large bonuses tied to your Q-Rating.”
I look at Mason, then back at Claire. “I’m listening.”
“We use their current offer of a hundred million over ten years as the base, and you’re guaranteed to get at least that much. However, if you hit a rating of twenty, the amount increases by fifty million dollars, and after that every ten points your rating goes up will raise your deal by another fifty million dollars. Get your rating to thirty and you get two hundred million. If you should hit forty, the contract would be worth two hundred fifty million, making it one of the biggest athlete endorsement deals ever signed.”
She pauses to let it all sink in, then continues.
“It would take a lot of work on all of our parts—especially yours—to get your rating as high as twenty or thirty, but it’s definitely doable. Forty would be a longshot. Right now, only five celebs have a forty-plus Q: Tom Hanks, Morgan Freeman, Denzel Washington, Steven Spielberg and Betty White. And obviously, none of them are athletes.”
“Why would Nike agree to a contract like that?”
“Because when it comes to marketing, Q-Rating is everything. If you reach thirty, it means you’re almost as marketable as LeBron, Steph Curry, James Harden. Nike will be guaranteed to move product because of you. They’ll want your rating to go up as badly as you will.”
I nod and give it careful thought. Under that deal, I’m guaranteed a hundred million, so I’ll be set for life. But kicking my Q Score up to thirty would get me twice that, which is a massive amount of money. And it goes without saying that any other endorsement deals we sign after that would be elevated as well.
“I’m willing to do this, provided you two design a plan to help me get my score higher.”
Mason smiles. “I’ve already got a sports image rehabilitation expert and his team lined up to work on it.”
“Rehabilitation? Of my image?”
“Absolutely. Look, you have many adoring fans. But there are even more people who think you’re a complete dick, because you keep giving them reasons to see you in that light. We need to change that. Andy and his people at Restaro will help you in that regard. They’re geniuses in the field.”
My sour expression conveys my opinion.
Mason gives me a serious, somber look. “I’m going to say this as your friend: It’s time to wake up, buddy. You’re not doing yourself any favors with the way you interact with your teammates, the media, fans. You’re prickly when you need to be lovable. I’m telling you, you must do this, Marcus. It’s better for you in the long run. Hell, it’s also better for everyone who has to work with you.”
I’m still listening, but remain unconvinced. I look at Claire.
“Do you agree with Mason’s assessment?” I ask.
“I do, absolutely.”
“You’re already a star, my friend,” Mason says, “but simply being a star isn’t good enough for someone who has the potential to be a once-in-a-generation icon. With your talent and looks, you should be as popular as Jordan. You should be utterly transcendent.” He lets that last sentence hang in the air before concluding his pitch. “Help us get you there by agreeing to an incentivized contract, then focusing on making yourself as marketable as possible. The first step is meeting with Restaro.”
He makes sense. There are some things I can work to improve. But nobody changes my game.
“I’ll meet with them. But I’m not making any drastic changes until Claire gets an incentivized contract done with Nike.”
“Understood,” Claire says. “I’ll start discussions with Gainey this week.”
I look at her, appraising the plan.
“Are you in?” she asks.
I can’t think of a reason not to do this. If I play my cards right, this could end up being one of the biggest sports endorsement deals ever signed.
“I’m in.”
As I say those words, I’m already wondering if I have what it takes to truly change my image.
10
Rashida
I’ve always had trouble understanding men. And that includes the six-year-old man-to-be in front of me.
“I don’t like it anymore.”
That’s Jayden’s reason for wanting to quit his soccer team, a desire he just now shared on our way home from his game—a game his team won, and in which he played reasonably well. At least as far as I could determine, anyway. After all, it’s just a bunch of kindergarteners running around.
“But you’ve always loved soccer. Did something happen today?”
He insists several more times that he just doesn’t like playing any more. Then at dinner, out of the blue he comes out with the real reason.
“All the other dads come to the games.”
I look at my child and he seems sad in a resigned way. Just after the divorce, David came by once a month or so to see his son, and when Jayden was old enough they would occasionally go to the movies together, but over the years those times have become less and less frequent. At this point, he hasn’t been around in six months and rarely calls.
“I go to the games, baby. Your mama’s always there to cheer you on.”
“It’s not the same.”
I lean over and kiss Jayden on the crown of his head. There’s nothing much I can do, since his father’s an asshole. Just the same, I make a mental note to call David and tell him to get his sorry ass to a game.
Sitting in my office the next day, I’m still stewing in my hatred of David. I left a message for him last night and haven’t heard back yet. My fuming is interrupted when Yvette struts in.
“Did you see the email?”
“What email?”
I don’t know what she’s talking about.
“The one about the 4gotten Kids Foundation gala.”
The foundation in question provides outings for underprivileged children whose parents don’t have the means or time for such things. Trips to baseball games, amusement parks, the beach—stuff like that. They’re having a fundraising black-tie gala at the hotel this Saturday night.
“What about it?”
“Did you see the list of invited celebrities?”
