“I bet you will,” Nina muttered. Her three brothers laughed uproariously.
“He has some brothers, doesn’t he?” Eliana asked, ignoring the uproar. “Since the G.Scott Carter distillery is a family run business, and his sister has worked here for a number of years, maybe we can build on that with Mr. Hartson. I’d love to see a commercial of him sharing a bottle of whiskey with his brothers and sister. Even have Becca explaining the blend to him, that might appeal to another demographic the same way Sarah Rosewood would. What do you think?” She looked straight at Mia.
“I think that would be a fantastic idea, if we could persuade them.”
“I could talk to Becca?” Nathan suggested.
Eliana nodded. “Let me speak with Mr. Hartson first. Then maybe Mia can join us and we can talk about the family angle, see if he’d consider it. If that works, then we’ll speak with Becca.”
She looked back at Mia, her eyes warm. “Carry on,” she suggested with a rare smile. “You’re doing an excellent job. I’m excited to see where we can go with this.”
The presentation went well. I still have a job! I’ll be able to pay you back your $10,000 without having to sell my body. M xx
Cam’s lips twitched as he read her message. He and Derek were sitting on leather easy chairs in the front office of Marty’s suite of rooms, waiting to be called inside. It felt like he was back at school, waiting at the principal’s office to be told off for stuffing the boys’ toilets with paper.
Yeah, he and Logan had done that just to get out of taking a math test. God, they were horrible kids.
Speaking of the 10k, have you gotten an invoice from the dealership yet? M xx
Glancing up, he could see Derek deep in concentration as he scrolled on his phone, perusing Twitter like his life depended on it.
Not yet. I had to send it back to be retotaled. Shouldn’t be too long. C xx
He hated lying to her. At some point he was going to have to speak with Michael and come up with a plan. Mia wouldn’t be held off for much longer.
The intercom buzzed, and the secretary lifted her head up. “Mart
y says you can go in now.”
Derek stood, stretching his arms, and nodded at Cam to go first. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” If you didn’t count the knot in his stomach that was making him want to throw up breakfast. “Let’s do this.”
Marty Landsman’s office was huge, the floor covered in expensive dark blue carpet, and the right wall lined with bespoke teak shelves, holding books and trophies, along with some signed footballs, and the Dresden porcelain that Marty collected.
The seventy-five year old owner of the Bobcats was a self-made man, born poverty-stricken in Springfield, Massachussets. His story was well known in football circles. At the age of fifteen he moved to Boston, working twelve hour days as a laborer in a waterfront warehouse, and by night he’d bus tables and studied for a long-distance college degree. By his late twenties, he’d made a fortune by gambling on the stockmarket and bought out the owners of the warehouse he worked in. By fifty, they were measuring his wealth in billions of dollars.
At heart, though, he was still that kid from Springfield, who preferred wearing sweatpants to tailored suits, and talking football rather than profit margins.
He was sitting behind his oversized desk, his bald head reflecting the light that shone in through the large windows behind him. To his left were his signature Air Force One sneakers, which he must have kicked off at some point. He suffered from gout – a horrible affliction that made him limp on occasion – so he always preferred to be stockinged and shoe free.
“Get your ass over here,” Marty said gruffly, holding his arms open. His hug was surprisingly strong, though his arms barely wrapped around Cam’s wide torso. “How’re you doing, boy? Your head okay?”
“The headaches have lessened.” Cam hugged him back.
Marty nodded, his face turning serious. “That’s good.” There was a knock on the door, and he shouted, “Come in.” The door opened, revealing Coach Mayberry, wearing sweats and a t-shirt, plus his customary Bobcats cap.
“Sit down, all of you. Pull up some chairs,” Marty rasped, pointing at the desk in front of him. “We got some things to talk about.”
Coach Mayberry nodded at Cam. “You okay, son?”
“Pretty much the same. No change.”
He didn’t like the sympathetic smile his coach sent him. Or the silence in the room as he waited for somebody to break it.
“Okay then.” Marty slapped his palm on the table. “Let’s stop beating around the bush. Your head hasn’t gotten any better and it’s not going to anytime soon, is that right?”
There was a tightness in Cam’s chest that he hadn’t expected. “Yeah, that’s right.” They were all staring at him expectantly, like he had all the answers. Maybe he did, but he didn’t know what they were.