I knew Mr. Smith would be keeping a close eye on me, but I didn’t realize just how close. It also weighs heavy in favor of the client being from a rival school. Mr. Smith doesn’t want the conversations just between the players and Mitch, but their conversations with all the coaches. But the coaches aren’t the only ones showing up to talk to these guys.
It’s quickly obvious who the most valued player is: Tyron Nichols. Tyron lives in one of the poorest Black communities in the same town as the university. His house consists of three small bedrooms and one tiny bathroom, but is home to Tyron, his parents, a grandmother, and five younger siblings. His parents work long hours while the grandmother tends to the kids who aren’t in school yet. It’s clear his parents have no idea what to do with all the attention Tyron is getting.
But Tyron is smart. Even though he’s been offered money, he hasn’t taken any of it. Because when it comes down to it, Tyron is the one with the most at stake. If he loses his eligibility, he doesn’t play. There’s a close to zero chance he’ll go to the NFL, where he’d finally get paid what he’s worth, if he doesn’t have a successful college football career first.
I watch on my small screen when men in starched button-down shirts show up at Tyron’s door. I notice how he handles himself with them and then later listen in on the conversations he has with his brother, who is only one year younger, about what’s being offered.
By the second week, I’m exhausted. Even though Devon and I are dividing and conquering, it takes us all day to skim through footage from all five locations and separate the relevant parts before George knocks on my door in his UPS uniform.
The only good thing is that George seems to be warming up to me. The first pickup or two, it was all business, but now he lingers in my doorway and chats a bit. I even gave him a few slices of pizza last night for the road since he looked as worn out as we did. Makes me wonder how much area he’s covering in a day if he’s got to be back here every night.
While we’ve gotten some dirt on some of the other coaches, Mitch Cameron hasn’t stepped out of bounds once in any of his meetings with potential players. He’s up front about his desire for them to be a part of his team, he’s courteous to the family, complimentary about whatever food or drink is put in front of him. He is the perfect guest.
I’m having flashbacks to my time with Andrew Marshall, and there’s a tight twist in my gut about what I might be asked to do.
I’m ready to know what the job is.
After another long day of scrolling through videos, I drop the thumb drive in an envelope and glance at the clock. George should be here any second.
Once Devon saw the last set of instructions, he wouldn’t come to this apartment at all since he doesn’t like the idea of George being so close by, so I’ve had to add in a trip to get what he’s recorded. Those meeting spots change daily.
Two quick taps on the door lets me know he’s here.
“Hey, George,” I say, handing him the small package.
His forehead crinkles. “You’re not looking so good.”
“Always the charmer.” I roll my eyes. “You watch surveillance videos all day long and let me see what you look like.”
He hands me a manila envelope. “Got something for you tonight. Thought I’d save you a trip to the mailbox since I have to come by here anyway. Just don’t rat me out.”
My relief is evident. “Finally. And don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” I’m ready to tear into it but I notice George is lingering in the hall. “Is there something else?”
He nods once, then says in a near whisper, “Since this is your first job where you’re dealing directly with him, if it feels like a test, it is.”
I stare at him with wide eyes, silently begging for him to tell me more. But with those cryptic words, he’s gone.
I can’t rip open the envelope fast enough.
Cameron needs to be removed from his position without negative outcome financially or publicly to him, the university, or the program or any future prospects. No scandal.
I had a lot of theories of what I’d be asked to do but this didn’t make the top ten. And while the desired outcome and parameters are very clear, these instructions still feel very vague.
If it feels like a test, it is.
Well, here we go.
* * *
It took a few days for me to walk through my options and weigh the potential for success against the risks of breaking one of the rules Mr. Smith laid down.
I can’t load some underage porn on Mitch’s computer and blackmail him into quitting because, for one, there’s no guarantee that won’t turn into some scandal, and two, if he quits, he forfeits the rest of what’s left in his contract—six million dollars—and that would hurt him financially.
Blackmail on his wife leads to the same results and blackmail on any member of the college opens them up to scandal and also hurts them financially, since they’d have to buy out his contract.
I feel like I’m boxed in.
I feel like I’m going to fail his test.
The only thing to do is start back at the beginning. He wouldn’t set me up to completely fail, so I’m missing something. He wants me to prove myself, so there is a way to get this job done—I just need to find it.
* * *
The Ford dealership is shiny and new; the main room is a big open space with lots of glass and chrome. Salesmen circle the front doors like sharks, but I push my way through without breaking my stride or making eye contact with a single one of them.
There’s a young blonde at the welcome desk who eyes me up and down quickly, then pastes a gigantic smile on her face.
“Welcome to Southern Ford! How can I help you?”
“I need to speak with Phil Robinson.”
“I’m not sure he’s available . . .”
“Give him this.” I drop a white envelope on the counter in front of her. Phil owns five Ford dealerships that are scattered throughout central Florida, but he keeps his main office in this location.
It only takes a moment for the receptionist to return and lead me to him. Phil meets us at the door. His eyes track me from the tips of my shoes to the top of my head. I’m feeding him the details I want him to have, to remember. My clothes are nice but not too nice. My jacket looks like it was fitted especially for me but it’s obvious my skirt is off the rack. My jewelry is minimal but tasteful. My hair is pulled back and the makeup heavier than what I normally wear. I’m thirty, easily.
My hand is out as I approach him, and he hesitates a second or two before caving.
“Mr. Robinson, thank you for seeing me,” I say as we shake hands.
He motions me inside his office and I do a quick survey of the room. He’s a super fan and one of the college’s biggest boosters. There are framed jerseys and game balls. Pictures with players and coaches, including Mitch Cameron. Phil sinks into his chair behind his desk while gesturing me to take the one across from him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asks. He’s opened the envelope and pulled out the picture of stacks of cash sitting on the tailgate of a Ford truck with a sticker of his dealership’s logo on the back window. There is no room for small talk.
“I’m here about Roger McBain.”
Phil’s face shows confusion, but there’s red creeping up under his starched white collar. “I don’t know anyone named Roger McBain.”
My forehead crinkles as if I’m really taking him for his word and am somewhat confused, then I pull out more pictures. Pictures that show Phil and Roger together. “Huh, you two look pretty chummy here.” Then I put my iPad on the desk so it faces him. I press play on the video that is waiting on the screen. It’s a recording of a dinner with Phil, Roger, and a handful of other megadonors. Their discussion comes to life where they detail which high school prospects they want Roger to approach and how much money they will offer to each one. Phil even offers to throw in a couple of cars if necessary. “Anything to keep them from going to Florida State,” he says. There is also some bragging about how successful they were last year in scoring some of the best recruits. I end the video right after Phil says, “Giving away that F-250 was worth those twelve touchdowns.”