Today You Can Make History

PART I

MINNEAPOLIS

MINNESOTA

The plan was simple:

Get the job done, keep my distance, go back.

However… Juan Alberto Diaz hadn’t read the plan.

CHAPTER 1

BARBARA MİNA GILMORE

You know how sometimes you just want to kill someone? Like, you have one of those moments where you completely lose it, and all you can see in your mind is yourself strangling them or beating the hell out of them until you've gotten every last bit of your anger out.

Yeah. That was exactly what was happening in my head right now.

I really wanted to kill the man I was talking to on the phone. But since that wasn't exactly an option, I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths.

My therapist had told me breathing exercises helped with anger and stress. Whether they actually did or not, I wasn't sure, but it was better than doing nothing.

Just as I was nearing my last breath, Mitchell interrupted my exercise with his grating voice. “I'm sorry, but the trade isn't happening, Gilmore.”

He said my last name mockingly, rolling it around his tongue like a piece of gum.

I'd gotten so used to the jokes about my surname —or what he considered his little “put-downs”—that I didn't even bother rolling my eyes anymore.

But what he said next was enough to make me snap. “Actually, you know what? I'm not sorry at all.” He let out an ugly laugh. “I'm not one of those suck-ups who'll do whatever you tell them.”

“Yes,” I said through clenched teeth. “Even suck-ups have a purpose. Something they're working toward. What's your purpose in this life, Mitchell Pears? I hear you really enjoy licking palms. Considering how often you do it.”

I could almost see the bald, swollen head atop his fat body turning red. “The trade isn't happening, Gilmore. Let's see who's left licking their palm now!”

Me.

I'd been asking for my player's trade for two seasons, and both times Mitchell had been the reason it fell through.

So, just like he'd said, I was the one left empty-handed.

But I was the kind of woman who could bleed from the mouth and still call it red sherbet. My mother had taught me that saying. Apparently, that's how Turkish women were.

Strength was in my blood.

Even if I was left empty-handed, there was no way I was going to admit it while looking the other person in the eye.

Granted, we were talking on the phone, but still.

“I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I'm going straight to the team president, Mitchell. For two seasons, you've refused to play my player and refused to let him be traded. We're talking about a basketball player's career here. I won't let you mess with my player's career just because you hate me. Especially not someone like you—”

“I won't remind you who you are,” he cut me off. “And I won't remind you who I am, either. You must have at least a little sense in that head of yours if you've made it this far. Everyone has a price in this life, and everyone has a place. After all these years, you should have learned not to overstep your boundaries. You…”

This time, I cut him off.

“Me?”

I practically roared the word.

If we hadn't been stuck in a never-ending stream of traffic, the taxi driver might have crashed.

Actually, that wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe I'd die and finally be free.

“My name is Barbara Mina Gilmore!” I shouted. “Do you hear me? I know exactly who I am. I don't need you to remind me, and I won't hesitate to show you, either. There's only one person here who's overstepping their boundaries, and it isn't me.”

Mitchell, the manager of the Detroit team, was one of the biggest assholes in the NBA. Untrustworthy. Strangely arrogant. A schemer and a fraud. I genuinely had no idea why Detroit's management still worked with him when they knew exactly what kind of man he was. He caused the team far more trouble than he was worth.

Mitchell made a dismissive sound deep in his throat. “You trust Bradley, don't you?” he asked.

I imagined his mockery turning into solid tar, and me shoving it down Mitchell's throat.

“Being the manager of the best basketball player in the world must be nice. You think you can challenge businessmen who are far more powerful than you just because you have his power behind you.” He laughed. “Without Bradley James, you're nothing, Barbara Mina Gilmore.”

I could practically hear the contempt dripping from my name on his tongue.

“Everyone knows you've earned your reputation and gotten everything done because of him. But you know what?” He paused. “That doesn't work on me. Of course, if you put those short little legs of yours to—”

“ENOUGH!”

I screamed so loudly that the taxi driver practically jumped out of his seat. He kept stealing glances at me through the rearview mirror, but every time I looked at him, he immediately turned his eyes back to the road. He looked like he was afraid that if we made eye contact, I'd turn him to ash with a laser beam.

“Try me again. One more time, Mitchell! If you have one more abusive conversation with me, that will be the last conversation you ever have in this business. I won't just ruin your career. I'll ruin your life, too!”

