Chapter 73: Obey Your Thirst

The Sprite shoot was in the Valley, inside a converted warehouse that seemed determined to manufacture its own version of California sunlight. Lighting rigs hung from the ceiling, black cables crossed the concrete floor, and production assistants moved between cameras, wardrobe racks, and a park set being assembled near the center of the building. Green-and-yellow Sprite displays seemed to be everywhere, from bottles arranged beside the monitors to cases stacked near catering.

Rob barely had time to check them in before a production assistant wearing a headset spotted them.

“You must be Kobe.”

“That’s me.”

“Perfect. They’re almost ready for you. I’ll take you over to wardrobe.”

She was already moving before Kobe could respond.

He followed with Rob, taking in the room as they went. None of it felt entirely unfamiliar. He remembered enough commercial shoots from his original life to recognize the rhythm—the waiting, the sudden bursts of activity, five people worrying about something viewers would never notice.

Kobe spotted Grant Hill near the park-bench set, talking with the director. Grant held a Sprite bottle in one hand and looked completely comfortable while people moved around him adjusting lights and checking equipment.

Grant noticed Kobe approaching and excused himself.

“There he is. It’s good to finally meet you.”

Kobe shook his hand. “It’s good to meet you too.”

“I’ve been watching you this preseason. You’ve been making some noise out here.”

“I’m happy with how I’ve played, but it’s still preseason. I have to prove I can do it when the games count.”

Grant smiled. “That’s a serious answer.” He nodded toward him. “Just know people are paying attention. Guys around the league are already talking about you.”

That meant more to Kobe than anything he could have read in a newspaper.

Players talked. Veterans watched highlights. Coaches mentioned names. Reputations moved through the league before statistics had time to catch up.

Grant motioned toward the set. “Come on. We might as well sit down before they make us do it fifty times.”

The set itself was simple: a bench, a basketball, a hoop in the background, a backpack, and several Sprite bottles positioned carefully enough to look casual.

Grant sat beside Kobe. “How are you handling everything? The league, Los Angeles, all the attention?”

“It’s been an adjustment. I expected the physicality, but there’s a lot more happening away from basketball than there was in high school.”

“You’ll get used to the basketball part. The other stuff is harder.”

“The media?”

“The media, endorsements, people recognizing you everywhere you go. Everybody suddenly has an opinion about what you should be doing.” Grant leaned back. “How are the veterans treating you?”

“They make sure I remember I’m a rookie.”

“It means they’re treating you normally. If you keep playing the way you have been, people are going to stop doing that pretty quickly.”

Kobe understood that better than Grant could possibly know.

Grant glanced toward him. “How’s Shaq?”

“He’s been good to me. He talks a lot, but he’s helped me.”

A crew member crossed in front of them carrying a reflector. Grant waited until he passed, then said, “I heard about Adidas too. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I’m excited about it.”

“You should be. Seven years and that much money is a serious commitment.” Grant gave him a sideways look. “Have you spent any of that money on something ridiculous yet?”

Kobe laughed. “No. Not yet.”

“Try to keep the ‘not yet’ part from becoming everyday.”

“What did you buy?”

Grant smiled. “We’re talking about you right now.”

“That means you bought something outrageous.”

“I made a few decisions that seemed smarter when I was making them.”

Kobe laughed.

Grant’s expression grew more serious. “Enjoy it. Take care of your family. Buy yourself something if you want it. Just don’t look at seventy million dollars and convince yourself seventy million dollars appeared in your bank account overnight.”

“I know there’s a difference.”

“Taxes come out. Your people get paid. Your lifestyle gets more expensive. Guys start spending like the checks are guaranteed to keep coming.”

“And basketball doesn’t guarantee anybody that.”

“Exactly. Make your money work for you while you can.”

Kobe nodded. He already understood the lesson, perhaps better than Grant realized, but there was no reason to say so. Grant wasn’t lecturing him. He was offering advice because he thought Kobe actually needed it; he was that type of guy.

“I appreciate that.”

“You can thank me when you’re forty.”

A production assistant approached with two scripts.

“We’re going to walk through everything in a couple of minutes.”

Kobe started reading. The concept was simple enough. Sprite’s Salary Cap Game. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Two basketball players talking about what someone should do with the money.

Beside him, Grant started smiling.

Kobe looked over. “What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing. Keep reading.”

Kobe continued until he reached the final exchange.

He slowly looked over at Grant. “So you get to make fun of my game?”

Grant lifted his hands. “I didn’t write it.”

He tried to keep a straight face before laughing. “All right. Maybe I’m looking forward to it.”

Kobe shook his head. “Remember that when we play Detroit.”

The director called them into position. Grant handed off his script and stood, while Kobe did the same.

Kobe stepped onto his mark.

