“Yeah,” I mutter. “A real comedy.” If only he knew what I was really clashing with. “She's your sister. I can handle a few days.”
“You're the best, Cole. Seriously. I owe you big time.”
We hang up, and the shame morphs into a restless agitation. I try to sleep, but it’s a long time coming. Every time I close my eyes, I see her.
Every sound from the apartment makes me wonder what Harper is doing. Is she still working? Has she gone to bed? Is she thinking about our encounter in the hallway?
The next morning,I'm in the film room an hour before the rest of the team arrives. I have a few Nashville game footages from last season queued up, along with detailed statistical breakdowns I've prepared.
When the guys start filtering in, I'm already at the whiteboard with my analysis.
“Morning, sunshine,” Nova says, strolling in with a swagger. “Jesus, Cap, do you ever sleep?”
I ignore the comment and start the projector. “Nashville's primary setup involves their defenseman, Quinn, moving to the high slot for the one-timer.”
I wait for the guys to settle down before continuing. “Here's what we're going to do. Ethan, when they set up, I need you to put pressure on Quinn immediately. Force him to make a quick decision.”
“Got it,” Ethan grunts.
“Nova, you're going to shadow their top-line center. His face-off percentage drops twelve points when pressured from the right side.”
“Twelve points exactly?” Nova grins. “Did you measure that with a ruler, Robot?”
A few guys chuckle, but I continue without acknowledging the joke. “Their goalie, Peterson, has a tell when he's about to play the puck behind the net. He taps his stick twice on the ice first. Ryan, I need you watching for that.”
Ryan nods. “You got it, Cap.”
“Logan, I've charted their goalie's five-hole coverage. It opens up by an average of two inches when he's been in the butterfly for more than four seconds.”
Logan blinks. “Two inches. You measured their goalie's five-hole?”
“Statistical analysis,” I correct. “Jake, their power play defenseman tends to hold the puck 0.3 seconds longer than optimal when there's pressure from his blind side.”
Jake looks around at our teammates as if I might be insane. “Point-three seconds?”
“Does anyone have questions about the tactical approach?” I ask, ignoring the fact that half the team is staring at me like I'm some kind of android.
“Yeah,” Nova says. “Do you have this same level of detail about what we should have for lunch?”
The room erupts in laughter. Even Logan's mouth twitches slightly.
“Nutrition is important for performance,” I say, countering his joke with a serious response. “I can recommend optimal pre-game meals based on your metabolic needs if you'd like.”
That last part was extra, but I like messing with them. If they think I’m a robot, then I’ll fucking act like it.
“Oh my God,” Ethan mutters. “He's serious.”
“Captain Robot strikes again,” Nova laughs. “I bet you have spreadsheets for everything.”
“Organization leads to success,” I say. “Practice starts in twenty minutes. I expect everyone on the ice at exactly nine AM.”
As they file out, I hear Nova whisper to Ethan, “I swear he probably has a spreadsheet tracking how many times we blink during games.”
“Probably color-coded,” Ethan mutters back.
I don't see what's wrong with being thorough. That's what separates winning teams from losing ones.
When practice is done, I mentally review the rest of my day. Strength training at noon, then a medical appointment at three. It’s just a routine check-up with the team physician to make sure my shoulder is holding up after last season's injury.