“Oh, really? What are you going to do, sweetheart? Go complain to your second daddy, Bradley?”

Die. I wanted him dead.

“I'm a manager who gets the best contracts for my players. Calum Silver recently named me Mother of NBA. Do you know how I achieved that at this age, in such a short amount of time?” I didn't give him a chance to answer this time. This was actually my last card to play, but I was about to explode. “Through nothing but my own work ethic and authority. Bradley James may be the most famous basketball player in the world, and I may be his manager. But that doesn't give me my reputation. Contrary to what you think, I'm here today because I earned that reputation myself, and that's why I'm Bradley's manager. And you men can be so fucking stupid sometimes that I have no problem using that against you. That's my secret to success. I have dirt on every single one of you. Work ethic and integrity are extremely important to me, but I'm smart enough not to play the saint when I'm dealing with men like you. Push me too far, and I'll hang your dirty laundry where the whole world can see it, then celebrate my victory with a glass of wine.”

Mitchell's swallow was so loud I could hear it through the phone. He was just about to launch into a furious counterattack when I hung up on him. I blocked his number completely and sent an email to the Detroit team's vice president saying that I wanted to meet with him as soon as possible.

The relief that spread through every inch of my body when I hit send finally allowed me to relax a little. But nothing had actually been solved.

I'd met Tyrese, who played for the Detroit Pistons, two and a half years ago, when he was still playing college basketball. He was a talented shooter. Very talented. Whenever I thought about what he could do if he actually got playing time, my blood practically boiled with excitement. I became Tyrese's manager that year. When the season ended, we entered the NBA Draft, and Tyrese was selected in the first round by the Celtics.

But guess what happened?

The Boston Celtics selected Tyrese because they wanted another player Detroit had drafted. The two teams sat down at the negotiating table, trades were made before the season started, and Tyrese, unfortunately, became a Detroit player. It was one of the biggest failures of my career. I couldn't forgive myself for letting it happen. Tyrese couldn't even get playing time in Detroit. Every year, when the trade window opened in January, I asked for Tyrese to be traded. But Detroit refused. Or rather, Mitchell did.

I looked out the taxi window at Minnesota, displaying itself beneath its gray sky. I shouldn't have been here right now. I should have been in Detroit with Tyrese, trying to fix this before the trade deadline passed.

But it never ended. My work never ended. Everyone looked to me to solve everything. In the middle of everything else I had going on, I'd come all the way to Minnesota to convince a player to star in a basketball movie that would be filmed in a few months. As if I had. Nothing. Else. To. Do.

“Rough day, huh?”

The taxi driver had known who I was even before I screamed my name at Mitchell. When I'd happened to get into his taxi after leaving the airport, his face had lit up, but he hadn't dared speak to me.

I had that kind of effect on people. I was one of the most intimidating women in the business world. Even a single smile from me anywhere could become the subject of conversation for days.

Did I know how to smile?

Wasn't I a robot?

Did I actually have feelings?

I wished I didn't. I wished I could be that strong woman I showed the outside world. I wished I truly didn't care about anything.

I looked at the taxi driver's clean-shaven, pink face. “Just another day.”

He nodded as if he understood. He didn't. Swallowing nervously, he said, “If you want to talk about it, I'll listen.” He was in his forties. He must have never taken off his wedding ring after getting married, because the ring had practically sunk into the extra flesh that had formed around his finger over the years. By now, he'd either have to lose weight or have the ring cut off to get it out. If he even wanted to, of course. “I mean, there's not much else to do in this traffic, I guess.”

He was genuinely afraid of me. But at the same time, he followed basketball and liked me. I seemed to inspire similar feelings in most people. They could never decide whether they should love me or hate me.

I stopped studying the man and took a deep breath. “I guess you're right,” I said, and the visible relief on his face when I didn't yell at him was almost comical. “I'm trying to get my player traded. But the team won't let him go.”

His face immediately lit up, and he grew excited. “Who? Wait! Let me guess! You said Mitchell on the phone. He must be the manager of the Detroit Pistons. Your player is Tyrese Hale, who plays there.” He paused, and his eyes widened. “You want Tyrese traded? Oh, finally! I thought no one was ever going to make it happen.”

My head was already starting to ache, but I didn't want to disappoint him, so I kept talking. “I've been trying to do this for two years. Detroit won't trade my player. They don't even give him playing time. Last summer, I even suggested terminating his contract. But that bastard Mitchell has turned into the bane of my existence.”

