Power Stone Goals from now on: I always post a minimum of 5 chapters. Henceforth the following are the goals:
Every 150 powerstones, I upload an extra chapter.
If we hit top 30 in the 30-90 days power stone rankings, thats 1 more chapter
If we hit top 10 in the 30-90 days power stone rankings, thats 1 more chapter
If we are top 5...well lets get to that first. Happy readings!
Chapter 7: Your now Scott Mccall
After picking up the call and placing the phone to my ear, I heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line.
"Hey, is this Jace?"
"Yes, speaking," I replied, already beginning to suspect who it might be.
"Hi, my name is Wendy O'Brien. I'm the casting director for the Teen Wolf project. I just wanted to call and personally let you know that you've been selected for the role of Scott McCall."
I couldn't help the immediate wave of satisfaction that rolled through me. It wasn't overwhelming or loud, but it was real—a kind of grounded happiness.
I turned slightly toward Sam, wanting to share the moment, but he was still deeply focused on the chessboard in front of him, brows furrowed as he considered his next move. I decided not to say anything just yet and focused back on the call.
"Also," Wendy continued, "I had a quick look through your file, and I noticed you're not currently represented by an agent. I wanted to double-check if that's accurate."
It took me a moment to register the implication. Of course, actors usually had agents or legal teams to represent them.
I knew the law well, yes, but only within the UK system. Here in the US, I wasn't qualified, licensed, or even slightly prepared to take on that kind of responsibility for myself.
She continued without skipping a beat. "We'd like to connect you with someone from CAA. I don't know if you're familiar with them, but they're the Creative Artists Agency. They're one of the top talent agencies in the country. They're very experienced working with fresh leads and will handle your contracts, bookings, and press work."
"That sounds wonderful," I replied with calm interest. "Would you mind giving me a contact number or email so I can follow up?"
"I'll pass along their email. They're already expecting to hear from you. Once you get in touch with them, we'll coordinate everything through their office moving forward."
"Thank you very much for the opportunity," I added, keeping my tone even but appreciative.
"No problem at all. You really impressed us. Everyone on the casting team felt the same way, including your scene partners. I have a few more calls to make, so I'll let you go for now. But just be ready—your new schedule will start filling up soon."
With that, she ended the call.
I lowered the phone and sat still for a moment, letting the news settle. Then, casually, I walked back toward the living room.
Sam didn't look up right away, still deep in thought about the chess match we'd left mid-game.
Without much change in tone, he asked, "Who was that?"
"Nothing major," I said with a small shrug. "Just the casting director."
That got his attention. He finally looked up, brow raised.
"Oh, I got the role," I added in a plain voice, as if I had just remembered to mention it.
Sam blinked and leaned back slightly, his surprise obvious.
"Let's go!" he said, his face lighting up as he stood and reached out.
We clasped hands and shared a quick celebratory handshake.
It was one of those moments where excitement didn't have to be loud to be real.
It didn't take long after the casting director's call for the Creative Artists Agency to get in touch.
Within the hour, I received a prompt email from someone named Nathan Keller.
His message was concise and friendly, stating that he'd been informed I would be potentially joining them and that he'd be happy to meet the following morning to go over the next steps.
Without wasting time, I confirmed the meeting. Later that night, as Sam was finishing up in the kitchen, I let him know.
"Hey, just a heads-up—I won't be able to make my shift tomorrow. I have to meet with the agent."
Sam gave me a look of understanding and nodded. "No worries. Just text me later and let me know how it goes."
The next morning, I woke up early, got ready quietly, and took the bus downtown. The cafe Nathan suggested was already open when I arrived. It had a calm, understated atmosphere—soft lighting, wooden tables, and the quiet sounds of a few early customers. It was a good place for a conversation.
Nathan was already seated near the back. He stood as I approached. Mid-thirties, neatly dressed in a tailored gray suit, he had a confident, composed look and carried himself with practiced professionalism.
"Good morning, Mr. Harper. I'm Nathan Keller. I'll be your representative here at CAA," he said, offering his hand.
"Nice to meet you," I replied, shaking his hand before taking the seat across from him.
Nathan opened a folder and placed a few neatly prepared documents on the table.
"This is our standard agreement for onboarding new talent. I'd like to walk you through the core details, and then you can decide how you'd like to proceed."
He adjusted his glasses slightly as he began explaining.
"This agreement establishes CAA as your exclusive talent representative for an initial term of two years. That means we handle all your professional bookings, contract negotiations, and project placements in television, film, and commercial entertainment."
I paused and looked up from the folder. "So this contract covers everything regarding movie and show business, correct?"
Nathan gave a confident nod. "Yes, this is regarding everything related to movies and show business. You don't have to worry—it's all standard procedure."
I nodded slowly, but inside, a more careful thought took shape.
With the entertainment system working in the background of my life, I knew that acting was only one part of the picture.