I shake my head.
“You’d better take a look.”
Something on my friend’s face makes me locate that email and open the attachment. I scroll through the list of names and see some heavy hitters. Local politicians including the mayor, actor Drake Manning, singer Rick Tully from the rock group Ravencall among the several dozen names listed. Then I see it.
Lakers star Marcus Jennings
My stomach tenses. Yvette smiles.
“He’s going to be here. Saturday night,” she says.
“So?”
“So, you can get to know him better.”
“And why would I want that?”
She gives me that you-know-why face. Sure, I’ll be attending the event. As hotel manager, I have no choice. Yvette will be there as well, since she’s our events planner.
“Not interested.”
“Good. Then you can introduce me to him.”
Why I feel a sudden pain in my chest is beyond me.
“If I get a chance, I will.”
She grins widely and dances out of my office. I look again at the list of celebs. Yeah, that’s his name, all right. He’ll be here, as will about three-hundred others, so with any luck our paths won’t cross.
These heels are killing me. I’m not accustomed to wearing shoes like these, especially not while I’m working. But word came down yesterday from the Sunset Grand’s parent company saying that Yvette and I should both dress up and stay on the floor at the charity event to make sure everything was perfect. As hotel manager, I already planned to be here, but the request from corporate made it official and requested something more than my standard work attire.
I was incredible lucky to find an outfit on such short notice, a light gold sleeveless
dress with a high scoop neck and a tulle bodice that has lovely beaded detail. A gold satin ribbon accentuates my small waist, and a soft net floor-length skirt helps to hide my wider-than-I'd-like hips and my too-big butt. The gown is lovely and maybe a little sexy, with a V-back that plunges halfway down. I got an emergency appointment with my hairstylist, and am sporting side-parted medium curls. I must say, for a last-minute attempt, I pulled off a classy, elegant look.
Yvette, on the other hand, appears to have opted for full-on sexy. She’s in a red and black strapless two-tone silhouette cocktail dress, with the center focal point in red lace. The only reason it doesn't have a plunging neckline is because the top halves of her big breasts are already exposed, and her long wavy blonde hair cascades down over them. She’s wearing fire-engine red ankle strap heels to complete the look. It’s not exactly slutty, but it’s not something I could imagine wearing to my place of business.
“Has Weatherford seen that dress yet?” I ask. I wouldn’t have risked wearing something that sexy with the owner in attendance.
“Yes, he has. His exact words were, ‘Well aren’t you eye-catching tonight?’”
That could be a compliment, or throwing shade at her for overdoing it. Yvette decided to take it as the former, and knowing Weatherford, her assumption is likely correct.
“Have you seen him?” she asks.
“Who?”
She glares impatiently.
“Marcus Jennings.”
Of course.
“I don’t think he’s here yet. He might not show up at all—you know how flaky celebrities can be. Anyway, great job tonight. Everything looks perfect.”
Yvette smiles. “Thanks. This was fun to plan.” Something across the room catches her attention. “Shit. Where are my other hors d’oeuvres servers?”
She scurries away to address the problem. I have no real function here, apart from being around in case something isn’t going well, but since Yvette is a wonderful event planner I don’t expect any issues. That should make for a relaxing evening for me, despite the heels.
I wander around the hotel’s big ballroom, keeping an eye on things.
“Good evening, Rashida. You look lovely tonight.”
I turn to see a smiling Darren Weatherford, looking smart in his classic black tuxedo. In addition to the Sunset Grand and the Lakers, he owns dozens of other high-profile businesses. We make small talk about the event for a few minutes, then as I’m in mid-sentence, Weatherford grins and gestures to someone behind me to approach.
My breath hitches in my throat when Marcus Jennings steps forward and gives Weatherford a bro-hug.
Jennings is wearing a simple black tux, but has adorned it with a purple satin cummerbund and a gold satin bow tie. Lakers colors, of course. It’s playful, and not only does he pull it off, he looks absurdly handsome. He’s at least half a foot taller than most of the guys here and his body fills out that tux perfectly.
“Marcus, I’d like you to meet the Sunset Grand’s manager,” Weatherford says as Marcus grins. “This is Rashida Blanchard. Rashida, you probably recognize Marcus Jennings.”
I nod. “Of course.” At least he’s wearing clothes this time.
Jennings offers a handshake. His huge hand engulfs my small one. His handshake is warm and his smile playful, but I pull away quickly.
“We’ve already met, at another function here at the hotel,” Jennings says in his deep, resonant voice. “Nice to see you again, Rashida.”
Another function? I almost threw your sorry ass out that night.
“Marcus is going to bring an NBA title to Los Angeles,” Weatherford says, adding, “Aren’t you Marcus?”
“That’s the plan, sir. We’re working on it.”
“Too late for this year, but maybe next. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I must mingle a bit.”
Weatherford drifts off into the crowd, leaving me alone with Jennings, and I’m nervous despite myself. I had forgotten how handsome this man is, and how freakishly tall.
“You did get the flowers I sent, right?”
