Page 24 of Playing the Field
“You probably think I’m an animal.”
“No. I think it’s an aggressive game.”
“It is, but you have to know…I’m not out there trying to hurt people. Something takes over. All my inner demons, all the voices from the past form a chorus, and it’s all I hear. I’m not the same person you see here when I’m playing.”
I don’t know him well enough to understand his past, but he frowns, looking wrecked over his behavior.
“It’s gotta be hard when that thing that makes you successful is the same thing that tears you down.”
He nods. I let him sit with it for a moment.
“But that’s not what I see when I look at you on the field. I see a complex series of inputs that create a sort of chemistry and magic when they work together.”
I pull up an animated image of Hunter that I’ve imbued with functions that allow it to move on the screen like a player.
“This is your avatar. It’s basically like creating a virtual person that I imbue with your characteristics, and then I run it through every scenario I can think of with your skill set, which changes weekly. Then I add data from other players. It gives me a best guess at what someone on the field is likely to do and what the outcome will probably be when you interact.”
“Holy shit,” he says, brushing my shoulder with his arm as he points at the screen, all the while careful to keep his fingertip at a distance. “You’re making a collection of virtual soccer matches and playing with us like a gamer.” He sounds more accusatorythan delighted. “I can’t decide if that’s the coolest thing ever or if it makes me feel like a robot who isn’t in control of my own impulses.”
His breath ghosts the skin of my neck, heating my skin and making me shudder. He needs to stop doing this.
No, he needs to do it more.
“You’re not a robot, of course. You’re sentient for one thing, and you’re in control of your movements to a degree, minus some statistical variance, of course. And you can’t be programmed, but you can be influenced. Or at least most people can, but with you, that’s where it gets interesting, so I’d hate to have you think you’re nothing but data?—”
He holds up a hand and gently places a finger over my lips. “Tink. You can call me a robot all day long. I’m fascinated by this shit.” He removes his finger, but not before staring at it and meeting my eyes. My breath catches, and he smirks like he knows all too well the effect he has on me. On all women, no doubt.
I take in a breath and steady my nerves. I’m the one with the information here. I’m in control.
“The interesting thing is that when I looked at the data and the expected outcomes on the field, you defied every single one. You did better than you should have. You beat every statistical prediction. That’s what convinced me the team needs you, whether management’s angry with you or not.”
He looks surprised.
He should. My data often turns up contrary results. But it’s almost never wrong.
CHAPTER 12
Gracie
Work isa little more interesting when I move the furniture around in my office, giving me a view out the window of the Devils practice field. If “interesting” means the same thing as “unproductive.” I barely get through one set of data before my mind wanders to what Hunter is doing on the field.
And what he’s doing is taking full command of the ball, bossing his teammates into position, and coming within inches of slide tackling anyone who gets in his way. He stops short of injuring himself or his teammates, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the analytics lesson I gave him. Sometimes knowing a little bit is knowing too much, and I don’t want him to be in his head when he’s an instinct player.
I also don’t want to spend too much time watching him practice.
Gerald Moder knocks on my door and walks into the middle of the room without waiting for me to respond. Wearing khakipants and penny loafers with his zip-up Devils jacket, he looks one part preppy dad, one part diehard fan. Most of the C-suite dresses similarly, but I still haven’t managed to incorporate any Devils gear into my plain pants and blouse look that feels safe if a little boring.
“Hey there,” I say, glad I’m looking at my computer instead of at the practice field, even if watching players is related to my job. “I’ve been working on the rookie report. There are some good prospects on academy teams I think we should have on our radar, even if it takes a couple of years before they’re viable.”
He nods and rubs his hands together. “Good to hear. I’d like to compare lists once you’re set on yours.”
“Of course. I’m sure there’s some crossover, but I’m looking for different skill sets than what might show up in a player’s stats.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
I nod, grateful he seems to value what I can do for the team. Every success I have here will pave the way to getting out of the doghouse among the handful of Silicon Valley bosses who think I’m too rigid and difficult. I need to kill it in such a resounding way that they’ll be tripping over themselves to hire me back.
But first things first—I need to put all my energy into doing well for the team.
