Page 48 of The Session
“This is Alan Knotting. He does looks for most of the A-list male actors,” Tru explained.
Mark looked baffled as the assistants raised his arms like he was a marionette.
“Lucky for you, I was visiting Miami Beach,” Alan said. “Don’t worry—nothing too upmarket for you right now. Lots of denim and truck-stop T-shirts—but I insist on a blazer that at least tells people you’re not trying too hard to look like you’re not trying too hard.”
The stylist turned to Tru. “How much time do we have?”
“The first spot is in three hours. What can you do?” she asked.
“We have inventory in the basement. I can send Daniel out to pick some items from the designers, but I’ll need more time for a proper look,” Alan told her.
“Spot?” Mark asked.
“We’ve got a satellite interview lined up with NewsX,” Tru explained.
Alan made a tsk sound, but Tru ignored him. “They’ll give us the widest reach right now. We’ll do a couple other interviews in the next few days . . . assuming you’re okay with it.”
“This is a lot,” Mark said.
“You’re overwhelming the poor boy,” Alan remarked.
“He walked through a hail of bullets. I think he can handle this,” Tru shot back. “Mark, we’ll give you the bullet points—general questions—in advance. The interview will be prerecorded. If you’re terrible, we won’t let it air. Trust me.”
Mark felt overwhelmed, but he waited until the fitting was over before speaking up. “Is there a restroom I can use?”
“Sure,” said Tru. “There’s an executive washroom just down the hall. I can take you.”
“Um, there’s not going to be anybody in there popping out of a stall asking to help me, right?”
Alan laughed. “Better go warn them.”
The bathroom was empty by the time Tru brought Mark to the entrance. The interior was dark marble, with mood lighting illuminating the sinks and the doorways to the private stalls. Mark took the one in the corner, shut the door, and sat on the toilet seat.
He spent a moment catching his breath, then did a breathing exercise to calm himself. He’d been hoping for his fortunes to change ever since the shooting, but he hadn’t been prepared for it to happen so quickly. This felt like drowning.
Mark thought back to one of Coach Stevenson’s famous locker-room talks, when he asked his players why they were there. What mattered was understanding what they wanted and how much they were willing to put on the line.
The private jet, the penthouse, the hero’s welcome—those things were nice, but Mark knew he needed a clear idea of what he was doing. He understood what both his mother and Tru were trying to tell him—that there was a huge opportunity here—but he also knew that every opportunity, even the noblest ones, comes at a price. It was hard to fathom what the cost would be this time.
Mark knew he wanted to have an impact. Maybe that meant expanding the athletic foundation. Maybe it meant deepening his understanding of coaching. But whatever path he chose, if it involved Summit, he had to know who he was really dealing with. Maybe Tru was serious about letting him explore and ask anything he wanted, but she might also be counting on the fact that Mark wouldn’t know where to begin.
He took out his phone and dialed Coach Stevenson’s number, praying today was a good day.
Stevenson picked up after three rings and a cough. “Marky?”
“How’s it going, Coach?” Mark replied.
“Headache like a goddamn hangover. I don’t know which is worse: watching my marbles scatter across the floor, or the pain I feel right now. What can I do for you, boy?”
Mark silently thanked God that his mentor sounded alert.
“I don’t want to keep you, but there were times you were offered positions with different organizations. How did you decide which one was right for you?” he asked.
“You talking to those Florida boys? Cox called me the other day, wanted to know when you were going to go down and talk to them again.”
“I haven’t set anything up yet, although maybe I can. I am in Florida. I’m just asking in general. How do you decide?”
“This sounds theoretical. Want to give me some more details?” Stevenson asked.