I wasn't just aiming to perform on screen. I was planning to write books, record music, and maybe even create online content—things like YouTube videos or streaming that could build an entirely different audience.
There were multiple paths to reach people now, and many of them had nothing to do with the traditional entertainment industry.
More importantly, I didn't want an agency to take a cut from the personal projects I built from scratch.
If I was doing the work, writing the material, or producing content independently, it didn't seem fair for someone else to benefit financially from it under a broad contract.
I needed to understand exactly where the line was drawn.
Nathan continued his explanation.
"In terms of commission, we take a standard 10% of your gross earnings from acting roles and appearances. For endorsements or outside promotional work, the rate may vary slightly depending on the nature of the contract."
He pointed to another section.
"We also provide marketing and publicity support. You'll be assigned a publicist from our internal team once production begins. They'll handle your media exposure, press interviews, and help shape your public image."
I nodded as I listened, flipping through the pages with more deliberate focus. The language was straightforward, but now I was looking for clarity around the boundaries.
Nathan seemed to notice my attention.
"You don't have to sign right now. I recommend taking a few hours to read through everything at your own pace. If you have someone else you want to review it with, go for it. Once you feel comfortable, just let me know and we'll proceed."
"Thanks," I said, sliding the folder toward me. "I appreciate the clarity."
After I thanked Nathan for the clarity, he nodded with a professional ease and repeated, "Of course. And again, congratulations. We're excited to have you on board."
He began to gather his things, clearly expecting to wrap up the meeting and move on with his day.
But I stopped him.
"No, it's fine," I said, gesturing lightly to his seat. "You can sit back down. I'd like to go through the contract now, if that's alright with you."
He hesitated slightly, maybe a bit caught off guard. Still, he sat back down, adjusting his blazer.
"Sure," he said. "Sorry, did you have more questions?"
"No," I replied as I opened the folder. "I'll just take a look through the contract right now."
Nathan offered a polite nod but then spoke with a trace of caution.
"Um, I understand that you might be eager to move forward, but I think it would be wise to review it in your own time—and maybe have someone else look it over with you, just to be safe."
I looked up from the pages and gave a small, knowing smirk.
What he didn't realize—and what I wasn't planning to share—was that I had more than a decade of legal experience.
Admittedly, my background was in UK law, not American, and I wasn't certified in this jurisdiction, but that didn't change the fact that I had spent years buried in contracts far more complex than this. Reviewing this document was well within my comfort zone. In my old life, finding ambiguity or edge cases in multi-party legal disputes was just part of the job.
So, while this contract might seem daunting to someone new to the business, to me it felt familiar. This wasn't the fine print of high-level mergers or negotiations. It was a standard contract for a first-time actor.
As I scanned the document, I paid close attention to the clauses that dealt with the scope of representation.
Sure enough, it was clear: CAA would handle everything related to my work in film, television, and promotional appearances.
If they secured the opportunity, they got a cut. But if I created something independently—a book, a music track, a video on my own platform—that fell outside the bounds of this agreement.
That was ideal.
It meant I could still pursue other avenues. My system wasn't built to only support me in acting. I had plans to write, to perform music, and possibly even develop a personal online brand through content creation.
And none of that would be tied up in this contract. CAA had no claim over anything I made on my own.
I made a mental note: this was one of the rare moments where the system and my legal background complemented each other perfectly.
If the agency was going to benefit from my work, they had to contribute something to it. Otherwise, they wouldn't see a dime.
Satisfied, I signed the agreement and slid it back across the table.
Nathan raised his eyebrows slightly. I could tell he was trying to read my expression.
To him, I probably looked rushed, inexperienced, maybe even reckless. I wasn't offended. I knew what he saw—an enthusiastic young actor who had just landed his first big break, now making decisions faster than expected.
He might note it for future reference when communicating with the agency or during his internal updates, but that didn't concern me.
He took the folder back, reviewing the signature.
"Alright," he said, businesslike again. "Now that we have that part finalized, I can share a bit more detail about your agreement with the show."
He adjusted his seat and continued.
"Teen Wolf has already started budgeting for Season 1, and I've had brief discussions with their team. I wasn't able to push the conversation too far without a signed agreement in place, but from what they've shared, I can give you a general idea."
I nodded, waiting for him to continue.
"You're probably looking at somewhere between $15,000 and $17,500 per episode," he said. "They're confident about the show's future and are allocating a solid budget for the lead."
He looked up to make sure I was following.
"With Season 1 planned for twelve episodes, that places your total earnings between $180,000 and $210,000 for the full season."
I paused for a second and then added, "I'd like for you to push toward the higher end of that range, if possible. I want to make sure I'm earning as much as I can."
Nathan let out a short laugh.
"Yes, of course. That's my job. I'll try my best to get you as much as possible—you don't have to worry about that."
...
Authors note:
You can read some chapters ahead if you want to on my p#treon.com/Fat_Cultivator