Chapter 75: The Unsinkable Bet (Bonus Chapter)

Three days after Rob left the Lakers’ training room with a folder full of questions he couldn’t answer, Kobe found himself sitting across from the woman who apparently could.

Allison Mercer’s office was on the fourth floor of a building off Wilshire, three doors down from a dentist and above a Thai restaurant whose kitchen had already filled the hallway with garlic. Nothing about the place looked particularly Hollywood.

There were no movie posters on the walls, no framed photographs of actors, and no awards positioned where clients could accidentally notice them.

Allison had a legal pad, two folders, and a calculator arranged neatly on the table in front of her, which told Kobe more about her than any collection of photographs probably would have.

He liked her already.

Rob closed the conference-room door and settled into the chair beside him. “Allison handles film financing. Our regular attorney doesn’t, and after you turned my notes into twenty more questions, I decided I’d reached the limit of how confidently I could talk about something I don’t actually do.”

Kobe looked over. “Are you done pretending now?”

That drew the beginning of a smile from Allison before she opened the first folder. “Rob told me you are interested in the Titanic. Before we talk about putting money anywhere, I want to separate what we actually know from gossip.”

“That’s probably good,” Kobe said with a chuckle. “A lot of this started with Rob’s lunches.”

“My lunches got us here.”

“And I’m grateful for them.”

Allison continued smiling. “What we know is fairly simple. The production is expensive, it’s continuing to get more expensive, and Fox is carrying increasing exposure. The three-million-dollar figure Rob heard appears credible, but I wouldn’t treat it as confirmed until somebody at Fox says it to us directly.”

Kobe nodded. “They can cover three million themselves.”

“Of course they can. That’s one of the first things I wanted to make sure we agreed on.” Allison turned a page. “If there’s an opportunity here, it isn’t because Fox needs a basketball player to rescue its movie. Outside money can still be useful because it gives them another place to put some of the remaining risk.”

That was closer to what Kobe had been thinking since the cold tub. “So the question is what that flexibility is worth.”

“Eventually. First I need to know what you’re actually capable of offering.”

She pulled the second folder toward her.

Kobe recognized the financial summary immediately. Microsoft, Cisco and Nike sat among the investments his adviser had helped organize, along with the more conservative positions Kobe had agreed to keep around them. Lower on the page was the cash they had deliberately left outside the market.

Some of the numbers had moved since the last time he’d looked, but the overall picture was healthy.

Rob noticed where his eyes went. “Before you start admiring Microsoft, we’re not selling it.”

“I wasn’t going to touch that money.”

“That’s good to hear. I practiced a whole speech if you wanted to.”

Allison turned the summary around. “Your adviser agrees with both of you. The long-term positions stay where they are. The cash is different. You kept part of your capital liquid specifically because you didn’t want every opportunity to require selling something else first. Between that and scheduled income already coming in, three million is manageable without disturbing the portfolio.”

Kobe studied the figures for another moment. “What if we make the first three immediate and put another seven behind it?”

Allison picked up her pen. “Ten million total exposure?”

“Maximum.”

Rob leaned back in his chair. “I like ‘maximum’ better than the way he said it to me.”

Kobe smiled. “I said the same thing.”

“You said, ‘What about ten?’ There was considerably less caution in your version.”

Allison wrote the figure down. “Ten is something we can investigate. Your CPA and adviser still need to map the timing against the money you actually have available and the payments you know are coming.”

Allison continued writing. “What you’re describing is a standby commitment. Three million at closing, potentially another seven for defined qualifying costs, with a hard aggregate cap at ten. If Fox ever wants more than that, they come back and ask.”

“And I decide then.”

That part was straightforward. The next question was where the investment would actually sit.

“I don’t want Kobe Bryant personally signing the financing agreement,” Allison said. “There’s no reason for that when we can isolate the investment properly.”

Rob nodded. “I assumed we’d create an entity for it.”

Kobe had been thinking about that too. “I’d rather create something we can keep.”

Allison looked at him.

“I already have the investment side. I don’t need another version of that. But if I’m going into entertainment, even if all we’re doing right now is financing one movie, I don’t want to rebuild the structure from nothing the next time something comes up.”

“That’s reasonable,” Allison said. “As long as we’re clear about what it is. On the first day, this isn’t a studio. It doesn’t need employees, development people or another office. It needs to be a clean entity capable of holding an investment and the rights attached to it.”

Kobe thought briefly about Granity. He knew better than anyone in the room how much distance existed between filing papers for a company and building one capable of producing anything worthwhile.

“That works for now.”

“Then it needs a name.”

For the first time that morning, he didn’t need to think.

“Infinity Entertainment.”

Rob looked over immediately.

Only a few days earlier, he’d brought the final Adidas paperwork to Kobe’s office. Julian had created the original design while working on KOBE: ORIGIN, which meant the moment the eight became something larger, there had been an ownership question waiting behind it.

