“I’ve been utilizing data from your ring and reviewing footage of you from this season’s games. I’ve been tracking your macros, hydration, sleep quality, shift durations, sprint recovery, and zone entries.”
I set my beer back down. “Jesus Christ, are you my assistant or my analytics department?”
“Both,” Minerva deadpans. She turns the tablet screen toward me and scrolls through a few pages of numbers and notes, so fast that I can’t see anything aside from the color-coded graphs she’s made. At the top of the file is the title, in bold:Tristan Dubois | Performance Metrics. “The newest data is the most complete, since I have hard data rather than approximate estimates. Of course, your nutrition fluctuates a tad when you go off-diet, but you’re sticking to it at least eighty percent of the time, based on what I know, which is enough for a meaningful data point. Everything else is looking good, but you’re favoring your right side. I’m not sure if you have an old injury or if you just need to train more uniformly. You’re left-handed, so that might be a factor.”
“Holy shit.” Camden stands up and leans forward so that he can see the chart, too. “That’s a lot of information.”
Minerva nods. “I thought maybe if he had the right data, he’d feel more in control.”
That word,control,lands somewhere deep inside me. I wonder if that’s something Minerva craves, too: control of her future, control of her life. Things she’s lacked, thanks to her family’s overbearing nature.
“Does Tristan like to take control?” Viktor asks with a sleazy grin.
Minerva doesn’t crack a smile. Maybe the joke went over her head. Maybe she’s simply locked in on Viktor’s bullshit. “Since I understand the data,I’mthe one who calls the shots. I just recalibrated Tristan’s macro intake and sleep patterns. I’m going to increase his protein intake by 14% this coming week. I’m also going to suggest a melatonin supplement; his REM cycles are erratic the night before games. It’s a consistent pattern, especially when he’s on the road, but nothing we can’t address through his sleep hygiene habits.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence before the table erupts.
“Marley!” Knight bellows. “I want a spreadsheet! I want macros! I want a ring!”
Sofia’s head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“Can I get an assistant?” Viktor asks. “Shit, Minnie, come work for me and I’ll pay you double what he’s paying. Besides, I’m better looking and more fun.”
“No, you won’t,” Knova counters. “You blew your fun money budget on that new gaming system already.”
“But look how good she is!” Viktor whines.
“Maybe if you’d stop eating whole bags of Doritos at two a.m., you’d see some improvements, too,” Knova retorts.
Viktor lowers his voice to a betrayed whisper. “That wassupposedto be a secret.”
“Nothing’s secret,” Knight tells him. “I see you chowing down on snacks every gaming session. That’s a good place to start with your sleep hygiene.”
While my teammates squabble, I incline my head toward Minerva. “Thank you. This is amazing. Can you send this to me so I can show it to Coach? Or, better yet, meet with both of us to see if he can figure out how to adjust my drills?”
“I’d love to,” she says.
Love. That word from Minerva’s lips sends a thrill through me.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text from Camden:Dude, happy looks good on you.
He’s right. I’m beaming. Who cares about the game when I’ve got Min on my side?
Chapter Nine
Minerva
The patio smells like rain.
Not the sharp, electric kind that cracks the sky open, but the softer aftermath—the damp stone under my bare feet, the cool air settling into my lungs, the faint mineral scent that makes everything feel washed clean and new. Petrichor, my brain supplies automatically, because of course it does. I tuck my legs beneath me on the chair and pull my sweater closer, even though the night isn’t cold.
The Vegas skyline flickers in the distance, all glitter and glass and movement, like a universe that exists separately from this quiet pocket of space. Inside the condo, the lights are low. Shadows stretch lazily across the floor. Kepler is asleep somewhere on the couch, finally worn out, his snores muffled by distance and safety.
I should be working. Or sleeping. Or doing literally anything other than sitting out here spiraling.
I press my fingers to my temples and sigh. “Okay,” I mumble to myself, because I always talk when my thoughts get too loud. “You’re fine. You’re just… overwhelmed.”
Tonight was too much. The game. The bar. All those eyes sliding over me like I was suddenly visible instead of conveniently ignored. People watching me talk. Watching me think. Watching me exist. I hate that feeling—the way it makes my skin feel too tight, like I’m wearing myself wrong.
