Chapter 11 #2
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 looks especially 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 I catch a whiff of that pine scent I noticed when he was barbecuing, but now the firepit smell has been replaced by a clean, soapy scent that I inhale deeply before I realize I’ve done it.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.
“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 accusatory than 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.