Rob had dropped the folder on Kobe’s desk and taken the chair across from him. “It’s finished. Adidas signed the separation.”

Kobe opened the folder. The infinity symbol appeared near the top of the first page, surrounded by far more legal language than the simple drawing seemed capable of producing.

“So what’s theirs?”

“The upright eight remains available for Origin and the agreed Kobe-Adidas products. The underlying infinity mark is yours. Your attorneys handled the assignment and the trademark filing, so outside those agreed Adidas uses, you don’t need to call them every time you want to do something with it.”

Kobe read farther down. “Julian?”

“Covered and credited.”

“Amazing. I don’t want him disappearing from his own work because lawyers got involved.”

“He won’t.”

Now Allison wrote Infinity Entertainment across the top of her legal pad.

“You already control the logo rights?”

“The trademark paperwork is handled,” Rob said. “Adidas kept the agreed rights around the number eight and Kobe’s products with them. The Infinity mark belongs to Kobe. I’ll send you the documents.”

“Then Infinity can hold this investment, any participation that comes back from it, and whatever entertainment rights make sense later. Everything else stays in the structure he already has.”

Kobe looked at the name on the page. “That’s what I want.”

Allison underlined it once. “Then congratulations. We’ve built exactly one piece of your entertainment company.”

Rob laughed. “That’s probably enough for a Monday.”

The conversation with Kobe’s parents happened two evenings later at home and was considerably less dramatic than the collection of folders on the kitchen table made it look.

His father wanted to understand where the money was coming from, so Allison and Kobe’s financial team walked him through it. The initial three million could come from liquidity already preserved for opportunities. His investments would stay untouched. The remaining seven million wasn’t leaving Kobe’s accounts immediately; it would only be drawn if Fox met the conditions in the eventual agreement.

His father looked over the summary. “So you’re not putting ten million into the movie tomorrow.”

“No,” Kobe said. “Three to start. The rest is available if they actually need it.”

His mother had listened quietly through most of the numbers. “And how much time is this going to take once the season starts?”

“Not much from me. Allison handles the film side, the investment people handle the money, and Rob makes sure everybody can find me when they need a signature.”

Rob nodded. “I’m very good at finding him.”

His mother smiled. “He is going to need the help because he already has a job.”

Kobe couldn’t help but laugh.

By the end of the evening, everyone understood the structure. His parents weren’t being asked to become movie financiers, and Kobe wasn’t trying to turn his rookie season into a second career. They wanted to know that the money was being handled carefully and that basketball was still where his attention belonged.

It was.

Infinity Entertainment was formally created soon afterward. It didn’t get a new office or a staff because it didn’t need either. Kobe already owned a modest office, already had people handling his accounting and investments, and now had Allison available for entertainment matters.

Then Fox agreed to meet.

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By the time Kobe sat down with Fox in Century City, Allison had already spent several days exchanging calls and drafts with the studio’s business-affairs people.

Bill Mechanic sat across from him with Tom Rothman a few seats down, while two attorneys handled most of the paperwork spread across the table. A revised term sheet sat between them beside a pot of coffee that had barely been touched.

Mechanic shook Kobe’s hand before they sat. “I’ve had some unusual meetings since this movie started, but I’ll admit this wasn’t one I expected.”

Rob smiled. “I had roughly the same reaction when he first brought it up.”

A laugh rippled around the table before Mechanic opened the term sheet. “The immediate three million is straightforward. The standby is actually the more interesting part for us.”

Rothman nodded. “Three million now is useful. Knowing another seven is available if qualifying costs keep moving gives us flexibility.”

“That’s how I was looking at it,” Kobe said. “If you don’t need the rest, I keep it. If you do, Infinity’s participation increases with what it actually funds.”

One of the attorneys glanced at the proposed ladder. “The structure works. Most of the distance between us is in the percentages.”

Fox had proposed three percent if Infinity ultimately funded the full ten million. Kobe’s side had opened at five.

Neither number was likely to survive the afternoon, but most of the agreement was less complicated.

The production side was simple. Titanic was already well into filming, and Kobe wasn’t arriving months into Cameron’s movie expecting a voice in how it was made.

Infinity would have no authority over the remaining production, editing, final cut or release.

Kobe was providing capital, not joining the filmmaking team, which suited him perfectly.

Recoupment took more discussion. Allison wanted clear accounting for Infinity’s money and a defined path for how it came back, while Fox didn’t want late capital jumping ahead of everything already invested in the picture.

They eventually settled on defined recoupment, agreed deductions, and audit rights without superior first-dollar priority.

Allison showed Kobe the revised language. “This protects what actually matters without spending leverage trying to move you to the front of the line.”

Kobe read it. “I’m good with it.”

A few minutes later, one of Fox’s attorneys reached the credit section. “You have an association credit listed for Infinity.”

Kobe nodded. “It is an important addition.”

Mechanic looked at the proposed wording.

IN ASSOCIATION WITH INFINITY ENTERTAINMENT

“The company more than your own name?” he asked.