There’s a mischievous look in his eyes.
“Yes, I did. They were amazing. Apology accepted.”
Jennings looks into my eyes. Stares into them, to be precise. It’s only for a second or two, but it’s a little uncomfortable.
“Listen, Rashida,” he says. “I was thinking, maybe we— “
“There you are!”
It’s Yvette, just in time to save me. She pretends not to notice Jennings at first, which is silly because it’s impossible to overlook someone that size. Continuing the ruse, she turns to him and saying, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
I play along.
“Yvette, this is Marcus Jennings. Marcus, my friend and co-worker Yvette. She’s the Sunset Grand’s event planner.”
As they shake hands, Yvette says, “Of course, you’re the Marcus Jennings. I watch your games all the time.”
No, you don’t, I think. You just gawk at that naked picture of him and wonder what’s hiding behind the basketball.
Then I remember what I saw in the suite that night and my face flushes. More than that, even; my entire body feels flushed. I need to get away from this man.
“Excuse me, you two. I need to tend to things,” I say.
Jennings looks surprised, but Yvette smiles and gives me a subtle wink as I walk away from the pair. She’s so incredibly sexy in that dress, showing off her long legs and leaving no doubt as to the size of those breasts. As I leave them, I’m confident she’ll succeed in her quest to get Jennings into bed, and that thought irritates me for some reason. Then I’m upset with myself at being irritated by anything having to do with Jennings. Still, I can’t help but glance at the two of them from a distance as they chat.
For the next hour, I make a point of not being on the same side of the room as Jennings. It’s easily accomplished, since I can easily spot him over the heads of the other guests. Of course, that means I spend that hour occasionally looking at him and his dark, shaved head and handsome features.
I’m caught off guard, then, when he steps up to me out of nowhere and says, “Rashida, come with me. I want you to meet someone.”
I hesitate. Do I really want to follow this man anywhere?
The smile I get in return is disarming. “Trust me, you don’t want to miss this.” I wordlessly stand my ground, resisting those dark, provocative eyes, the high cheekbones, the full lips.
When he takes my arm, I give in and follow. We approach a circle of people and Jennings says, “Hey everyone, meet my new friend, Rashida.”
When the small circle parts, I’m floored to see Drake Manning. There are two other men, one of them incredibly handsome and the other incredibly huge, and two women, both beautiful in their gowns. But like I said, one of them is Drake Manning. Jennings introduces me to everyone, but the movie star has a charisma that renders everyone else nearly invisible.
“Rashida is the manager of the Grand, so let her know if you ever need anything.”
I stay with the group for just a few minutes, and by the time I excuse myself those four men have gotten me more sexually aroused than I should ever be at my workplace.
Not two minutes later, a grinning Jennings finds me again.
“I told you you wouldn’t want to miss it.”
He was right. More importantly, Jennings has been an absolute gentleman tonight, helping to erase the memory of his crude come-on that night in the suite.
At least momentarily.
“Hey, are you up for dinner sometime?”
“With you?” I don’t know why I asked, but it slipped out.
Jennings laughs. “Yeah, with me.”
“You and me, going to dinner? Like on a date?”
He grins, then proceeds to fuck everything up.
“Sure. Dinner and whatever happens afterward.”
Damn. It was almost fun while it lasted.
“Uh, I don’t think so, Marcus.”
“What? Why wouldn’t you want to have dinner with me?”
What can I tell him? That I’d love to have dinner with him if he weren’t such an asshole?
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea, that’s all. Thank you for the invite, though.”
Now he’s giving me a look that seems very calculated, very practiced. I get the impression he’s used this look on women before, likely with more success than he’s going to have with me.
“You know you want to.”
He’s not entirely wrong.
“Sorry, but I just can’t.”
Then he shows his true colors.
“Look, Rashida, you’ve already seen me naked. You know what I’ve got, and you know you want some of that.”
What the holy fuck?
I start to just walk away without a word, but decide I can’t do that. I can’t let it pass this time. I look around and see a nearby service door, then grab Jennings by the sleeve and pull him through it.
Once the door shuts and we’re alone in an empty hallway, I look up with all the intimidation my five-six frame can muster.
“Yes, Marcus, I saw you naked, but it’s not like I had a choice in the matter. And let me tell you something: You may be big, but I’ve had bigger, and the problem with big men is they’re always arrogant. In fact, the best lover I’ve ever had was half the size of you.”
I have no idea why I ventured all that, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“I’m not interested at all in what’s between a man’s legs; I only care if he’s a good person. A big heart and a big brain are what I like in a man.”
I finish my tirade and the hallway is silent except for the sounds of my ragged breathing. I didn’t mean to take it that far.
He starts to respond, but before he can defend his actions I walk away.
Stopping at the door, I turn back.
“You’re such a handsome man, Marcus. But Jesus…” I don’t even know where I’m going with this now, so I decide it’s time to stop. Then I feel compelled to finish with a piece of advice.
Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 3: Marcus Page 7
