Page 33 of All Signs Point to Malibu

Maureen sips the coffee again and nods. “He had to work.”

I frown. “He’s working now?”

“At a grocery store, stocking shelves.”

News to me. Not that my team are under any obligation to keep me posted about their personal lives, but I thought we were all on the same page regarding Marcus’s focus.

School. Study. Football. Repeat.

“He didn’t tell me.”

“It was news to me too,” Maureen says with a shrug. “But we could definitely use the money, Coach, and you know as well as I do, trying to talk that boy out of anything is useless.”

“How often is he taking shifts?”

“They guaranteed him thirty hours a week,” she says.

“What about school?” I’m definitely overstepping, but I care about this kid’s future. Stocking shelves would be a waste of his talents and not finishing high school will limit his future options. Maureen knows this too and it’s not my place to say anything at all, but I feel like the family has entrusted me with Marcus’s future in football and they technically did sign a commitment to the team.

“He says he can keep the grades up, even if he skips a few classes. I have a meeting with his teachers next week to discuss remote learning for the rest of the year.”

Damn it. Still doesn’t solve the issue of football. I can’t move practice times for one player.

I sigh and clear my throat. “I understand the job is important, but is there some way he could take fewer hours? He has a real talent and he’s so close...”

She straightens slightly. “Look, Coach. I appreciate what you’ve done for him, but bills aren’t paid on dreams.”

I take a breath. She’s right, but... “It’s not just a dream. The kid’s incredible.” If it was any other player on my team, I wouldn’t be sitting here now making this statement, but Marcus is the exception. “He really could make it,” I say and feel it in my gut, otherwise I’d never raise their hopes. I don’t want to argue with her or push, but... “It’s just another month and Marcus could be scouted. A few more weeks...”

She stares into her coffee cup, conflicted and tired.

I’m asking her to help me with something that could change her life too. Alleviate some of the pressures she’s under. “He won’t listen to me. I need your help with this.”

She hesitates, then nods. “I’ll tell him to reduce the hours so he can make it to practice.”

My gut twists, knowing what that will mean for her. “If there’s anything I can do...”

“Keep coaching my baby and make sure this dream of his becomes a reality,” she says pointedly and I hear the note of warning in her voice—she’s trusting me and I better not fuck this up.

SEVEN

HAILEY’S DAILY RULE FOR SUCCESS:

Do your research so no one can fault your execution.

With its Mediterranean flair, the Banks Resort Hotel in Santa Monica is one of the most impressive family resorts along the coast. Whitewashed buildings with terracotta tiles and vibrant color accents, lush greenery, six outdoor pools, a swim-up bar, an upscale restaurant serving Mediterranean cuisine, and luxury all-service spa. The kind of place my mom and I would walk through, hoping no one would kick us out. She’d say, “Someday, Hails, you and I will go on vacation and stay in a resort just like this one. We’ll swim in the pool and drink pretty colored drinks with umbrellas and we’ll order room service and eat in bed while watchingSleepless in Seattle.” It was her favorite movie. Without cable, we must have watched it four hundred times on an old DVD player previous tenants had left behind.

Wearing oversized sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, I approach the front entrance. No fear of being kicked out now. And yet, the same feeling of not belonging shadows over my confidence as I near the rotating doors.

A doorman greets me with a warm, courteous nod and holds the door open as I step into the lobby. Large chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Old black-and-white photos of celebrities are featured on the walls. A faint smell of flowers and decades-old cigar smoke has embedded itself in the material history of the place. Elevator music plays and I recognize the tune as a death metal song slowed down and played softly on a piano. It gives the hotel an even cooler vibe.

Banks Resorts are known for their luxury, but they’re also on the cutting edge of new hospitality trends. One of the first hotel chains to switch to digital key entry sent directly to the guest’s smartphone for access to rooms and suites. Self-check-in stations are in the lobby, but they haven’t lost the personal touch as an attendant lingers nearby carrying a tray of champagne and assisting guests with the process.

I walk through the lobby toward the restaurant. The Koi Reserve has three Michelin stars. Rumor has it that the chef turned down an offer to work in Paris after the Bankses promised him a baby Bengal tiger. Photos of Pascal LeCroix and the amazing beast hang in the entryway of the restaurant, where a hostess greets me. I carefully check around me before removing the hat and sunglasses. While I have a legit reason to be here, I don’t want to run into Liam or Sonia just yet.

“Reservation for Harris,” I say.

The young woman with a nametag that reads Emily—with flags from eight different countries, indicating how many languages she’s fluent in—checks the reservation system and nods. “Welcome Ms. Harris. Table for two near the koi pond. Your guest has already arrived.”

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