And, finally, I set some goals. I note the average number of followers the most popular receivers have, which lands right around a million. And, most notably, our goal here is to make the fans fall even more in love with him by getting to know him so the entire organization will think twice about forcing him into an early retirement, though from what I’ve learned, his performance this season is the one thing that’ll really prove he deserves to stick around. As much as I know he’s attached to the Aces because it’s the only place he has played, it’s still a business, and if he doesn’t perform to the level they need, well, they’ll let him go.
All this from a few hours of research.
I glance over my plan, and I’m pretty proud of myself. I’ve never represented an athlete before, but if he agrees, this is going to look freaking amazing on my resume.
I bring my notes and questions to the kitchen, where I find Luke—or, rather, Luke’s backside—rummaging through the fridge.
“I’m ready,” I say.
He glances at the clock, surprise in his eyes when they return to me. “I figured you’d need all day.”
I shrug. “I’m a fast worker, but also, I definitely have about ten thousand questions to ask you before I can finalize the strategy, so this is mostly preliminary and what I discovered through some quick research and data gathering.”
“Okay,” he says, pulling out a bag of baby carrots and popping one in his mouth. He crunches down on it. “Hit me with the plan.”
I run through a quick presentation, sharing each part of my SLUTS acronym with him without actually calling it SLUTS, going over a few ways he can give back to the local community and build a brand for himself, and by the time I’m done, his brows are raised and he looks fairly impressed.
He nods. “Okay, I can get on board with building a brand. I like your community outreach ideas. And I can even approve photos of myself, or what I’m eating, or practice. Things like that. But my personal life is off-limits and my privacy remains intact no matter what.”
“Of course. It’s your social media even though I’m running it. I’ll control it as much or as little as you’re comfortable with,” I say. “But can I ask why you’re so worried about privacy?”
He stares at me for a beat as if he’s weighing what to say, and then he doesn’t really say anything at all. “It’s just important to me. At the start, I’ll need to approve everything, including captions and those stupid little number sign things.”
“Hashtags?” I ask, and he nods. “Okay, micromanager.”
He chuckles. “If you don’t mind me asking, what were you making at your last position?”
“What is all this worth to you?” I ask rather than answering. “I’ll tell you, but I’m just curious.”
“Having you post for me a few times a week?”
“Daily,” I say. “Not just to your Instagram profile page, but also to your stories. It’s best to choose one platform to focus on, but I’ll also get your Facebook and Twitter up and running. If you want Snapchat or Tik Tok, we can talk about that, too. I’ll curate everything, maximize each post for your audience, and slowly build your engagement and your followers. But bear in mind that this isn’t just me posting on your social media. I will sort of be your personal assistant when it comes to building your brand. I’ll handle scheduling interviews, working on collaborations, and finding opportunities for you. So I’m not just your PR expert and your assistant since I’ll need to basically run your calendar, but I’m also your spokesperson, social media manager, and publicist all for the price of one hot girl.”
He laughs. “Definitely hot,” he murmurs. “I’ve never had a personal assistant. I’ve never needed one.”
“Do you think you need one now?” I ask. “Because you better believe it’ll be my job to be up in your business all day every day.”
He wrinkles his nose.
“I’ll be in your face with a camera, and I’ll expect you to be completely open and honest with me,” I say. I lay it all on the line because what’s the worst that can happen? He’ll say no? Okay, then I’m right back to where I am now, and I’d rather be honest about what he can expect from me than surprise him later.
“I’m liking this idea less and less,” he mutters. “But I want to stay with the Aces. I know I need to prove myself this season, as you mentioned, but none of this other stuff can hurt me. I have no idea what that’s worth. Four hundred bucks a day, presuming you’ll be working basically twenty-four-seven?”
My eyes widen at his number. That’s, like, over a hundred grand a year. I try to mentally calculate it. Almost a hundred fifty.
Well over double what I was making before, but I wasn’t living with my clients before, either. I didn’t have any clients that were single entities that I had to brand.
Still...that’s a lot of money, so I give him my honest answer. “That’s more than double what I was making in Chicago.”
He lifts a shoulder. “From your presentation here, I think you’ll be well worth it. Let’s try it for a week or two and see how we mesh, but I think we’ll make a great team.”
“Team Dalton,” I say, and he laughs and holds up his knuckles.
I bump his knuckles with mine, and he agrees. “Team Dalton. Let’s do this. Set me up on Instagram.”
CHAPTER 19
A knock at the door pulls Luke’s attention from my explanation of stories on Instagram, which, let’s be honest, he was half-listening to anyway. It would be better if he took on the stories since I probably can’t literally be with him every second of every day (even if I wish I could be), but it is what it is. Even better, I’d love to see him going live there or tossing up some video footage from practice or from charity events or whatever, but he has to actually listen to my training in order for any of that to happen.
“Excuse me,” he says, and he heads toward the door. A few beats later, he yells, “Ellie! Your stuff’s here!”
I jump down from the stool and head toward the door. A moving truck sits out front, and the excitement that my clothes and bullet journal supplies and blankets and shoes are all here rams into me. I came here with a couple of suitcases, but this...this is what makes a home.
“Where do you want this?” one of the men standing on the porch asks.
“Clothes and shoes in the bedroom, and anything else can go into one of my offices,” Luke says. “We can move the rest from there.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “They can just put everything in my room.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine. You don’t want your room overflowing with boxes, do you?”
I shrug. I sort of figured that’s how I’d live until I find a place of my own, but this works, too. I’ll still have boxes overflowing somewhere—they’ll just be out of sight.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and the movers set to unloading boxes from the truck.
I left my furniture in my parents’ basement just in case I decide to return to Chicago. I can find a furnished place out here, and once I decide whether I’m staying here permanently, we can figure out how to get my furniture here. Everything else I own is on the truck sitting at the curb.