I laughed before dropping onto my mattress.The springs protested; I eased back, pulling my phone out.
I opened the team portal.The assistant coach had uploaded the stats from the weekend scrimmage.I scrolled to the bottom, hoping the numbers looked better on a screen than they felt on the ice.
They didn’t.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, tossing the phone onto the duvet.
Austen stopped typing.He spun his chair halfway around.“What’s wrong?”
“Save percentage,” I said, rubbing my eyes.“Point-eight-nine-two.Harper wants us above nine-hundred or we run suicides.”
“Define the metric,” Austen said.
“Shots on goal divided by saves.The only number that matters.”
Austen frowned, looking at me like I’d said 2+2 equals a potato.“That is a statistically flawed metric.”
I blinked.“It’s the NHL standard.”
“Then the NHL is bad at math.”Austen turned fully toward me, resting his elbows on his knees.“Does the formula account for shot location?”
“No.”
“Does it account for velocity or defensive screening?”
“No.A save is a save.”
“So,” Austen said, holding up a pen, “if a forward dumps the puck in from center ice—zero threat, floating at ten miles an hour—that counts as one shot?”
“Yeah.”
“And if Morales comes in on a breakaway, dekes you out, and fires from the slot with three seconds of time—that’s also one shot?”
“Yeah.”
“Then the data is useless,” Austen said flatly.“It treats a variable with a near-zero probability of success the same as a high-danger event.Lazy math.”
I stared at him.For three days I’d been beating myself up over that .892.I’d watched the tape until my eyes bled.And Austen dismantled the entire premise in thirty seconds.
“Lazy math,” I repeated.
“It’s noise,” he said, turning back to his screens.“You’re measuring volume, not quality.Ignore it.”
I picked up the phone again.I looked at the number.It still read .892, but for the first time, it didn’t look like a judgment.It looked like a bad equation.
“You realize you invalidated the entire scouting combine,” I said.
Austen shrugged.“Then the NHL should hire better statisticians.”
We ate our bars in near silence after that, wrappers crackling.
I finished first, wadded the foil tight.“Ryan thinks you should join trivia night.”
“Define trivia.”
“Random facts plus heckling.”
“Sample questions?”
