CHAPTER 4
The closed mock draft became a war over six crimson cards.
Roman preferred it that way. Pressure revealed weak language. By Wednesday afternoon, the secure suite held only Adrian, Allen, the coordinators, Lena, and him. Phones were sealed outside. Every pick ran on a clock shorter than the real one.
In the first simulation, Roman chose from film alone. Lena tracked but did not intervene. In the second, the staff followed her composite order. In the third, they were forced to reconcile the two before Adrian made each selection.
The coaching-only run spent a future pick to climb for a receiver Roman believed could separate against professional press coverage.
The model-only run stayed in place and lost two players whose role scarcity it had underweighted.
In the integrated run, Allen supplied a late character reference, Lena widened the uncertainty around the receiver cluster, and Adrian refused the trade unless the cost fell below a defined line.
“You made my conviction more expensive,” Roman told Lena.
“I made the opportunity cost visible.”
“Same effect.”
“Not the same responsibility. If Adrian pays it, the record should show what he bought.”
Adrian looked up from his cards. “I appreciate both of you discussing my authority as if I am recently deceased.”
Omar laughed. Wes threw a gummy bear at the defensive coordinator and missed.
The fourth simulation opened with a run on offensive linemen no one had predicted.
Roman wanted to abandon the board and chase the last tackle he trusted.
Lena’s range showed the remaining options were closer than urgency made them feel.
Allen produced a scout’s note about a later player’s learning speed.
They stayed. Two rounds later, the tackle was still available.
“That doesn’t prove patience was correct,” Roman said.
“No. It proves panic would have been expensive.”
“You rehearse sentences for me.”
“You create recurring needs.”
By the sixth run, even exhaustion could not hide the pattern. When they forced coaching judgment, analytics, scouting, and roster economics to name their own limits, the board became less certain and more defensible.
The combined board beat them both.
Adrian made them prove that conclusion. He scored the runs against roster need, transaction cost, unresolved medical category, and the number of later choices preserved.
The integrated board did not win every scenario.
It performed worst when staff forced compromise after the evidence clearly favored one player.
“Collaboration can produce cowardice,” Adrian said. “If everyone gets a piece, nobody owns the mistake.”
Lena added a rule: integration did not require splitting the difference. The final recommendation would name the strongest view, the dissent, and the actual decision-maker.
Roman approved. “No committee fog.”
“Shared judgment with visible responsibility,” Lena corrected.
“Same principle. Better brochure.”
“Annoying,” Lena murmured after their fourth scenario produced the strongest role coverage and lowest unreconciled risk.
Roman slid the final card into place. “You disappointed the answer isn’t you?”
“Deeply. I had a speech prepared.”
“Save it. Numbers usually need a funeral eventually.”
“Instinct gets one too. People just call it tradition.”
They worked through dinner. She learned to translate outputs into consequences Wes and Omar could use.
Roman learned which model disagreements hid weak inputs rather than true opposition.
When she said a probability could not decide the pick, he believed she meant it.
When he said a prospect’s interview answer had changed the room, she asked what behavior created the change instead of dismissing it as theater.
At ten, Adrian and the others left for owner calls. Roman remained to reset the board. Lena stayed without asking.
“You have a home,” he said.
“So do you.”
“Mine isn’t waiting.”
The words escaped before he could contain them.
Lena’s hands stopped over a stack of cards. She did not soften her face into pity. “Neither is mine. That’s not the same as not having one.”
He looked through the black glass toward the stadium lights. “My ex-wife used to leave one lamp on in the front room. Said coming home to darkness made a person feel expected by no one.”
“Did it help?”
“I usually came home after she turned it off.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“It was the reason.”
Lena placed the cards down. “You don’t get credit for understanding the failure after she had to live through it.”
He turned. “I didn’t ask for credit.”
“Good.”
Her refusal to comfort him should have irritated him. Instead it made the confession feel clean. She would not let history purchase exemption.
“My father broke things,” Roman said. “Not often enough for outsiders to name him violent. Often enough that rules felt useful. Dinner at six. Doors closed softly. Tools returned to the same drawer. If everything stayed where it belonged, maybe he did too.”
Lena’s gaze held his. “And now everything has a place in your room.”
“It works.”
“At work.”
Two words, precise as a blade.
He reached for Victor Green’s draft card at the same moment she did. Their fingers met over the crimson stock.
Neither withdrew.
Her skin was warm. Her hand looked small beneath his, but the pressure she applied was deliberate, keeping equal claim on the card.
“This one,” she said quietly.
“You think we agree?”
“Your film says his hands remain disciplined when the pocket moves. My role model says he can play three front alignments without the usual learning penalty.”
“Adrian makes the pick.”
“I know who decides.”
“Do you?”
Her thumb shifted against the side of his index finger. An accidental movement that felt chosen.
“You keep asking that as if authority becomes less real when it has borders,” she said.
Roman looked at her mouth. He could imagine lowering his head, the small intake of breath she might give him, the sharp intelligence that would remain present even if she yielded. Desire hit with the force of a badly disguised rush.
He released the card.
Lena did not look triumphant. Her breathing had changed too.
“We need boundaries,” he said.
“We haven’t done anything.”
“That’s when boundaries are easiest to name.”
She set Victor Green in the shared column. “Your current authority touches my access, evaluation, and budget. So the boundary is simple. Nothing happens.”
The firmness of it stung even as he respected it.
“I wasn’t proposing anything.”
“No. You were looking.”
“So were you.”
“I didn’t say the attraction was unilateral.”
The room seemed to contract around the black table.
Roman could command a stadium under two minutes and no timeouts. He could not find a safe answer to a woman who had named desire and refused to make it permission.
“Nothing happens,” he agreed.
“Not under this structure.”
The qualification landed somewhere he would examine later.
Her tablet sounded softly. She checked the notice, then turned the screen toward him. Keon Mercer had been selected in the final mock run by a team trading into pick twenty-one.
“Not proof,” she said. “But behavior.”
“You want your permanent seat.”
“I earned it yesterday.”
He gave a rough sound. “You ever let a point go?”
“When it stops being correct.”
Roman picked up the card between them. “Tomorrow, if Green is available, you present the joint recommendation.”
“Why me?”
“Because Allen already knows my film grade. Ownership needs to hear what changed.”
“And you won’t use my work invisibly.”
He thought of the man who had stolen her model, and of how quickly she had turned feral when Allen touched that history.
“No,” Roman said. “I won’t.”
Her expression shifted, tenderness threatening at the edges before she controlled it.
“That’s dangerous,” she said.
“What is?”
“You becoming the man you keep insisting you already are.”
She left him alone with the draft board and the echo of a truth he had never believed about surrender:
Sometimes releasing the card did not mean losing the choice.