May 15, 2014
The stuffed gray elephant landed on the living room floor three feet from where Aaron sat cross-legged, and Mía came scurrying over to retrieve it before Aaron could reach for it, moving with the specific speed of a two-year-old who possesses an absolute clarity regarding what belongs to her and where it is at all times.
"Mine!" Mía said, squeezing the elephant against her chest with both arms.
"It's yours," Aaron said. "I wasn't going to take it."
Mía eyed him with the expression of someone not entirely convinced, yet choosing to accept the explanation for the moment. She then turned around, walked into the center of the room with the elephant tucked under her arm, and sat down on the floor with the resolve of someone who had decided the game would continue, but strictly on her terms.
Aaron followed her toward the center of the living room and sat down opposite her. They had been at it for forty minutes—the two of them on the floor of the apartment living room, with Mía's toys scattered between them and the May afternoon light filtering through the window overlooking the street. Outside, the neighborhood carried its usual ambient sounds—the distinct hum of a Queens block on a Thursday afternoon—and inside, the sound of Mía issuing detailed instructions to her stuffed elephant on what it was expected to do next.
Aaron had arrived on Tuesday from Lexington carrying two suitcases and holding a powered-off phone, which was the single condition he had imposed on himself for the trip.
Classes had concluded the previous week, and the campus had emptied with the swiftness typical of students when they no longer have reasons to remain. Aaron had lingered a few days, organized his belongings in the dorm room he shared with Julius until the end of the term, and then caught a flight to New York with the explicit intent of not dwelling on anything beyond what was right in front of him for the duration of his stay. His mother had refrained from asking how long he planned to stay. It was the kind of question Melissa didn't ask because she knew the answer carried no fixed date, and pressing for a precise timeline was counterproductive.
The phone had sat powered down for three days on the nightstand of the room that had been his bedroom his entire life. The peace that silence granted him was of a distinct quality compared to any tranquility he had experienced in recent months—since October at least, perhaps even earlier if he was being completely honest with himself.
Since the championship, the phone hadn't stopped receiving notifications at any hour of the day or night. Articles written about him on ESPN, Bleacher Report, and obscure platforms Aaron had never visited and whose existence he was unaware of before a notification directed him there. Emails from sports agencies—first one or two per day in the weeks following the tournament, then five, then ten—until Aaron had stopped opening them individually and started scanning them diagonally to see if they offered anything different from previous entries. Generally, they did not.
Now the phone was off, and Mía was handing him the stuffed elephant to hold while she reorganized the rest of her toys with the deep focus of someone conducting a vital assignment. Aaron held it with the full gravity the situation required.
At the dining table, Melissa had Aaron's laptop open, showing twenty Chrome tabs alongside a notebook where she had been jotting down notes since Tuesday. She hadn't asked permission to use the laptop. Aaron hadn't expected her to. It was the dynamic they had shared since Aaron was twelve years old and Melissa had begun actively involving herself in the decisions shaping her son's athletic path—first with high school coaches, then with collegiate recruiters—always employing the same method: reading everything available, noting what seemed relevant, and subsequently discussing her findings with Aaron.
The difference now was that what she was reading were representation proposals from the top sports agents in American professional basketball, and the money and decisions revolving around those proposals operated on a scale unlike anything they had ever managed together.
"Rich Paul represents LeBron, Anthony Davis, Tristan Thompson," Melissa said without taking her eyes off the screen. "Klutch Sports possesses the strongest catalog in the NBA right now if we judge by client caliber."
"I know," Aaron said from the floor.
"Jeff Schwartz represents Westbrook and Kevin Love at Excel. He's the other name appearing in every article as a favorite to represent you."
"I know that too."
"And what is your take?" Melissa asked, finally lifting her eyes from the screen to look at her son sitting on the floor with Mía and the elephant.
"That I don't have to decide this week," Aaron said.
Melissa looked at him for a second. She then returned her gaze to the screen.
"Fine," Melissa said. "But someone has to decide before the draft, which is six weeks away."
"I know, Mom."
"Just ensuring you're aware."
Mía, who had been listening to the adults' exchange with the fragmented, selective focus typical of a two-year-old, decided at that moment that it was time to climb on top of Aaron. Aaron cleared space on his lap without interrupting the conversation or altering the calm tone he was using.
"Both possess solid track records," Melissa said, turning back to the display. "But there's something that catches my attention in the articles I read this morning regarding how they manage their younger clients. The draft picks they handle in their first couple of years concern me most. Not the player's raw talent, but how they manage expectations and rookie contracts over those initial two years. That is what sets things apart."
Aaron listened from the floor with Mía settled comfortably on his lap and the stuffed elephant resting between them, swaying slightly as Melissa spoke. It was the exact type of analysis Melissa produced whenever she had time to prepare—thorough, specific, and consistently reaching angles Aaron hadn't considered from that precise perspective.
Before either of them could advance the discussion, a knock echoed at the door.
Melissa and Aaron exchanged a glance. They were expecting no visitors at that hour or on that day.
Melissa closed the laptop and stood up. Aaron carefully set Mía down on the floor, handed her the elephant, and stood up as well. Melissa walked to the door.
Standing on the other side was a young man, appearing to be in his mid-thirties at first glance, wearing a navy blue suit without a tie and carrying a dark leather briefcase in his right hand. He was tall—not quite Aaron's height, but noticeably above average—and possessed the neat, prepared appearance of someone who had rehearsed how they wished to present themselves in situations where first impressions were the only variable within their control.
"Good afternoon," the man said. "Apologies for the intrusion. My name is Austin Walton. Does Aaron Reed reside here?"
Melissa did not answer immediately. Not because she lacked words, but because she had cultivated a habit over the years of pausing to assess whenever someone arrived at the door inquiring about her son. It was a habit that had originated with high school reporters and had grown increasingly essential as Aaron's profile expanded.
