“Remember the plan. Show them the highlight videos,” I say into my walkie-talkie, the other end of which is a small earbud planted in Jordan Hamilton’s ear.
“Got it,” Jordan confirms, adjusting his tie and nervously flattening the crease in his slacks. He enters the small meeting room to sit down across from two members of the Pelicans front office.
“Where’s your agent?” one of them asks.
“Uh, I’m representing myself,” Jordan says after a small but noticeable pause, causing the two executives to raise their eyebrows in almost comical unison.
I wince at his uncertainty as I whisper into his ear, “confidence, man. You have the highlight videos.” He nods, straightening up in his seat and taking out an iPad from his inner suit pocket and sets it up on its stand in front of the two men.
“These videos should speak for themselves,” Jordan said simply, with a trace of smugness that I know will help him score a contract. The executives are engrossed quickly by scenes of Jordan’s scoring prowess, with the Nuggets and Rockets, the videos expertly edited and timed for maximum impact.
“We got this,” I say, watching the action from a hidden camera planted on one of Jordan’s suit buttons.
The final video in the playlist comes to an end, and for a while, there is no sound in the room except the transmitted sounds of me popping open a bottle of Champagne in my office a thousand miles away.
“I think a ten-day would be more than reasonable,” Jordan says, knowing that, despite the awe-inducing highlight video package his just played for the executives, he is not in a position to ask for anymore.
One of the men nods silently and slides over a pre-prepared contract and a pen.
“We made it fam,” I say in between chugs of the sparkling French wine, and Jordan smiles in response as his signature is inked onto the paper.