Always one to try to draw attention, Ola Wagstrom used his massive bank account to roll out all the stops for the big night. Renting a sleek silver limo was just the start; as the luxurious, expensive ride showed up, ferrying one lone passenger, all heads snapped in that direction. Cameras clicked like automatic gunfire as Wagstrom flung open the door, sporting two insanely expensive Rolexes, one on each wrist, and straightened his black slim fit tuxedo. His collared shirt and bow tie were pristine and proper, and his hair was gelled back, falling slightly to one side. His tuxedo had been custom made by a prestigious shop and tailored just to fit him right, and as he walked by the mob of reporters, the smooth but exotic smell of his cologne wafted into their noses. Everyone knew, this was not just a highly drafted Jets prospects; this was someone with class, wealth, and elegance. Reporters, however, mostly ignored their admiration of his style and shouted questions about the Jets being short of the playoffs and Wagstrom's numbers underwhelming. The Jets forward pushed his way through the throng of reporters with a look of irritation and pursed his lips. He would not answer such provocation queries, not today.