Chapter 63: Opening Bids

Film started on time, and so did Harris. The tape was already cued when Kobe walked into the room, Detroit frozen across the screen while the overhead hum of the projector filled the silence. Harris didn’t waste a sentence on the win, Kobe’s first start, or anything else that had happened the night before. He pressed play.

Detroit’s guard came over a high screen. Campbell stepped out late, Ceballos trailed the play, and for half a second the ball handler had both the lane and the roller available.

Harris stopped the tape.

“This is where they get us.” He tapped the board with his marker. “If the big shows late, the guard has two choices and we don’t like either one. Get into him early. Make him choose before he gets downhill.”

He rewound it and let the possession run again. The mistake didn’t look dramatic. Campbell was only a half-step late, but at this level half a step was enough to turn one defender’s problem into three.

Harris moved on.

The second stop came with the ball in Kobe’s hands. Detroit had shifted toward him, leaving the weak-side pass available for an instant. Kobe saw it on the screen—the opening between two defenders, there and gone before the ball ever left his hands.

Harris froze the tape.

“This read is there if you move it early. Wait, and they load up.”

His eyes moved briefly toward Kobe before returning to the screen.

“You can make that pass.”

Kobe nodded. He’d seen the window too, half a beat after it closed.

The third stop looked different.

Kobe came off Shaq’s screen as Detroit’s big stepped toward him. The weak-side defender pinched inward, Kobe slipped the ball through before the help could settle, and Shaq caught it moving toward the rim. One dribble. Two hands. The basket shook.

Harris rewound the possession and stopped it just as Kobe released the pass.

“That’s how it’s supposed to look. You see the coverage before it gets set, they don’t get a second chance.”

Shaq leaned back in his chair, unusually quiet. Harris didn’t wait for a response.

Fifteen minutes after the meeting began, Detroit disappeared from the screen.

Practice carried the same feeling. There were no conditioning runs waiting at the end and no speech about finishing preseason 7–1. Harris moved them through Phoenix’s personnel, transition responsibilities, and half-court sets, rotating bodies without stopping long enough to make the combinations themselves an announcement.

Kobe didn’t need one.

When Harris wanted the first group working through an offensive action, Kobe was beside Shaq. When they reset and ran it again, he was still there. Harris changed combinations later, moved guards around, and tested another lineup, but the important repetitions kept finding Kobe back with the same group.

A little over an hour after practice began, Harris blew his whistle.

“That’s it. Save your legs.”

The court emptied quickly. A few players headed toward the training room, others toward the weights, and several disappeared down the hallway toward the parking lot. Kobe stayed.

He rolled a ball toward the shooting machine, adjusted the return, and started from the corner. Three makes. Move. Three more. Move again.

There was nothing ceremonial about it anymore. No audience remained to impress, and Kobe wasn’t trying to prove that he worked harder than anyone else. It was simply part of the day.

The gym settled around him as the noise from practice disappeared. Shoes stopped squeaking on the opposite end. Coaches’ voices faded into the hallway. Soon there was only the return mechanism, the bounce of the ball, and the snap of the net whenever his release was right.

He worked around the floor, correcting his feet whenever the ball came back slightly off-line. One miss hit the back rim. Kobe caught the return, reset, and put the next one through cleanly.

Make, retrieve, reset.

By the time he reached the final spot, sweat had cooled along the back of his neck. He finished with free throws, caught the last return and held the ball against his hip.

That was when he noticed the suit.

Rob stood near the edge of the court, well clear of the hardwood, tie still straight and polished shoes looking completely out of place in a practice facility. He had apparently been there long enough to watch without interrupting.

Kobe sent the ball back toward the rack and grabbed his towel.

“You’ve got another two hundred in you?” Rob asked.

“Already did them.”

A small smile touched Rob’s face, but it disappeared quickly.

Kobe wiped his forehead. “What are you doing here?”

Rob didn’t make a habit of visiting Lakers practice. If something could be handled over the phone, he handled it over the phone.

“Thought I’d check in.”

Kobe looked at him.

Rob lasted about two seconds.

“All right.”

Kobe picked up his bag.

They started toward the tunnel together.

“Nike called last night,” Rob said.

Kobe adjusted the strap over his shoulder. Nike calling wasn’t news.

“Adidas called twice this morning.”

That was more interesting.

Kobe kept walking. “And Reebok?”

“Three times.” Rob glanced over. “One of them called my house during breakfast.”

Kobe slowed.

“It’s not the first time they’ve wanted a meeting.”

“No.” Rob pushed his hands into his pockets as they entered the tunnel. “It’s the first time all three are worried somebody else might get you.”

Kobe stopped.

The sounds from the practice court had almost disappeared behind them. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a cart rattled over the concrete.

Rob continued.

“The old offers don’t matter anymore.”

Kobe waited.

“They were pricing an eighteen-year-old coming out of high school,” Rob continued. “A very talented eighteen-year-old coming out of high school, but still a kid who hadn’t played against NBA players. They could sell themselves on what you might become, but nobody knew what would happen once you got on the floor with grown men.”

