Chapter 6
Hunter
Two days since the fire, and it feels like a lifetime.
I’m wearing Devils gear because the team equipment manager had a box waiting on Kyler’s doorstep this morning. Right now, it’s all the clothing I have to my name, other than a suitcase full of stuff that still smells like smoke after three washings.
The worst part is that I lost the majority of my books. They went up like kindling—no surprise—so I bought myself an e-book reader. At least I can load that up. The ease of downloading books is the one bright spot since Monday. Well, two if you count seeing Gracie Albright again—and I do.
The sight of her fresh-scrubbed face has kept me from circling the drain in despair over how my life is crumbling, and now I’m here at the corporate offices to weather the final blow from Gerald Moder, who has warned me several times that I may be traded. Guess today is the day to make it official.
Moder looks pleased as he slides a sheaf of papers across his glass desk and gestures for me to read it with a nod of his head. “It’s for three years. Terms are similar to your last contract, except for salary. Your agent can begin negotiations on that, but we’ve floated a preliminary number.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“You…you’re reupping me for three years? I thought I was on the trade list.” I can’t help stating the obvious because it’s been rattling around in my head for so long.
Moder nods. “I know. We’ve been considering all possibilities, but this is where we’ve landed.” It’s code for the fact that I’m lucky as hell to be here.
“I assume there are conditions. Keep the penalties under control…”
“I’m not saying that. I mean, sure, the fewer PKs we give the opposing team, the better, and we want you on the field, not sitting out games because of red cards, but groomed correctly, your playing style is still the biggest value add we have on the pitch. It’s all in the numbers.”
There’s a round clock on the wall without numbers on it. Small black letters at the top read, “The time is now.” I watch the second hand tick all the way around while I let his words sink in. He’s not asking me to change anything. I’m not here for a beatdown over past mistakes.
Moder shuffles some papers around the surface of his desk, moving them from one side of a leather desk pad to the other and reading something. I can’t tell what he’s looking at from where I sit, but it looks like statistics. Numbers. Analytics.
Second time in two days that word has come up, and I struggle to convince myself it’s a coincidence.
I say nothing, letting him guide the meeting wherever he wants it to go. I’m still damn glad to have a job with this team. But after a few more moments of silence, I can’t stand it. I need to know.
“So when you say value add, you mean you’re studying my stats,” I confirm. “Looking at me, mathematically?”
“That’s one way of putting it, yes. There are a thousand different inputs that involve analysis of hundreds of hours of game footage across the league and spreadsheets from here to Kansas.”
“Analytics.”
“Exactly.”
“I thought that mostly was used for finding undervalued talent. New guys. Players who can be developed over the years for a potential jackpot. Isn’t that the whole point?”
“Undervalued talent, exactly.”
The reality finally dawns. “That’s how you see me?
Like a freshman scrub who doesn’t know what he’s doing, but if I’m ‘groomed correctly,’ you can find my untapped potential?
” I keep my voice even, but it’s all I can do not to pound a hole in Moder’s glass desk.
I’ve been playing this sport since I could walk, and I don’t think there’s any more potential to tap.
“I wouldn’t put it that way. Obviously, you’re seasoned. This is a good thing, Reyes. Where other teams might see baggage, we see potential. The stats and analysis prove it. What if you haven’t even hit your stride yet?”
“At twenty-eight, you don’t think I’ve hit my stride?” I’d like to hit something, but it ain’t my stride.
“That’s what the data shows. And we want you here with the Devils when it happens.”
“And you’re sure of this data.” I have a sinking feeling in my stomach, far worse than at the thought of sharing a kitchen for the foreseeable future with my buddy’s bookish older sister, who doesn’t seem to realize she’s wearing booty shorts.
“Yes, we have a new hotshot heading up that area, and she’s laid out some very convincing data. I’m excited, frankly. Feels like the shot in the arm this team needs.”
He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to. Gracie Albright saved my job. As it is, I’m doing everything in my power to blunt my attraction to her, but now I’m in debt to her brainy computer skills.
“So does that mean the players will be spending time with the data analysts, or will they do their job in the background?” Please let them work in a separate office. Preferably in a different zip code.
“Mostly the latter, but it’s not my call. Best thing I can do is let the analytics team do their job and do it well.”
Moder rubs his hands together like an excited little kid in front of a hundred candy bins.
So I call my agent and agree to three years of knowing I have a starting spot on a team I love. Knowing I’ll be able to stay in LA. Knowing I can rebuild my house and spend the next offseason training in Lupine Valley.
And I’ll try my damnedest to avoid staring at Gracie Albright every time I see her.
I let out a long exhale and think about the next three years. My deal with the Devils. Literally.