Page 23 of Playing the Field
“Sorry?”
“There are seven muffins in the kitchen. And I’m the one who should be sorry. I ate one without asking.”
My mouth opens, but I struggle to find words. “You—you did?”
“Guilty.”
He smiles like a canary-nabbing cat, and it’s hard to find fault with him. I nod. “Okay, then. Looks like you’re getting the good end of the deal here.”
“I’ll make it even if you want. Anytime you’re in the market for a soccer coaching session, I’m your guy.”
I laugh at that ridiculous idea and turn back to the computer screen, waving him in the direction of the kitchen. I don’t want him to see the smile on my face. I know he doesn’t mean he’s “my guy” in any way other than soccer coaching, like he said, but the words make my face heat regardless.
I tap out a few coding instructions and watch as the data populates the screen. While he’s busy in the kitchen, I pull up his file and decide which data I want to share. It’s like a patient asking to see a medical chart. Without a proper explanation, some of the levels and scores would look troubling.
Even though it’s his data and his body I’m analyzing, I don’t want to give him too much information all at once. Some of it may feel misleading if I don’t present it correctly. I shake my head at myself. I don’t even know what he wants to know. This will probably be a five-minute lesson, and his eyes will glaze over. I don’t need to overthink it.
Kyler’s storage area is a mess of skate wear, from helmets to elbow and knee pads. Several surfboards are propped against one wall, and a box of surf paraphernalia sits beneath them. I see jars of board wax, various rash guards that companies have sent him to sample, and supplements with sun-protective properties. I look forward to when he comes back from his trip because I want to learn more about his growing business, but for now, I do my best not to disturb anything.
“Crazy that Ky made a job from spending every available hour at the beach,” Hunter says, approaching me with an outstretched arm holding a muffin on a plate. In his other hand, he has a coffee cup with a teabag hanging out.
“Could say the same about you, no? You play soccer for a living. That’s pretty awesome.”
He perches on the edge of the desk, his leg bouncing. His muscled thigh flexes with each motion, and he raises and lowers the tea bag in his cup.
“It is awesome. There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t know it.” His voice is quieter than usual, almost reverent. I turn to get a better look at him, and he hops up from the table and drags over a chair covered in hoodie sweatshirts.
Shoving them aside, he settles into the chair and scoots it next to mine so he can see my computer screen. Without realizing it, I lean away and reposition my computer so I can sit farther from him while still allowing him to see the screen.
“What am I looking at?” he asks, pointing. Before he can touch my screen, I push the laptop out of reach. He jerks his hand back as though the computer hissed at him.
“Sorry. I have a thing about fingerprints on my screen.” I feel sheepish about my neuroses, but obsessively wiping his prints off seems even worse. See, this is why I don’t let people sit next to me while I’m working. It already feels like a bad idea.
He folds his arms and leans as far back as he can without his chair tipping over. “Understood. This is your domain. I’m an observer. Don’t hesitate to put me in line.”
“I wasn’t?—”
He stops me by putting a hand on my forearm. “Gracie, we’re good. You do you. I’m happy to be here getting a tutorial.” His voice is calm, and I don’t feel judged, so I pull the computer closer to show the columns of numbers I isolated when he was in the kitchen.
The light in the room is dim, so the computer screen looksespecially white. The numbers are arranged into three columns, so I start with the basics. “These are power numbers that we take from the wearable devices that record your speed and effort. I’m sure you’re familiar with those.”
Hunter shrugs. “I know they’re collecting information, but unless Coach tells me something specific, I don’t keep track.”
“Probably a good idea. For a player, the best thing you can do is go by instinct and know your body on the field in different conditions. It doesn’t help if the device gives you information that you can’t interpret by feel.”
“Makes sense.” He scoots his chair a little closer. I catch a whiff of that pine scent I noticed when he was barbecuing, but now the firepit smell has been replaced by a clean, soapy scent that I inhale deeply before I realize I’ve done it.
“Good. Now, we look at game data, which takes a lot longer to analyze because there are so many variables. It’s also why different analysts can give you vastly different results. There’s no one method.”
I walk him through how I collect data, gathering everything from movements on the field during games. “I look at where, when, and what you’re doing and analyze oxygen uptake, muscle fatigue, and bounce-back rate after a collision with another player. Still, those physical measures are pretty easy to look at objectively.”
I can’t help it. When I start talking about data and numbers and analysis, I fall down a rabbit hole. Even in the presence of the most distracting guy I’ve ever met, I can’t keep from losing myself in the numbers, going on about things he can’t possibly care about.
Hunter turns toward me and once again puts his hand on my arm, which stops my endless blather. His hand, so large, strong, and warm, sets off goose bumps in its wake. “Wait, are you serious? You’re looking at all of this?”
“Oh yeah.” I swallow hard as he removes his hand. “And wait,there’s more.” My voice comes out like the croak of a lovesick frog.
He leans in close, all restless energy and impatience, while I tee up how I create a model. I show him footage from the game against Houston. As soon as he watches the part where he slide tackles the Houston player, Hunter puts a hand over his mouth. The player doesn’t get up. He lies writhing on the field while Hunter goes mental on the ref. He looks embarrassed.
