The biting wind of a Chicago autumn was a constant, invigorating presence, a sharp counterpoint to the velvet-lined, smoke-filled interiors of the pool halls where Alex was currently spending his nights. He was deep into filming Martin Scorsese's The Color of Money, a project that felt less like a job and more like a masterclass.
Meanwhile, a continent away, the deal he had just closed with Universal Pictures was dominating the conversation. The news hit the wire services and every major newspaper—from the staid pages of The New York Times to the columns of the entertainment weeklies—in a coordinated thunderclap.
On the set, crew members were quietly gathered around a television tuned to a national news program during a lunch break. The anchor, his voice suitably grave, introduced the segment: "Hollywood has a new financial paradigm tonight, thanks to its undisputed Golden Boy."
The contract details were dissected with intense scrutiny. The $5 million upfront salary, while enormous, was almost eclipsed by the unprecedented backend structure: 18% of the worldwide gross, including home video sales, contingent on a sliding scale.
"This is not just about a paycheck, this is about a power shift," an analyst from The Wall Street Journal remarked during a televised panel. "The fact that Universal agreed to a trigger point of three hundred and seventy-five million dollars for the full eighteen percent share—that's a massive statement. It means they aren't just betting on Alex Hayes; they are betting on him breaking his own box office records and establishing himself as a leading creative and financial force in the business."
For Alex, who watched the news reports briefly before returning to his trailer, the media storm was little more than background noise. He knew what the contract meant. It wasn't about the money itself; it was about the leverage it granted him for his future projects. It was the financial armor required to greenlight the ambitious, non-traditional projects he truly cared about.
Filming the role of Vincent Lauria was, professionally speaking, a cakewalk. Alex had mastered the role of the cocky, talented, slightly reckless youngster in his previous films, and he slipped into Vincent's skin with effortless ease. The character's brash confidence was a familiar dance. He spent his days executing precise pool shots and delivering quick, sharp lines, often finishing his scenes in just a few takes.
The real attraction, the true currency of this film, was the experience. Alex was like a student quietly studying two masters at work. He watched Martin Scorsese's frenetic, passionate energy behind the camera, the way he moved and blocked the actors, his deep respect for the script's rhythms.
But mostly, he watched Paul Newman.
Newman was a revelation: disciplined, understated, always prepared, yet possessing a deep, quiet intensity. He brought the history of Fast Eddie Felson to the screen not with grand gestures, but with the weary slump of his shoulders and the piercing blue intensity of his gaze. Alex saw a roadmap for longevity, a career built not on fleeting fame but on deep craft.
One chilly evening, after a particularly late session where they had filmed a scene involving a tense conversation between Vincent and Fast Eddie, Alex found Newman sitting alone, nursing a whiskey in the temporary actors' lounge, the magazine with Alex's face on the cover discarded nearby.
Alex grabbed a soda and sat across from him. "Paul, can I ask you something?"
Newman lifted his glass in acknowledgment. "Shoot, kid."
"How do you handle it?"Alex asked, pointing to a nearby newspaper displaying his picture and the headline about his contract. "The volume of it. The fame. It feels like every good choice is amplified, but every single mistake, even a tiny one, becomes a national incident."
Newman took a slow sip, his eyes distant for a moment. "Well, first," he said, setting the glass down gently, "You have it a thousand times worse than I ever did, and a thousand times faster. You're twenty-three. When I was twenty-three, I was still trying to figure out how to pay the rent. You've achieved incredible success." He gave a wry, almost paternal smile. "Don't ever underestimate the power of timing, Alex. You hit the wave at the perfect moment."
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
"Handling it... it comes down to a few things. First, discipline. Not just on set, but off it. The work is the work. It demands rigor. If you treat the craft with respect, it'll be there for you long after the headlines fade."
He leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes locking onto Alex's. This was the moment of gravitas, the kind of advice that decades of experience buys.
"But the most important thing, Alex, the thing that sinks more good actors than bad scripts or bad reviews, is delusion. You're paid to pretend to be a character. You get inside their head, you feel their struggle, you deliver their words. But when the scene ends, the character leaves. You have to let him go."
Newman picked up a small, unassuming billiard ball sitting on the table and turned it over in his hand. "Don't confuse yourself with your character. You play protagonists, heroes, men who bend the world to their will. That's fine for the screen. But you, Alex Hayes, are just a man with a job. A very lucky, very well-paid man, but still just a man."
He put the ball back down. "Fame, money, the covers—that all tries to tell you you're something more. That you're the hero of your own life in a way that's bigger than everyone else. Don't fall for it. Don't delude yourself into thinking you are the protagonist in the real life. Because when you start believing your own press, when you confuse the spotlight with the light of the sun, you stop working, and you start performing your life."
"And the moment you stop working and start performing," Newman concluded quietly, "is the moment your performance, on screen and off, starts to suffer."
Alex sat back, absorbing the weight of the words. It wasn't advice; it was a warning. It resonated deeply with him, cutting through the usual studio platitudes about 'staying grounded.' He instinctively recognized the truth in it—the danger of the ego becoming the director of his life. Don't confuse yourself with your character. He committed the line to memory, tucking it away as a mental note. It was perhaps the most valuable piece of instruction he'd received in his entire career.
Alex's portion of the filming was completed with remarkable efficiency. In just three intense weeks, he wrapped up his scenes. The pool hall drama, with its dim lighting and heavy atmosphere, had been an incredible experience, but now, a different kind of intensity was calling.
He shook hands warmly with Scorsese, who offered sincere praise for Alex's professionalism. He shared a final, meaningful look with Paul Newman.
"Go get 'em, kid," Newman said, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze. "And remember what I said."
"I will," Alex promised. "Every single day."
He was on a private flight out of Chicago the following morning, leaving the autumn chill behind. His focus, which had been temporarily loaned to the world of Fast Eddie Felson and Vincent Lauria, snapped back to his own creation.
Landing in Los Angeles, there was no break, no moment to rest on the laurels of his historic contract. The CAA offices buzzed with activity, and the new project was waiting.
Alex walked straight into a scheduled pre-production meeting for the naval aviator movie. The project had been christened: TOP GUN.
This was the film that would prove the studios' gamble was justified. This was the film that would solidify his status as a true action star, graduating him permanently from the category of 'teen idol' to 'a true cinematic star.' He looked at the storyboards, the costume concepts, the initial casting notes—all the raw material that would either confirm his genius or expose his hubris.
He had the money, he had the leverage, and he had the bold claim: 'It will be my biggest hit yet.'
Now, the real work began. His next task, as he had told Paula, was to cast the perfect cast and the perfect director to steer this high-flying project to success.