Ryker (Cold Fury Hockey 4)

She doesn't make me beg for the answer. "I cared about your fortitude."

"My fortitude?" I ask, puzzled as shit. No clue what she's talking about.

"Your stats weren't that much below Max's, but most scouts and front office execs would have chosen him over you ten out of ten times because they only look at those numbers."

"But you looked at something else?"

"No, I looked at numbers. It's what I do. But I was analyzing your fortitude. I boiled it down to numbers. Deep numbers, but numbers all the same." She stares at me a moment, satisfied by whatever she sees on my face. She seems to think I'm following her, but I'm not sure I am. "The median save percentage of starting goalies in the league was .912 percent last year. You were right at it and Max was a little better."

I nod...because that I understand.

"Your former team, the Boston Eagles, was the most penalized team in the league."

I nod, because this I also understand.

"Which means that thirty-five percent more of your saves were in penalized situations when you were facing a five-on-four situation. The Cold Fury is a low-penalty team, meaning Max faced shots with historically better protection from his teammates because most shots were five-on-five situations."

I blink at her, marveling at why someone would even bother to analyze this data. I blink, marveling that I half understand what she's saying.

And she's not finished. "In fact, if you filter down the stats and compare apples to apples, that is your quality start statistics compared to Max in only five-on-four scenarios, you blow him out of the water in both goals against and save percentages. That shows fortitude."

That is when the light goes on and full awareness filters in. "You also recruited Caysen Rinne and Corey Reimer around the same time."

She nods. "Only after I had you signed did I ink the deals with them. I had to get you first."

I finally smile with understanding...because I'm sitting here having a conversation with a real, live genius and I'm getting her. A real, live, very fucking hot genius whose tits are getting harder and harder not to look at.

"Caysen and Corey are heavily penalized players," I say, overly proud that I've figured this out and kept my eyes above chest level.

Gray nods with excitement. "I'm a big fan of old-time hockey where the goons rule the ice. I want to protect our stars like Crossman and Samuelson better, and that means putting bruisers like Rinne and Reimer out there. Statistics prove time and again that those teams with more zealous enforcers consistently win not only more games, but more playoff games."

"And apparently I'm a pretty handy goalie to have around in a five-on-four situation."

"You are fucking right on the money," she says with glee while pointing an exuberant index finger my way.

I have to say, I'm really impressed. She's a regular Billy Beane, the Oakland A's general manager who made a name for himself using statistical analysis in making personnel decisions. It's not a new concept, but it's not generally employed in professional hockey either. Scouting in our league is done on hunches and even sometimes on whims.

If Gray Brannon intends to employ this method to build her team, she's going to make history. It could be very good history, or very bad history, but it will be history.

"I'm presenting at the MIT Sports Analytics Conference at the end of January on using analytics in hockey, particularly in making contract decisions. I expect I'm not going to be a popular person."

"Because you're going to use industry averages to get your players to strive. You're setting goals for them based on that."

She nods gravely. "And if they don't meet them, I'll find someone who will."

I whistle low through my teeth and shake my head, not in disagreement but with an odd level of amusement. When my eyes meet hers, I decide to take her up on her total honesty without repercussions offer. "You are not going to get much support from the team on this."

Gray stares at me a moment and then does something uncharacteristic for a certified genius and confident businesswoman. She pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth and nibbles on it while she stares at me. I can see the wheels grinding in her head as she figures how to best respond to my brutal honesty.

I watch those perfect white teeth dig down into her pink lip and it makes me think of my teeth biting down into her. I mentally groan and banish the thought. Christ...I think I really need to get laid. It's been a bit of a dry spell since finding out my wife cheated on me and getting sole custody of the girls. I've barely had time to sleep, much less find a woman to fuck.

Finally, she releases the hold her teeth have on her lip, taking a quick swipe at it with her tongue, and says, "I expect I won't get support from those who are going to have a hard time meeting my metrics. And I expect those who will meet them will stay silent on the matter. Either way, I don't care. I got this position because as the owner of this team, my father was ready to make some big moves."

"I bet Frank Lessier had to just love this," I muse out loud, not giving a fuck that the derision in my voice is aimed at one of the front office suits. Frank Lessier was the assistant general manager under Brian Brannon and you would think a natural replacement if Brannon wanted to step down. The fact that he is still the assistant general manager I bet is chapping his ass.

And it's a pompous ass at that. I've never liked the dude, but fortunately, the players are pretty removed from the front office. He's one of those guys who thinks only his opinion matters. He's one of those guys who likes to stare at himself in any mirror he passes by, he's that stuck on himself.

Gray grimaces and actually looks pained. "Yeah...pretty sure both me and my father are on Frank's shit list."

"Don't worry about it," I say as I lean forward in my chair. "He's going to naturally have a chip on his shoulder because you're far prettier than he is."

A tiny smirk surfaces--the corners of her mouth curving nicely upward. She tilts her chin down and fucking bats her lashes at me. In an overly dramatic, shy-flirty manner, she says, "You really think I'm pretty, Mr. Evans?"

More batting of her lashes.

I laugh and ease back into my chair. She said honesty with no repercussions, so I go ahead and lay it out. I'm not joking back when I say, "You're a fucking knockout, Miss Brannon. And you don't need a statistical model to prove that. Just take a look in any mirror."

I hadn't meant that to come out so bold.

So assured.

So...almost...challenging to her.

Gray's eyes flare wide and her neck flushes red. I expect a fair-skinned woman with Irish ancestry blushes on the neck first rather than the cheeks. For some reason, it makes her even more attractive.

But only after showing me a few mere seconds of vulnerability, Gray gives a cough and then a genial laugh. She plays it off well. "No need to flatter, Brick. I have all the confidence in the world you're going to exceed the goals I'm setting for you."

And just like that, we are back to business.

Chapter 4

Gray

What in the hell was I thinking?

What in the hell?

I wasn't.

That's the answer.

It happens rarely, but I just wasn't thinking. My IQ level dipped. Maybe I'm hormonal. A moon phase...that's what it is. It's the pull of the moon making me do stupid non-Gray-Brannon-like shit.

I pace back and forth outside the door to the yoga studio, nodding here and there with a strained smile at some of the other students making their way inside. It looks like I'll have a full class today, which normally feeds me with excitable energy. It's like a triple espresso shot to my system.

But right now I just want to head home and crawl back into bed, put my head under the pillow, and hide from the world. I want a "do-over" for the day, because I had no fucking business inviting Ryker Evans to this class. It crossed a professional line that I firmly put between me and the players, because my job as general manager is not to take a proprietary interest in their