The red light came on.

“Action.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The park bench set looked convincing from the camera and ridiculous from anywhere else. A strip of playground mulch covered the floor, two ornamental saplings stood in planters, and the basketball hoop behind them was so new the net still held its folds.

Grant settled onto the bench and turned his Sprite bottle until the label faced the camera. Kobe sat beside him.

The first few lines were simple basketball talk. Kobe delivered them exactly as written.

Grant didn’t.

Halfway through the take, Grant changed one of his lines and threw a joke at Kobe instead. Kobe hesitated before answering.

“Cut.”

Kobe looked toward the director.

She stepped closer. “Kobe, don’t worry about saying every word exactly the way it’s written. Sprite wants two players talking, not two players reading an advertisement.”

Kobe nodded. “I got it.”

“Let’s go again.”

The slate clapped.

Grant held up the bottle. “Somebody finds the right cap, Sprite gives them twenty-five thousand dollars. What are you doing with it?”

“I’m traveling.”

“Traveling?”

“I’d go somewhere. See something.”

“You ever think about saving it?”

“I can save my own money.”

Grant shook his head. “That’s exactly why nobody should take financial advice from you.”

Kobe looked over.

Grant’s smile appeared before the punchline.

“Because I don’t know what’s weaker, your advice or your game.”

Kobe stared at him.

“Cut.”

Several people behind the camera laughed. Grant was one of them.

The director laughed before stepping closer. “The exchange works, but Kobe, you’re thinking about the line before you say it. Listen to him and react. Don’t worry if the wording changes.”

The next take was better.

Kobe stopped worrying about his hands and let the basketball roll between his palms. When Grant reached the punchline again, Kobe wasn’t waiting for it.

“I don’t know what’s weaker, your advice or your game.”

Kobe turned toward him. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about your defense.”

Grant’s eyebrows rose.

Someone behind the camera laughed.

“Cut! Keep that.”

The next several takes moved faster. Grant changed his delivery, and Kobe stopped treating the script like something that had to be executed perfectly. Once he began treating Grant like someone standing across from him on a basketball court, everything became easier.

The crew moved in and out between takes. Bottles were replaced. Makeup touched Grant’s forehead. Someone returned the basketball to its previous position. Kobe watched them work.

Remembering commercial shoots from his original life was different from experiencing one again.

After a few takes, the director checked the monitor before smiling. “There it is. That’s the one.”

The crew relaxed. Kobe stood and stretched while Grant grabbed a towel.

The crew called for a short break while they prepared a few pickup shots. Kobe stayed near the set, watching several people gather around the monitors. One rewound the take while another wrote notes on a legal pad. Two people Kobe hadn’t seen during filming stood behind the director discussing the shot.

Thirty seconds of television, and dozens of people were helping create it.

Grant returned with a paper cup. “You coming to eat?”

Kobe laughed and replied, “In a minute.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The catering table offered cold cuts, bagels, fruit, coffee, and enough Sprite to make the sponsor impossible to forget.

Grant grabbed another bottle while Kobe watched the crew reset the set. A camera operator carried equipment toward the hallway while two crew members repositioned one of the lights.

Grant followed his gaze. “You’ve been watching them for a while. What are you thinking about?”

“The production company,” Kobe said. “I was wondering who owns it and what they make from a shoot like this.”

Grant gave him an amused look. “We just spent half the day sitting on a fake park bench, and that’s what you’re thinking about?”

Kobe smiled. “I can think about more than one thing.”

Rob walked over with a cup of coffee. “What are you two talking about?”

“Your client is trying to figure out the production business,” Grant said. “He wants to know how much these guys make.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to get into the production business.” Kobe looked at Rob. “I’m curious about the numbers. Sprite pays us to be in front of the camera, but there’s a whole business happening behind it.”

His thoughts returned to the commercial. He understood the machinery behind advertising, but this time he found himself paying more attention to the money moving behind the camera.

Rob nodded. “It depends on the company and the job. The budget for something like this can change a lot depending on what they’re responsible for.”

“What about what they actually keep?” Kobe asked. “After they pay the crew and cover everything else?”

Rob raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know their margins, but I can find out how companies like this usually operate.”

Grant looked between them. “Please tell me you’re not planning to buy one.”

Kobe laughed. “I asked two questions.”

Grant pointed his Sprite bottle at him. “Just remember what I told you earlier. Having money doesn’t mean every interesting idea deserves some of it. Learn first, then decide what’s worth your time.”

“I know,” Kobe said. “I’ve been listening.”

Before Kobe could answer, a production assistant appeared in the doorway. “They’re ready for both of you again.”

Grant looked down at his plate. “There goes my lunch.”

Kobe glanced at the two empty bagel wrappers beside him. “You already ate.”

