“I am, but I need some cooperation from you.”
“You got it,” he said, polishing off the doughnut. “Sugar pie.”
Nineteen
Kim insisted on getting an early start each morning. By eight o’clock, she was either on the phone or at the computer, preparing her game plan for Bo Crutcher. And finally, for the first time since she’d fled from L.A., she felt anchored to something. She was in her element. It was pathetic, discovering how much she missed this part of her old life. She couldn’t help herself—the work brought her an incredible sense of satisfaction. The pressure and challenge of it was exciting. Even the seeming impossibility of making someone like Bo Crutcher into a star was exhilarating.
She consulted the off-season schedule provided by Gus Carlyle, then glanced through the open door at her client, who was currently in the sitting room, teaching his son “Deep in the Heart of Texas” on his electric bass, killing time before the bus. Since Bo had decided to stay in Avalon, there had been a perceptible thawing in AJ’s attitude. Every once in a while, the boy forgot his worries about his mother, and the bond between him and Bo had a chance to flourish.
Whenever she grew frustrated with her client, Kim reminded herself of this.
The schedule listed a program of upcoming physical training with a strength coach. That aspect of the program would be no problem. Despite all his complaining, Bo was a natural athlete who excelled at physical challenges. He was doing sixty throws a day at the indoor gym, and Kim couldn’t wait to see him on the mound. The strength and grace of a talented pitcher was a thing of beauty; she had no worries about him in that regard. The real trouble would start when he had to step up for meetings with club management and the media. In addition to the upcoming gala reception for patrons, boosters and sponsors, they needed to prepare for New Player Week. He would require a press portfolio and media training right away.
She made some notes on the schedule and then joined them, pausing in the doorway for a moment. After the bass lesson, they’d moved on to ripping a phone book in half. Unguarded, they looked like father and son, although they probably didn’t realize it. On the surface, the two were wildly dissimilar. AJ lacked Bo’s lanky frame. The boy’s Latino coloring contrasted with his father’s blue eyes and Germanic features. Yet when AJ laughed and his eyes sparkled, it was Bo’s spirit that shone from the boy’s face. Bo was like a big kid around his son, with endless patience for silliness.
He was still grinning when he noticed her, and his smile widened. “Time to get to work,” he said to AJ. “I gotta go learn how to be a big-league player.”
“I don’t see what’s so hard about it,” AJ said. “You said you’ve been pitching since Little League.”
“The pitching I can handle. It’s everything else I need help with. What’s on the agenda now, coach?”
“An extreme makeover,” Kim informed him.
He traded a glance with AJ. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said.
“You’re probably not going to like any of it,” she warned him. She had a long list of things to do in order to prepare him for the gala reception in New York that would kick off New Player Week.
“Try me,” he said.
“You need a publicity photo.”
“I got one. It’s up on the Hornets’ Web site.”
“That one looks like a mug shot.”
“It kind of is. Ray Tolley, from my band, he’s a cop. He took the picture.”
“We’ll need a new photo. Your new ones are going to look like fine art.”
“You’re the boss.”
“We’ll get a whole portfolio of shots, professionally done.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“I’ll book a studio in the city.”
“No need.”
“Look, we’re doing this my way, or—”
“I’ll go along with getting a new picture made, but we’re using my photographer.”
“You have a photographer?”
“Daisy Bellamy. My best friend Noah’s stepdaughter. She can use the work.”
“It’s nice of you to think of your friend, but no. We need a pro. We need—”
“Hang on a second.” He went to the rotunda and returned with a coffee table book. It was one she recognized—Food For Thought, Jenny Majesky McKnight’s memoir about the Sky River Bakery. He handed it to her. Now she noticed the line on the cover: Photographs by Daisy Bellamy. Paging through the glossy book, Kim was impressed by the quality of the photographs and the photographer’s eye for composition.
“She’s a pro, then.”
“A college student, studying photography. But she shoots like a pro.”
“Is she available?”
“We’ll have to ask.”
“Excellent. Give me her number, and I’ll set everything up. In the meantime, we’ve got a lot of work to do.” She enumerated the things they needed to cover—grooming, bio, message development, delivery, on-camera exercises and general issues of poise.
He listened, frowning. Then he said, “I’d rather have my teeth drilled.”
“Actually, that’s on the schedule,” she said. “Not exactly drilling, but teeth whitening.”
“Oh, man.”
She glared at him. “We made a deal. You hired me to do a job and I intend to deliver. I’ve done this before, and there’s a progression. Before the publicity photos, the first order of business is your teeth. It’s one of the first and simplest parts of this process.”
“I use that whitening toothpaste,” he protested.
“Permanent whitening.”
“Shoot.”
“Who’s your dentist? We need to make sure he can do the instant whitening technique.”
“You’re assuming I have a dentist.”
Kim frowned. “You don’t?”
“Just a reminder, up until November, I was making a pittance for playing baseball and tending bar for tips. I went to the dentist once for a toothache. What he did to fix it made the toothache seem mild, so I haven’t
