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risk losing that player to another rule-breaking agent. Young rookies were dazzled by the gifts and promises a smooth-talking agent could give, whether they could follow through on them or not, and often fell for them, signing representation agreements pre-dated and then stored in a safety deposit box until they could legally be revealed.
    But not Marcel Ingram.
    Marcel had refused to speak to an agent until after his last bowl game, and even then, he simply entertained the suckasses. I know because I was there. Only, I hadn’t stood in line behind a single one of them, and I hadn’t fought my way through the horde to get to Marcel. Alabama’s head coach—a very good friend of mine—had given me a personal escort into the locker room and had taken me straight to Marcel without my even having to utter a word. That is, until I found myself standing in front of the golden boy himself. But I didn’t fawn all over him and I hadn’t been starstruck. Why should I be? I was Shaw Matthews, after all.
    Marcel’s eyes had been big as saucers when I’d stood before him. He’d even stopped talking right in the middle of an interview with a major sports television station, the reporter all but disappearing when he’d caught sight of me.
    “Good game,” I’d said, offering my handshake.
    Marcel had taken my handshake with a “Thank you, Mr. Matthews.” Because yeah, my reputation had preceded me, and no introduction was necessary.
    And then I’d handed him my business card before turning and walking away, leaving the swarm of reporters buzzing with speculation for Marcel to deal with. “Marcel! Marcel! Will Shaw Matthews be your representation?” I’d heard at least half a dozen different voices ask him. I hadn’t stuck around to hear his response. They’d all know soon enough anyway. As would I.
    See, most athletes choose an agent because they have family members in the industry who use that agent, or the agent represents players from the same school they attended, or, most likely, the agent has a close relationship with the coach the rookie knows and trusts. But sometimes…sometimes an athlete makes up his own mind about what is important to him.
    Marcel, as it had turned out, was one of those athletes.
    I’d gone about my business after our first meeting and waited for him to make the next move. I’d really had no idea if he’d call. Truthfully, he could take his pick of which agent he wanted to go with, or he could follow the Elam model and choose none at all. It would be one way to pocket as much cash as possible, and I certainly wouldn’t blame him. Though it would be stupid. The money for his contract was guaranteed, but the added perks were not. He needed someone to weed through all the legal bullshit, someone to negotiate extras like his signing-bonus payment terms and off-season injury protection, to name a couple. Most important, he needed a confidant he could trust, someone who knew the ins and outs of our world and how to work them.
    He needed me.
    It had taken Marcel a few days, but he did contact me. The first call had been all about the introduction—where he’d been in his career and where he wanted to go. The second call had been the generic questions about fees, services, financial and injury strategies, and how I planned to divide my time with all the other clients I represented. I had a damn good answer for that one. In the three years since I’d become co-partner of Striker Sports Entertainment, I’d handed off all but my major athletes to some of the other agents. And although those major clients could be quite demanding of my time, they were all settled in their contract negotiations, so I could give Marcel my full attention.
    He liked that. Or so I’d assumed, since the third call had been all about setting up a face-to-face, not at his home in Kentucky but right here in San Diego at my office with SSE. He was coming to me, and that spelled all kinds of “in the bag.”
    Which was