Re: Second Coming: A SuperSonics Return
April 29th, 2018
Stepping out into the cold, wet air, Max zipped up his hoodie and shut his car door, mind racing as to exactly what he was doing here. The restaurant he was at wasn't one of his favorites, but had caught the eye of the person he was meeting. As expected, that person had already arrived ahead of him.
Well, at least his security had, anyway. Two Goliath-like figures stood one the left and right side of the doors, faces covered in thick, black beards and both were dressed in sharp, black suits. Max suddenly felt under-dressed for this but the meeting had been arranged hastily.
Unexpected phone calls in the dead of the morning resulted in that sometimes. Should have come in my pajamas, he thought wryly. The man on the right simply opened the door wordlessly as Max approached and Max, just as wordlessly, entered into the restaurant.
The inside was nice but nothing special. There was only one man sitting in the restaurant, sitting at a table in the middle of the room, a cup of coffee before him, steam coming off of it in waves. Max stopped mid-stride when he saw him. "Mikhail Prokhorov?"
The Russian stood from his chair, his 6'8" height towering over anyone -- including his own guards outside -- and he flashed a smile. "Maxwell, come, come, sit."
Max nodded, still stunned, and did as he was told. Prokhorov snapped his fingers and another guard came out from behind the kitchen. The guard set the coffee before Max and quickly left, almost as though he were never there in the first place. "I'm ... well." Max held up a finger and took a deep sip of the coffee. The caffeine was instantly satisfying.
"Good, no? This is my favorite restaurant in all of Washington. Good atmosphere. Good coffee." He smirked. "You thought to never see me again, yes?"
Max set his coffee down and nodded. "I scarcely believed that you would actually be here. I half-thought I misheard since it was so early in the morning."
Prokhorov offered a small shrug. "I apologize for the early call, but this was important." He leaned back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face. "It is official. I am new president of Russia."
Max, mid-swallow, nearly choked on his coffee. "The courts ruled in your favor?!"
"Yes, they did." Prokhorov's smile seemed to stretch for miles. "After the second round of ballot casting, I thought for sure that I had it, but Putin was not so easy to push aside." He sipped his coffee, then laughed. "But he doesn't matter anymore. I am president -- the courts have ruled that I won the election and I take office in May." He help up his cup. "All thanks to you, my friend."
Max pushed a finger into his own chest, partly just to check if he was dreaming. "But ... me?"
"Yes, you. The money you paid for the team, the software you designed for my campaign ... those things were big. Very big." Prokhorov reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a yellow envelope. "And so, I have come here to return your favor, to show my friendship, yes?" He set it lightly on the table before Max. "Open it."
Every mafia movie he had ever seen flashed at once in his mind, all the them telling him not to open the envelope. But, he put that aside, reached forward, opened it, and pulled out a document. The date immediately caught his eye. "February 4th, 2008?"
"Yes, my friend. That is the date I was forced to sign a non-disclosure agreement." He leaned forward, his smile becoming serious. "I was almost the owner of the Sonics."
Max's stomach did a flip. "You?" It was the only question worth asking. He looked back down at the document, furiously reading over it. "Bennett nearly sold them to you ... "
"Nearly," Prokhorov said with disdain. "He was facing much resistance. He wanted much money and I had much money. But he pulled out. The former commissioner Stern made me a promise that I would be NBA owner."
Max flipped through the rest of the document, not even needing to really read it to know what happened next. "And part of that promise was this NDA." He tossed it back onto the table, eyes questioning. "Stern silenced you, promised ownership, and let Bennett take the Sonics to OKC."
The Russian offered a singular nod. "I wanted Seattle, make no mistake. There was little competition for market here, my business would have been good." He took a sip of his coffee, then tapped the yellow envelope again. "More there."
Max felt the envelope, feeling a small bulge, and then reached into it to pull out a red USB key, no markings on it. "What's this?"
"Bennett's lies, exposed." Prokhorov finished his coffee and leaned back. "Bennett was the reason your brother's story was splashed all over the news. Bennett dug it up, released it, and watched. He exposed your family to that."
Max's hand gripped tightly around the stick. Bennett did that? No NBA owner would dare do that to another. It was unheard of it in the annals of league history.
"Don't look so surprised, Maxwell. Ownership of a sports team is as dangerous as being president." He stood from the table, adjusting his tie. "Trust me when I say to trust no one. You have impressed some, scared many others, and made enemies. Like snakes, they must be dealt with. How you do it, is your business. But if you let them linger for too long, they will multiple and overrun you, and everything you love." His face became stone cold, not a hint of playfulness about it. "Trust me on that as well."
Prokhorov gave Max a pat on the shoulder and then exited the restaurant, his guards following after him.
Max had been given a weapon.