Aaron had heard his name from the living room and had approached the door before Melissa could speak.
"That's me," Aaron said from behind his mother.
Austin Walton spotted him and extended his hand with the direct gesture of someone who had practiced that initial handshake often enough for it to require no conscious thought.
"Austin Walton, Walton Sports Management. Do you have a few minutes?"
Aaron glanced at his mother. Melissa had looked back at him in the exact same second. They held each other's gaze for the beat it took to reach the same conclusion through independent paths—their customary way of making non-verbal decisions in that home.
"Come in," Melissa said, opening the door wider.
Austin stepped inside with the quiet discretion of someone who recognized he had entered another's home and understood that the first condition for a productive dialogue was not acting as if he owned the place. He scanned the living room briefly, caught sight of Mía on the floor with her elephant, and flashed the child a quick smile before following Melissa toward the dining table.
"Have a seat," Melissa said, gesturing to the chair opposite the one she had been occupying.
Aaron sat in the adjacent chair.
"Can I offer you some water?" Melissa asked.
"Thank you, yes."
While Melissa stepped into the kitchen, Austin placed his briefcase on the table with the measured motion of someone fully prepared, who had planned in advance the sequence for presenting his materials. He retrieved a presentation folder and set it down closed in front of him without opening it yet—a deliberate choice: speak first, present after. He then looked at Aaron with the steady composure of someone accustomed to sitting before people with every reason to evaluate before offering a response.
"I arrived without an appointment," Austin Walton said. "I recognize that isn't the most professional approach, and the first thing I want to do is offer my sincere apologies for that. But I also want to be direct with you regarding why I made that decision."
Aaron waited without interrupting.
"Because if I send you an email, I become entry number twenty-three in your inbox for the week. If I call, I am merely a voice on a phone line you can easily ignore. I came in person because I believe what I have to tell you deserves to be heard face-to-face, and because I believe if you listen to what I have to say, any further conversation we have will be worth the time for both of us."
Melissa returned from the kitchen carrying a glass of water and set it in front of Austin. She took her seat. Austin acknowledged her with a slight nod, then opened the folder.
The initial pages contained an overview of Walton Sports Management: founded in 2009, headquartered in Chicago, representing 8 active clients in the NFL and 4 in the NBA. None of them were marquee names at the tier of players leading the major agencies, yet all possessed solid rookie-year contracts and career trajectories outlined with the precise data that makes a track record compelling without requiring household names to back it up. Aaron read through it in silence. Melissa read it as well, scanning diagonally yet keeping her eyes tuned to the specific details that mattered to her.
"I run a boutique agency," Austin said, without waiting for either of them to comment on what they were reviewing. "I am not going to pretend Walton Sports Management carries the institutional weight of Klutch or Excel. That would be lying to you, and lying to you at this point in the conversation would be the absolute worst way to start."
He turned to the subsequent section of the folder, which detailed the specific blueprint he had drafted for Aaron. It was no generic template: it was a customized document referencing specific plays from the tournament, concrete statistical metrics from the season, and projections aligning with the active roster needs of specific NBA franchises that would hold high interest in a player of Aaron's profile.
"If you sign with Klutch, you will be an important client," Austin said. "But Rich Paul has LeBron James on his roster. When LeBron needs something, LeBron gets it first—which is precisely how it ought to be for a client of that magnitude. And that doesn't mean other clients aren't served well, because they are. It simply means a hierarchy exists, and within that hierarchy, a draft rookie—regardless of how talented he is—occupies a position that isn't at the top."
He paused, not out of hesitation, but with the timing of someone who had learned when silence accomplishes more work than words.
"If you sign with me, you are my top priority. Not because you're the only one, but because you are the client who redefines what Walton Sports Management can achieve over the next ten years. Whatever I accomplish for you during the first two years of your professional career directly defines what I accomplish for my own agency. Those two interests are identical, and that means I will personally be in every meeting, every negotiation, and every critical phone call. Not an assistant. Me."
He closed the folder and left it resting on the table between them in a single fluid motion.
"I am not asking for a decision today," Austin said. "I am asking you to consider it. And if you want another meeting—with more time and to address whatever questions arise after reading through that," he gestured to the folder, "call me at the number listed on the final page, and we will have that conversation."
He stood up with the same calm pace he had maintained since entering. He shook Aaron's hand first, then looked toward Melissa.
"Mrs. Reed, it has been a pleasure."
"The pleasure was ours," Melissa said, using the measured tone she reserved when she was still actively evaluating.
Austin picked up his briefcase, left the folder on the table without pressing further, and walked toward the door. Aaron escorted him out. Once the door clicked shut, Aaron returned to the dining area and stood before the table where the folder rested alongside Melissa's closed laptop and the half-empty glass of water Austin Walton had left behind.
Melissa was staring at him.
Aaron looked back at her.
Neither spoke for a moment. Mía broke the silence from the living room floor, issuing a stern command to her stuffed elephant that neither adult registered, as they were locked in eye contact with the expression of two people who had just witnessed and heard the exact same presentation, and were reaching the same conclusion through their own independent reasoning.
Aaron took a seat and pulled the folder closer across the table. Melissa opened her laptop and searched for something on the screen without uttering a word yet—her clear sign that she was processing the data.
"Read through the folder," Melissa said, without lifting her eyes from the screen. "Then we'll talk."
Aaron picked up the folder.
He began reading from the very first page, while Mía continued her conversation with the elephant in the living room.
Authors thought
What did you think of today's chapter? Give me your opinions and thoughts.
For football fans, check out my other fanfic, *The Golden Standard*, and discover the story of Wyatt Sterling.
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