Joey had finally given herself a real vacation (first one in forever). After a sun-soaked week in Hawaii with Renee, she was back at her Santa Monica canyon villa, still tasting salt air and piña coladas.
It was 2008 now. Wild year ahead: America was about to elect its first Black president, the global economy was about to face-plant, Beijing was hosting the Olympics, and every dude on the planet was losing his mind over the Euros in Switzerland and Austria.
So of course that's the exact moment Tom Cruise decided to summon her to the United Artists tower.
He was kicked back in his ridiculous corner-office throne, feet on the desk, staring out at the L.A. skyline like he owned the horizon (which, let's be real, he basically did).
He didn't even turn around until she walked in. "How was the vacation?"
Joey flopped onto the leather couch, kicked off her sandals, and did a slow spin taking in the room. "Your office looks like a Bond villain and an art dealer had a baby. All these paintings… and you don't even drink, yet there's a hundred grand in whiskey behind the bar. Why?"
Tom tapped the desk with a smirk. "Some of us still believe in style, even when we're busy taking over the world."
"Must be nice," she sighed, stretching out. "I gave up style sometime around my third all-nighter in a row."
Tom finally spun his chair to face her, all business. "As fun as this is, I didn't drag you here to roast my interior decorator."
Joey grinned. "Aw, come on, old friend. A little life check-in never killed anybody. You asked about the trip; Renee's new favorite phrase is 'That's hot' in Portuguese."
"Let me guess; too many shirtless surfers?"
"My eyes still hurt from not blinking. Hawaii should come with a neck brace."
Tom actually laughed, then slid right back into mogul mode. "Alright, enough. I've got a job for you."
Joey sat up, instantly curious. Anything coming from Tom was guaranteed to be insane. "Hit me."
He let the silence hang just long enough to annoy her. "UEFA reached out to UA."
She blinked. "The soccer people? Okay… why?"
He dragged it out even more, clearly enjoying himself. "They want you."
"Me? I once called soccer 'ballet with shin guards.' Why the hell do they want me?"
Tom finally dropped the bomb. "They want you to direct the official 2008 Euro promotional film. The only one. Global campaign."
Joey's jaw actually dropped. "You're kidding."
"Nope. They saw The Blind Side. Said your style made grown men cry in the stands and got actual laws changed. They want that same heart-exploding, never-say-die energy for the Euros. Something that'll make every guy from Lisbon to Moscow lose their damn minds."
Joey let out a loud "WORD?!" then started laughing. "So now even the soccer bros are simping for me? When did that happen?"
Tom gave a tiny shrug, like it was obvious. "Answer's yes or no, superstar."
She leaned back, eyes sparkling in the sunlight. "Yeah. Hell yes, I'll do it."
The announcement hit the internet like a nuke: Joey Grant, the chick who made football players sob with The Blind Side, was directing the official UEFA Euro 2008 film.
Half the planet cheered. The other half lost their minds.
"UEFA just hired a GIRL to direct the Euros promo?! Do they want us all to fall asleep?"
"A woman directing football? Does she even know what offside is?"
"This is the biggest embarrassment since France '98."
"Bro, have you seen The Blind Side? That movie had dudes in the theater jumping out of their seats screaming. She gets it."
"Still not watching a pink, glittery soccer ad."
Joey didn't even read the forums. She was already on a plane to Bern, Switzerland (UEFA headquarters).
The place looked like a postcard: rolling green hills, dandelions floating everywhere, cute little Swiss villas, total silence except birds chirping. She half-expected Heidi to skip by with some goats.
Meeting was on the 29th floor. At 10:15 a.m. sharp, a black Mercedes rolled up and UEFA president Aleksander Čeferin strode in (first time seeing the famous Joey Grant in person).
They talked contract, shook hands, took the obligatory photos.
Čeferin admitted he'd been skeptical until his staff forced him to watch The Blind Side. One screening later he was sold. "That movie made a 55-year-old man want to run through a wall," he told her. "You understand men better than most men."
After two hours of back-and-forth, he finally asked the big one:
"So, how do you want to shoot this thing? Archives? Current stars? Give me the list; money's no object. We'll fly in anyone you want: Ronaldo, Zidane, Henry, whoever. Name them."
He braced himself for the usual 30-name wishlist that bankrupts marketing budgets.
Joey just smiled, slow and mysterious, then said two words that made his brain short-circuit:
"No need."
Čeferin blinked. "No need for… what?"
"No superstars. Zero."
He stared at her like she'd just said the tournament would be played underwater.
"…Come again?"
Joey leaned forward, that signature devilish grin spreading across her face.
"Trust me. I don't need a single famous face. I'm about to make the whole world lose their minds with a bunch of kids you've never heard of."
Čeferin opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Finally he just laughed and stuck out his hand. "Deal. God help us all."