He nodded slowly. “Tyrese is a very talented player. He made a huge contribution to the games whenever he got playing time. Now he's sitting on the bench. Isn't there any other way?”

“No,” I said sharply, making him flinch. “Detroit owns all of Tyrese's rights. A trade was the only way out before his contract expired.” The bitter taste of my own words lingered on my tongue. I groaned. “Damn it! If Tyrese spends any more time sitting on the bench, it'll seriously hurt his career. I can't believe this is happening to me!”

“To be honest, I can't believe it either,” he said, and my eyes quickly found the driver. “I mean, you're... you're you. The woman who fixes everything, who can handle anything, Mother of NBA. When people are in trouble, they come to you, and you solve it. It's hard to believe you haven't been able to solve this. There has to be another way.”

Strangely enough, his words both affected me and made me want to throw up. I fixed everyone's problems and cleaned up after everyone. And. I. Was. Truly. Tired. But on the other hand, hearing someone say all of this to me, a manager in a profession that had always been pushed into the background... it made me proud. I was one of the few managers fans actually knew. It was nice, but it was frightening too.

My entire life was basketball, my basketball players, and more basketball.

Me? Where did I fit into all of this?

I looked away and murmured, “I... don't know,” and the man took courage from my hesitation and began speaking louder.

“I mean it, Ms. Gilmore. You became Brad James's manager at a very young age. You have four incredibly successful draft picks. Even the president of the NBA comes to you when he's in trouble. They report on all of it on TNT. Don't let a man like Mitchell do whatever he wants to you.” He suddenly turned in his seat and lowered the divider between us a little. “We know you treat all your players like family. Your players are like your children. You'd do anything for them. Tyrese deserves more than this, too. There are only a few days left before the trade deadline. You can do this. Don't waste any time.”

When a car behind us honked, he turned back around and finally followed the cars as traffic began moving again.

He was right. I was Barbara Mina Gilmore. The man I'd considered my father was one of the best basketball coaches in Europe. My mother was a highly successful former volleyball player. My brother had been drafted by one of the NBA's most coveted teams on his very first try. A year later, I'd added two new basketball players to my roster and helped them succeed in the NBA Draft as well.

I was one of the few female managers in the NBA. I was young, ambitious, and in the spotlight. I deserved to be the manager of Bradley James, the best basketball player in the world. He was the one who had offered me the job. Not the other way around.

I deserved my place in my career because I'd worked hard for it. Maybe I hadn't achieved all my dreams yet, but I was working in the sport I loved most. I was the manager of the basketball player I admired.

My family had taught me never to give up.

So I wouldn't.

I grabbed my phone determinedly, unblocked Mitchell's number, and sent him a short threatening message consisting of only two sentences.

He saw my message within ten seconds. He spent a full minute trying to process it, and on the seventieth second, my phone started ringing. With a victorious smile on my lips, I looked at the taxi driver, answered the call, and began speaking in my sweetest voice.

*****

When I got out of the taxi, the Tyrese trade was done. My player was finally going to a good team where he would get playing time.

I took a deep breath and walked into the Minnesota Timberwolves' training facility. One down, one to go. If I could convince Minnesota's power forward to star in the movie, I could go back to Turkey to stay with my family and rest until filming began. Finally, I could breathe a little.

A voice inside me told me not to get my hopes up.

The player I was going to try to convince was Juan Alberto Diaz. He was an eccentric man who kept to himself. A talented basketball player. A man with his own rules, someone who didn't particularly like being in the spotlight and kept his guard up around the outside world. He had even turned down Bradley, who was considered a basketball legend to him.

He would probably turn me down too. But this was our last resort. They wanted him for the movie. After Brad had failed to convince him, I'd had to leave Los Angeles and come all the way out here.

Even if everything seemed to be against me, what did we do?

We thought positively so that good things would happen. We called beautiful things into our lives. When we wanted something, we believed in it at the same time.

My therapist was obsessed with the power of positive thinking and had been trying to instill it in me as well.

I embraced positivity with my whole being as I stepped into the building, and I believed. I would convince Juan Alberto Diaz. When filming wrapped, I would leave all my players in the hands of my highly trusted assistant manager and leave the NBA behind. I would go to Europe and become the first female coach in men's basketball.

There was no giving up.