“For now, yes. Infinity is new. If we’re putting real money into the picture, I want the company to have a track record people can point to afterward.”

Rothman smiled. “That’s probably the first time I’ve heard somebody in this business ask for his own name to be smaller.”

Rob leaned back. “Give him a few years, and that might change.”

Mechanic looked at the wording again. “I don’t have a problem with the association credit. We’ll work out placement and presentation with Allison.”

“That’s fine,” she said.

The attorney moved to the next provision. “Executive Producer if the full ten million is funded.”

Mechanic looked toward Kobe. “That one requires Cameron and Lightstorm. I can’t promise a production credit without their approval.”

“I expected that,” Kobe said. “Let’s make it conditional. If Infinity doesn’t fund the full ten, it never comes up.”

Allison nodded. “Full funding triggers Fox’s obligation to seek the necessary approval. If it’s granted, Kobe receives Executive Producer credit. It doesn’t give him authority over the production or the finished film.”

“That works for Fox,” Mechanic said.

Kobe smiled. “James Cameron doesn’t need a shooting guard showing up halfway through production and telling him where to put the camera.”

Mechanic laughed. “I think Jim appreciates his creative freedom.”

With the credit issues settled, they moved through the economic definitions. The participation would apply to a defined Fox-side pool rather than worldwide box-office gross, with agreed treatment for theatrical revenue, home video and television. Kobe followed the economics while Allison handled the contractual language.

By late afternoon, the ladder was nearly finished. Three million gave Infinity 1.5 percent. Five million moved it to two percent, and seven and a half raised it to three percent.

Only the final tier remained.

“We’re comfortable at four if the entire ten gets called,” Mechanic said.

Kobe considered it. “I can move from five. Four and a half is where I think this should finish.”

Mechanic leaned back slightly. “We’ve already moved a full point.”

“And I’ve moved half of one,” Kobe said.

Rothman smiled. “At least everybody’s moving.”

Kobe looked down at the term sheet. “The standby has value too. You get three million now and another seven already committed if you need it. We gave up first-dollar priority, and the highest percentage only applies if you use every dollar. Four and a half works for me.”

Mechanic spoke quietly with Rothman and the attorneys for a moment before turning back.

“Four and a half at ten. The lower tiers stay where they are.”

Kobe glanced at Allison. She checked the numbers and nodded.

“That works.”

Allison summarized the agreement. “Three million at 1.5 percent. Five at two. Seven and a half at three. Ten at 4.5. Defined Fox-side participation, agreed downstream categories, recoupment and audit rights. Infinity receives the association credit, and full funding triggers Fox’s obligation to seek approval for Kobe’s Executive Producer credit. Ten million remains the hard cap.”

Mechanic closed his copy. “That’s the deal.”

Kobe extended his hand. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

The final documents arrived two days later. Allison walked Kobe through them once more before he signed.

Allison slid the signature page toward him. “Everything we negotiated is there.”

Kobe looked once more at the infinity symbol above the company name. A few weeks earlier, it had been a drawing on Julian’s page. Now it belonged to a company with three million dollars committed to a Twentieth Century Fox picture.

He signed.

There wasn’t a celebration afterward. Allison gathered the documents, Rob made sure Kobe had his copies, and the three of them left. Infinity had its first investment and its first credit. Anything involving the remaining seven million could wait until Fox actually needed it.

By the time Kobe got home, the business part of his day already felt farther away.

Upstairs, his Lakers bag sat open near the closet. Kobe loosened his tie, left his jacket over the chair and checked the bag even though he’d already packed most of it. His shoes, tape and practice gear were where they belonged, while his playbook sat on the desk beside the schedule.

He picked it up and flipped through a few pages before checking the schedule again. Two days. After months of workouts, training camp, preseason games and everything else that had filled his life since coming back, the season was finally here.

Kobe could already feel the excitement building. Preseason had been useful, but it wasn’t the same. In two days the lights would come on, the building would fill, the record would start at 0–0, and every possession would finally count.

He went through the playbook for a little while longer before setting it beside his bag. There wasn’t much else he needed to do tonight, and for once there wasn’t another meeting, contract or decision waiting for him.

Kobe checked his alarm and turned off the lamp. Two more days, and his NBA career would begin all over again.

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Finally, we’re through most of the background work!

I know the last several chapters have spent a lot of time setting up Kobe’s life outside of basketball, but I wanted to establish the foundation for how he’s going to advance financially and commercially in this new life instead of just having businesses, investments, and opportunities randomly appear later. With his investments, Adidas, the Infinity brand, Infinity Entertainment, and now Titanic in place, that foundation is finally there.

Now it’s time to get back to basketball.

The season opener is next, and I’m excited to finally get into Kobe’s rookie season and see what this version of him can do once the games actually count.

I really appreciate everyone who continues supporting the story and helping it grow.

This chapter is a bonus chapter because of that support, and I’ll keep the same bonus system going:

🐍 Out.