Chapter 11
Gracie
The timer dings, telling me the batch of muffins I popped into the oven forty-five minutes earlier is probably done. I should check them and hover nearby until they’re perfect.
I like them a little soft in the middle, and I hate it when the bottoms get too brown.
The oven light doesn’t tell me anything, so I ease the door open, inhaling the delicious cinnamon scent of eight giant apple muffins.
The recipe is for a dozen, but I think they’re best when the muffin top bulges out of the tin and spills over.
The top is the best part, so why not make it as big as possible?
The toothpick I insert in the center comes out clean, so I decide they’re done. One more whiff of the heavenly smell as I pop the tray on a rack to cool. I know better than to eat them when they’re too hot. Burning the roof of my mouth is a rookie mistake, and I’m no rookie.
Padding back to the storage area I’ve turned into an office, I make a bet with myself. I think I can get through one week of training data and upload the numbers into my software program before the muffins are cool enough to eat.
Game on.
I’ve been working for the past three hours, and somewhere along the way, I drifted into the Zen zone, that place where time stands still, and I lose myself in numbers and data. A herd of elephants could dance in the next room, and I wouldn’t notice.
The house is so quiet. Even though Hunter passed me in the kitchen earlier and raised an eyebrow when he saw that I was making muffins, I haven’t seen or heard him since. I’m sure he has a life with his teammates or the women he dates, and there are many.
Yes, I took a little time last night and did a social media search, all in the name of research. It’s only good sense to know all sides of the players I’m dealing with, and even though I have assistants who run reports with similar information, it couldn’t hurt to do a little checking myself.
Okay, fine. I’m nosy.
I’m also smitten, despite my best instincts that tell me to stay far away from players with attitude.
The best way I can think of to stanch that budding flame is to pour cold water over it before it can grow.
In other words, I searched for any and all information about Hunter and women—the more compromising pictures, the better. I didn’t have to work very hard.
I found breathless posts showing Hunter with his arm draped over the shapely bare shoulders of models, actresses, and even a few people’s wives.
When I finished rolling my eyes over his lack of scruples, I saw enough cleavage and curves to cure me of any illusions that he could ever be interested in someone like me.
My curves are courtesy of Ben and Jerry’s, thank you very much.
Cold-water dousing achieved. Check.
It’s yet another helpful reminder that I’m new at my job, and the last thing I need is to compromise my integrity by appearing to favor players.
It’s bad enough that people have gotten wind of our temporary living arrangements, resulting in a few raised eyebrows.
I reminded anyone who commented that we’re all adults here.
Give me a desk full of spreadsheets, and I’m happy.
With the apple-cinnamon scent urging me forward, I get into a groove and focus on the job I came here to do. It feels good to work. The player statistics fall into place, and I start making sense of all the data points I’ve been tracking.
“Morning, Tink.” Hunter sounds sleepy, and I know without even looking that he probably doesn’t have on a shirt. So I look.
There he is, rubbing his eyes, holding an e-reader with Bogie standing next to him, wagging his tail. “This one.” I point at the dog. “I have a bone to pick with your dog.”
“Uh-oh. Bogie, what did you do?” He looks at the dog, who, naturally, says nothing. His tongue lolls from his mouth, and his tail wags.
“He snuck up on me while I was sleeping. Put his face right next to mine and started doing this heavy breathing thing.”
Hunter chuckles. “Yeah, he does that. But only to people he likes. It’s how he wakes me up most days. He wanted you to invite him up to snuggle.”
“Well, I thought it was an axe murderer coming for me.”
“You should really watch the chocolate consumption before bed.” He looks over my shoulder at what must look like an Excel nerd’s dream. “What’s all that?”
“First, tell me what you’re reading.” I point at the device in his hands.
He looks down. “Love this thing. I’m toggling between a Louise Penny mystery and that one you were reading about the duke.”
I laugh. “You are not.”
He holds it up to show me, and sure enough, he’s queued up a Scottish period romance. “You never cease to surprise me, Reyes.”
He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m complex,” he deadpans. “Now, your turn. What’s all that? Can you…explain it to me?” The words sound like the usual grumpy grunt I’ve come to expect from Hunter, but there’s something vulnerable in his voice, as though not liking when he doesn’t understand something.
“The algorithms?”
He crosses his arms and nods. “I guess. What are you looking at that makes it clear that a player has potential?” The way his brow creases and his mouth edges down makes him look unhappy about the question. There’s something else behind it besides mere curiosity.
“Are you questioning my methods?”
He takes a step backward. “No. Of course not. I want to understand them.”
I tilt my head and study him. “You do?”
“Yes.”
I’m not sure how I feel about letting him into my world.
It’s not that I don’t think I can explain it well enough, but my coding abilities are my one superpower.
What if he thinks it’s not very interesting?
I’ve spent most of my life as a woman in the STEM field, showing people I’m capable of doing the work while fending off the perception that what we do is nerdy, but I’m not in the mood for defending myself right now.
“I have to warn you, it might be boring.”
“Try me.” His tone is challenging, and the smirky sparkle in his gray eyes edges back.
Maybe I can teach him something. That gets me interested.
“Okay, pull up a chair, but first, go to the kitchen where you’ll find eight muffins. Please pop one onto a plate and bring it as payment.” I don’t bother suggesting that he bring two so he can have one. I already know about his fitness foods, and I’m pretty sure today isn’t a cheat day.
“Seven.”
“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—”