And he wanted to use it.
April 29th, 2018
Stepping out into the cold, wet air, Max zipped up his hoodie and shut his car door, mind racing as to exactly what he was doing here. The restaurant he was at wasn't one of his favorites, but had caught the eye of the person he was meeting. As expected, that person had already arrived ahead of him.
Well, at least his security had, anyway. Two Goliath-like figures stood one the left and right side of the doors, faces covered in thick, black beards and both were dressed in sharp, black suits. Max suddenly felt under-dressed for this but the meeting had been arranged hastily.
Unexpected phone calls in the dead of the morning resulted in that sometimes. Should have come in my pajamas, he thought wryly. The man on the right simply opened the door wordlessly as Max approached and Max, just as wordlessly, entered into the restaurant.
The inside was nice but nothing special. There was only one man sitting in the restaurant, sitting at a table in the middle of the room, a cup of coffee before him, steam coming off of it in waves. Max stopped mid-stride when he saw him. "Mikhail Prokhorov?"
The Russian stood from his chair, his 6'8" height towering over anyone -- including his own guards outside -- and he flashed a smile. "Maxwell, come, come, sit."
Max nodded, still stunned, and did as he was told. Prokhorov snapped his fingers and another guard came out from behind the kitchen. The guard set the coffee before Max and quickly left, almost as though he were never there in the first place. "I'm ... well." Max held up a finger and took a deep sip of the coffee. The caffeine was instantly satisfying.
"Good, no? This is my favorite restaurant in all of Washington. Good atmosphere. Good coffee." He smirked. "You thought to never see me again, yes?"
Max set his coffee down and nodded. "I scarcely believed that you would actually be here. I half-thought I misheard since it was so early in the morning."
Prokhorov offered a small shrug. "I apologize for the early call, but this was important." He leaned back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face. "It is official. I am new president of Russia."
Max, mid-swallow, nearly choked on his coffee. "The courts ruled in your favor?!"
"Yes, they did." Prokhorov's smile seemed to stretch for miles. "After the second round of ballot casting, I thought for sure that I had it, but Putin was not so easy to push aside." He sipped his coffee, then laughed. "But he doesn't matter anymore. I am president -- the courts have ruled that I won the election and I take office in May." He help up his cup. "All thanks to you, my friend."
Max pushed a finger into his own chest, partly just to check if he was dreaming. "But ... me?"
"Yes, you. The money you paid for the team, the software you designed for my campaign ... those things were big. Very big." Prokhorov reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a yellow envelope. "And so, I have come here to return your favor, to show my friendship, yes?" He set it lightly on the table before Max. "Open it."
Every mafia movie he had ever seen flashed at once in his mind, all the them telling him not to open the envelope. But, he put that aside, reached forward, opened it, and pulled out a document. The date immediately caught his eye. "February 4th, 2008?"
"Yes, my friend. That is the date I was forced to sign a non-disclosure agreement." He leaned forward, his smile becoming serious. "I was almost the owner of the Sonics."
Max's stomach did a flip. "You?" It was the only question worth asking. He looked back down at the document, furiously reading over it. "Bennett nearly sold them to you ... "
"Nearly," Prokhorov said with disdain. "He was facing much resistance. He wanted much money and I had much money. But he pulled out. The former commissioner Stern made me a promise that I would be NBA owner."
Max flipped through the rest of the document, not even needing to really read it to know what happened next. "And part of that promise was this NDA." He tossed it back onto the table, eyes questioning. "Stern silenced you, promised ownership, and let Bennett take the Sonics to OKC."
The Russian offered a singular nod. "I wanted Seattle, make no mistake. There was little competition for market here, my business would have been good." He took a sip of his coffee, then tapped the yellow envelope again. "More there."
Max felt the envelope, feeling a small bulge, and then reached into it to pull out a red USB key, no markings on it. "What's this?"
"Bennett's lies, exposed." Prokhorov finished his coffee and leaned back. "Bennett was the reason your brother's story was splashed all over the news. Bennett dug it up, released it, and watched. He exposed your family to that."
Max's hand gripped tightly around the stick. Bennett did that? No NBA owner would dare do that to another. It was unheard of it in the annals of league history.
"Don't look so surprised, Maxwell. Ownership of a sports team is as dangerous as being president." He stood from the table, adjusting his tie. "Trust me when I say to trust no one. You have impressed some, scared many others, and made enemies. Like snakes, they must be dealt with. How you do it, is your business. But if you let them linger for too long, they will multiple and overrun you, and everything you love." His face became stone cold, not a hint of playfulness about it. "Trust me on that as well."
Prokhorov gave Max a pat on the shoulder and then exited the restaurant, his guards following after him.
Max had been given a weapon.
And he wanted to use it.
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