“He wants to go to college.” I hear the frustration in my own voice, and I don’t entirely hide it because there’s something about Bruce Granger that makes performance feel like the wrong move.
It’s been four months since I saw Tully, and I’m dying even more to represent him.
“I’ve reached out twice. He’s polite. He’s interested, but he’s going to college.”
“University of Minnesota,” Bruce says.
I pause. “How do you?—”
“I told you,” he says. “You’re not that hard to find. And neither is he.” A brief silence. “So you’re waiting.”
“I’m waiting,” I confirm. “Which is—look, I believe in this kid. I’ve believed in him since the moment I saw him play. But waiting doesn’t pay my rent, and I’ve got three other clients who are—” I stop myself. I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I need to stop filling the silence. “It’s going to take time,” I finish.
“I see,” Bruce says. He clears his throat. “Since this is the long game with Whitman, how about I give you an incentive in the meantime?”
I’m quiet for a moment. “I’m listening.”
“I have business interests,” he says. “Various ones. One of those interests involves knowing which young athletes are investment-worthy before they become public knowledge. Before the contracts get signed and the endorsement deals get structured and the value goes up.” A pause. “Early intelligence, I guess you could say. That’s what I’m always looking for. The right information at the right time is worth considerably more than the same information a year later.”
“You want inside information on prospects,” I say.
“I want a relationship with someone who has good eyes and good judgment,” Bruce says. “Someone who can tell me, in real time, how a particular player is developing. Whether the trajectory holds. Whether there are complications that might affect the investment picture.”
“Complications,” I repeat.
“Injuries. Personal issues. Things that affect performance, which further affect value.” His voice is smooth and even and completely matter-of-fact, like we’re discussing commodity futures rather than the private lives of college athletes. “Whitman specifically, for now. He’s the one I’m most interested in at this stage.”
“Why him specifically?” I ask.
“Probably for the same reason you are, at least in part. He’s the most promising prospect in his class,” Bruce says. “Which makes him the most interesting investment opportunity.” He pauses. “And I find the Whitman family interesting. I like to keep track of what they produce next.”
Now I just have more questions. But I’m low on rent, and it feels like Bruce Granger just dropped into my lap.
“What kind of incentive?” I say instead.
“Keep tabs on him. Report back. Development updates, anything that affects his investment picture. Convince him that he can’t do this without you. Extra money coming in from me will give you the freedom to search out those amazing opportunities for him. That’s all,” he says. “For now.”
I don’t have to think long.
“I can do that,” I say.
“Good,” Bruce says. “I’ll make the first deposit this week. Is cash okay?”
“Uh, sure.”
“Great. Meet me at Nina’s in St. Paul on Friday morning at ten. I’ll give it to you then.”
“Okay.”
“Good,” he says again. “Keep watching the Whitman kid. And Daniel, don’t reach out to him again yet. Let him settle into school next fall. Let him think you’ve moved on.” Apause. “The ones who think they don’t need you are always more grateful when they finally decide they do.”
I write that down. “Got it.”
“Talk soon,” Bruce says, and hangs up.
Three years later
I’m at a University of Minnesota game on a Tuesday night in February because that’s what I do—I show up. I’ve been showing up for two years consistently, being someone Tully Whitman trusts.