“Now they’ve watched you; they want a piece.”

Rob started walking again, and Kobe followed.

“Eight games. Different teams, different defenders, different situations. You scored, you passed, you defended, you played with Shaq, you played without him. Then you started against Detroit and put up thirty and ten.”

Kobe’s expression didn’t change.

“Plus, this is LA, not some random place like Charlotte.” Rob glanced at him. “They know they’re not bidding on quite the same player they were six weeks ago.”

The preseason hadn’t changed what Kobe believed he could become. It had changed what everyone else was willing to believe.

And apparently what they were willing to pay for it.

“How much?”

Rob shook his head.

“I’m not doing this in a hallway.”

Kobe almost smiled. “You came here.”

“To get you out of the gym before midnight.”

“It wouldn’t have been midnight.”

“That’s reassuring.”

They reached the end of the tunnel.

Rob stopped beside the door and finally turned toward him.

“All three want another meeting. Adidas asked for today. Reebok said tonight if you’re available. Nike wants us to call before we schedule anything with either of them.”

Kobe studied him.

“And the old offers?”

“I wouldn’t let you sign any one of them now.”

That was stronger than anything Rob had said yet.

Kobe shifted the bag higher on his shoulder. “You have new ones?”

Rob nodded.

“Three new offers.”

Kobe reached for the door.

“Let’s go.”

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The office hadn’t gotten any more impressive since Kobe bought it. A little over a thousand square feet, plain walls, practical furniture, a copier that sounded older than everyone in the building, and the faint smell of paper and toner that never quite went away. There was no marble in the lobby, no receptionist behind a curved mahogany desk, no framed jerseys positioned for visitors to admire. Kobe still liked it that way.

Nothing in the room looked like fifty million dollars.

The three folders on the conference table did.

Nike. Adidas. Reebok.

Rob had arranged them in a straight line, each folder closed with the company’s name facing Kobe’s chair. He had changed since the practice facility, though not into anything more expensive-looking.

The office manager acknowledged Kobe when he came through the door. She sat behind her desk with a legal pad beside the telephone and a pencil tucked behind one ear, working through a stack of invoices as though three multinational companies weren’t competing for the teenager who had just walked past her.

Rob closed the door after they made their way inside, poured two glasses of water from the cooler, and sat across from him.

For all the urgency that had brought him to the Lakers’ facility, he seemed in no hurry now.

He opened Nike first. The term sheet was clipped neatly inside, several pages of marketing language sitting behind it. Rob removed the first page and slid it across the table.

“Before preseason, we were talking somewhere in the mid-thirties over seven years, depending on structure. They weren’t ready to commit much beyond that.”

Kobe’s eyes moved down the page until they found the new figure.

“Now?”

“Seven years. Forty-five million.”

Kobe read it again. Not because he hadn’t understood it the first time, but because forty-five million dollars deserved to be read twice.

“A significant portion is guaranteed,” Rob continued after giving him a moment. “They moved more of the money forward, increased the annual amounts in the back half, and raised some of the performance incentives. This is a much stronger offer than what we had before preseason.”

Kobe followed the payment schedule. The number was enormous, but the seven interested him almost as much as the forty-five. Seven years meant Nike wasn’t only buying the eighteen-year-old sitting in this office. They were trying to put a price on every player he might become between now and his mid-twenties.

He placed the term sheet on the table.

Rob opened Adidas next.

“Their first serious structure was around thirty over six. Some of it was back-loaded, and there were enough incentives attached that I didn’t love the headline number.”

The new sheet slid across.

Six years. Forty-eight million.

Kobe studied the guarantee, then the payment schedule. Adidas had gone higher in fewer years, and more of the money arrived early. There were marketing obligations and performance incentives scattered throughout, but enough of the language remained broad that Kobe could already imagine Rob spending hours arguing over individual sentences if negotiations ever reached a final contract.

“It’s better than Nike’s,” Kobe said.

“Much.”

Rob opened the last folder. “Reebok decided subtlety was overrated.”

That got Kobe’s attention.

The third sheet crossed the table.

Eight years. Fifty-two million.

Kobe leaned back.

Three pieces of paper sat within arm’s reach. One hundred forty-five million dollars in headline offers, all because three companies wanted his feet inside their shoes.

The number wasn’t real in the sense that he could collect all of it. He couldn’t sign three contracts, the structures weren’t identical, and the totals ignored guarantees, incentives, obligations, termination clauses, and everything else Rob was paid to worry about. But Kobe was still eighteen years old, and fifty-two million dollars looked exactly as large on paper as it sounded aloud.

For a moment, he let it.

There had been a time when his parents had worried about ordinary bills. A time when an NBA salary had sounded impossible, when a shoe deal would have meant someone sending him sneakers instead of him having to buy them. Now one company was prepared to commit more money to him than most families would see across generations, and two others were trying to convince him not to take it.