“That was before I got hungry again,” Grant said.

The pickup shots did not take long. They filmed a few close-ups, alternate angles, and clean shots of Kobe and Grant holding the bottles. Twenty minutes later, the director was satisfied and finally called the shoot.

Grant said goodbye before heading out, while Rob stayed behind to finish some paperwork with one of the agency representatives. With nothing left to do, Kobe wandered into the hallway to wait.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The hallway was cooler and quieter than the studio. Cinderblock walls replaced the artificial park, exposed conduit ran along the ceiling, and a vending machine hummed beside a window overlooking the parking lot.

Kobe leaned against the wall.

Voices drifted from an office farther down the hallway. Kobe ignored them at first.

“The problem isn’t Mexico. The problem is the schedule.”

Another man answered, “The schedule wouldn’t be a problem if Cameron would stop changing things.”

“You want to tell him that?”

A few people laughed.

Kobe glanced toward the open doorway but stayed where he was.

“Have you seen the photographs from down there?”

“I’ve seen them.”

“They’re building a damn ocean liner on the coast of Mexico. Nothing about this thing is simple.”

Kobe’s attention sharpened.

Mexico. Cameron. A ship.

The pieces were familiar, but he hadn’t put them together.

Another voice joined in. “They knew what they were getting when they hired him.”

“They knew they were getting Cameron. Nobody knew the production was going to become this big.”

“What did they expect? The man doesn’t make small movies.”

Papers rustled.

Then someone said the title.

“Nobody knows what Titanic is going to cost by the time Cameron is finished.”

Kobe went still.

The memories arrived quickly.

Leonardo DiCaprio. Kate Winslet. The enormous ship against the night sky. The music that seemed to play everywhere. Packed theaters. People talking about the movie for months and going back to see it again.

He couldn’t remember exactly how much the movie had cost. He couldn’t remember who financed what or how the studios divided everything. He wasn’t even certain he could have given the exact release date.

But he remembered what Titanic became.

Titanic had become one of those movies almost everyone knew, whether they had seen it or not.

His first instinct was obvious. If he knew what was coming, there had to be a way to use that knowledge.

Then he stopped himself.

He knew the movie succeeded. That was all.

Kobe knew enough about filmmaking to understand that a successful movie did not automatically mean there was an investment opportunity waiting for him. He had spent years building Granity, working with producers and filmmakers, and eventually won an Academy Award for Dear Basketball. He understood production, financing, ownership, and distribution.

The problem was that this was 1996. He knew what Titanic would become, but he knew nothing about how this particular production was structured or whether there was any way for someone like him to get involved.

Rob emerged from the studio with a folder beneath his arm. “Sorry. They had one more thing they wanted me to look over. You ready?”

“Yeah.”

They started down the hallway. Kobe made it several steps before looking back toward the office.

“Rob, you know anybody who deals with movie financing?”

Rob glanced at him. “That came out of nowhere.”

“Not really.”

“We were shooting a Sprite commercial ten minutes ago.”

“I know.”

Rob waited for more. When Kobe didn’t give him anything, he shook his head. “Yeah, I know some people. Why?”

“I heard those guys talking about a movie they’re making down in Mexico. Sounds like they’re spending a lot of money.”

Rob shrugged. “It’s Hollywood. That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

Kobe smiled. “Titanic.”

Rob looked at him again. “Cameron’s movie?”

“Yeah.”

“What about it?”

“I want to know how they’re financing it.”

Rob stopped walking. “You want to know how Titanic is financed?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I heard you. I’m trying to figure out why.”

Kobe smiled. “I’m interested.”

“That usually costs me time.”

“That’s why I pay you.”

Rob laughed. “You haven’t paid me nearly enough for this yet.”

They started walking again.

“Can you find out?” Kobe asked.

“I can ask around. What exactly are you looking for?”

“Who’s financing it. Who owns what. Whether they’re bringing in any more money.”

Rob gave him a sideways look. “You’re thinking about putting money into it.”

“I’m thinking about finding out if that’s even possible.”

“That sounds suspiciously similar.”

“It isn’t.”

“It will be if I come back and tell you it is possible.”

Kobe couldn’t help smiling. “Then we’ll have another conversation.”

Rob sighed. “Of course we will.”

They reached the exit, and Kobe pushed open the door.

Rob followed him outside. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t know if there’s anything there. A movie that size probably has agreements all over the place already.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking you to find out instead of assuming.”

Rob nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll make a few calls.”

“Thanks.”

“And Kobe?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t buy a movie while I’m not looking.”

Kobe laughed. “No promises.”

They continued toward the car. Kobe wasn’t trying to learn how Hollywood worked. He had already spent one lifetime doing that.

What he needed to know was much simpler.

Was there a way into Titanic?