He gave her a quick glance then turned back to the elevator doors as if he was going to miss them opening when the elevator came. “Why?”
“Because I don’t like being dependent on you for a ride, and using Uber everywhere is going to bankrupt me. Just a beater get-around car, nothing fancy. I could probably sell it for nearly what I pay for it when I’m done.”
“You can just use one of mine,” he said absently as he rubbed his chin. How often did he shave that close? She wondered if this was unusual for him, because he couldn’t seem to stop rubbing around his mouth.
“The Mustang?” she asked hopefully as the doors opened.
“You’re insane if you think I’m letting you drive that,” was his firm answer, and he used his hand at the small of her back to guide her into the elevator.
Michael sat with his business partner and lawyer in the conference room of the law office, going over plans once more for the camp he was working on, ready to rip his hair out.
“The problem is, if we open the camp to anyone who can pay, outside of these scholarship opportunities, then we are inviting scrutiny. Those paying campers—or more specifically, their parents—might be wondering why some kids don’t have to pay for the privilege of being at your camp, when they do.”
Michael turned to his lawyer, Martin Bennett, and sighed. “Fine, then we revert back to the camp being only for underprivileged kids.”
“And it’s not self-sustaining.” Business partner, serial-entrepreneur and business shark, Teddy Chaplin, shook his head and tapped his pen on the conference table. “You’ve gotta have money coming in to sustain the scholarship kids.”
“You don’t think I can afford to keep the camp running,” Michael said dryly. “Seriously.”
“The point is, should you have to afford it?” Ted shot back. “There are thousands of kids who would kill to be at this sort of camp. It’s stupid to say no to their money just so a few more kids who can’t pay can come. You’ll have a better quality of camp with fresh money coming in each year.”
“Why does the money have to come from kids?”
All three of the men turned to look at Kat, who had been sitting quietly at the end of the table. She’d been so silent, so unobtrusive—for once—Michael was ashamed to admit he’d forgotten she’d been in the room altogether.
“Excuse me?” Ted asked coldly. Michael shot him a warning glare, which Ted ignored.
“Well,” Kat said slowly, then stopped. “Mind if I move down there, or will I cramp your Boys Club style?”
Michael smothered a laugh in the palm of his hand, coughing to cover the lingering sounds. “Yeah, come on down. You didn’t have to sit all the way over there to start with.”
“Didn’t want to intrude,” she said shortly, taking a seat beside his attorney.
Why wouldn’t she sit next to me?
And that’s what a third grader with a crush thinks in the lunch room. Grow up, Lambert.
“It seems to me,” Kat said again, looking a little uncertain, “that an athlete with Michael’s clout would have some sway with businesses. Wouldn’t he? Kids get T-shirts and stuff at camp. Other gear. Why wouldn’t a business make a donation each year to keep the camp running in exchange for the free promo space?”
“We already nixed that idea,” Michael said gently, cutting Ted off at the knees before he made an ass out of himself. The man was brilliant, but ruthless everywhere. Not just the boardroom. “We don’t want to commercialize the camp. Some stuff is probably unavoidable—banners in the facility we rent out, that sort of thing—but we want to avoid going the way of corporate sponsorship as much as possible. Kids from these sort of backgrounds already feel the weight of charity pressing in on them. We don’t want more than necessary to add to that.”
“Oh.” She bit her bottom lip, blushing a little. If he were a betting man, he’d guess she’d psyched herself up to make the suggestion in the first place. He hated shutting it down.
“You see? There’s no other option.” Ted sat back, smug in his rightness.
“Sponsorships,” Kat said.
“You just heard him say—”
“Player sponsorships,” Kat interrupted Ted’s statement. “Bobcats who basically take on a few players and then come to the camp as a coach. One kid equals two fifty, you want to sponsor four, so you write a check for a thousand. But the catch is, you have to then show up and meet the kids you sponsored. And there’s no giveback. No pat on the back, no place where your name appears as a ‘donor’ in the program or on a banner. You’re a coach, period.”
Michael leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled in front of him. He didn’t want to give her false hope, but he liked where this was headed. “Keep going.”
“But she—” Ted started.
“Shut up, Teddy,” Michael said mildly.