Then Kobe leaned forward again.

“How much is guaranteed?”

Rob’s expression changed slightly. “Most of the headline figure, assuming the standard protections stay where they are. But don’t get hypnotized by fifty-two.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Good. Because eight years is a long time.”

Kobe looked toward Adidas. “Six.”

“Exactly. Less time means more flexibility later. But you’re betting on yourself.”

Rob moved the proposals closer together. “Reebok has the largest total commitment. Adidas is stronger on a per-year basis in places. Nike’s structure is different again. Payment schedules matter. Incentives matter. Term matters. Exit language matters. Forty-eight over six could end up being worth considerably more than fifty-two over eight if your market changes.”

Kobe looked back at Reebok.

“What happens if I become better than the contract?”

A faint smile appeared on Rob’s face. “Then Reebok congratulates itself for signing you at eighteen.”

Kobe’s eyes remained on the eight-year term. That was the problem. Every company at the table was trying to predict what he would be worth years from now, but they were doing it with eight preseason games and a high-school résumé.

Kobe had more information than they did.

Not perfect information. He had already changed too much to pretend this life would follow the first one possession for possession, season for season, or decision for decision. But he knew the player sitting in this office wasn’t close to the player he intended to become. Locking that future into today’s price could make fifty-two million dollars surprisingly expensive.

“Which one thinks they’re winning?”

Rob paused, not for effect but because the question required an actual answer. He leaned back and looked over the folders again.

“Reebok.”

“Because of the fifty-two?”

“Because they’ve been the most aggressive financially, and they know it. They probably believe they’ve created enough separation that eventually we’ll stop taking meetings.”

Kobe’s eyes moved to Adidas. “And them?”

“They know they’re competitive. They don’t know exactly where everybody else is.”

“Nike?”

Rob exhaled softly. “Nike probably thinks Nike is winning.”

“Their number is the lowest.”

“It doesn’t necessarily have to be the highest.”

Kobe understood before Rob explained.

“They’ve got Jordan.”

Rob confirmed. “They’ve got the most famous basketball player in the world wearing their shoes. That gives them something Adidas and Reebok can’t put on a term sheet.”

“Does Adidas know they’re behind Reebok?”

“They know Reebok is serious.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Rob shook his head. “No. They don’t know the number. Nobody gets another company’s confidential terms from me.”

Kobe tapped the Adidas folder. “Tell them they’re behind.”

Rob’s eyes came back to him.

“Tell them their offer isn’t the strongest one we’re considering.”

“I can say that.”

“Then say it.”

“I cannot tell them Reebok offered fifty-two.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Rob leaned forward. “I’m making sure you understand the process. I don’t hand one company’s terms to another company. I don’t invent offers. I don’t tell somebody they’ve lost when they haven’t. The minute we start playing games with information, I become less useful to you.”

Rob didn’t reach for the telephone.

“There’s risk.”

Kobe waited.

“If they think we’re shopping every offer around to manufacture an auction, someone can walk. Push too hard and they may decide they’re only being used to raise somebody else’s number. And if I call all three companies and tell every one of them they’re losing, eventually somebody realizes the arithmetic doesn’t work.”

“So don’t tell all three they’re losing.”

Rob’s mouth shifted.

Kobe pointed toward Reebok. “They already think they’re winning.”

“Yes.”

“Let them.”

Rob followed his finger to the other two folders. “And Adidas and Nike?”

“Make them uncomfortable.”

The office phone rang again. Neither man looked toward the door this time.

Rob opened his legal pad to a clean page and wrote ADIDAS across the top. Beneath it, he wrote: Current financial proposal not strongest. No numbers. No competitor identified.

Then came NIKE: Financially behind. Kobe seriously considering alternatives.

Finally, REEBOK: Highest guarantee has not closed deal.

Kobe read all three upside down. The language was different because the pressure had to be different. Adidas needed to know someone valued Kobe more. Nike needed to understand that its name and Jordan weren’t enough to end the competition. Reebok needed to realize that even the largest check on the table hadn’t bought an answer.

Rob capped his pen. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“Once we start this, you can’t get impatient tomorrow morning and tell me to take fifty-two because it suddenly looks amazing again.”

Kobe glanced at the Reebok folder. “I won’t.”

He reached for the telephone, but Kobe didn’t move from his chair.

Rob glanced at him. “You’re staying?”

“I want to hear this.”

Rob considered that, then pulled the Adidas folder closer and flipped to the contact page. Outside the room, the copier started again while the office manager answered another call. Somewhere farther down the hall, a door opened and shut. Everything around them sounded ordinary.

Kobe looked once more at the three folders.

Forty-five million.

Forty-eight million.

Fifty-two million.

Ten minutes ago, they had looked like choices.

Now they looked like opening bids.

Rob dialed the first number and lifted the receiver to his ear. “Good afternoon. Rob Pelinka calling for—”

Kobe settled deeper into his chair and listened.