Page 17 of Last Night Was Fun

Just stating a very favorable fact.

Emmy could feel the anticipation crackling between them long-distance. Was one of them going to take the leap and suggest they meet? Her thumbs tingled with the urge to tap out the letters, but the nervous tick in her heart held her back. It was too much. She didn’t want to ruin what they had yet. And besides, it was getting late.

Favorable, indeed. I’ve got to go to bed. Sweet dreams, Axe Murderer.

A pause passed, and she would have paid good money to know what he was thinking before he came back with,

Good night, Bird Girl.

Chapter5

The next day at work, Emmy joined her team in the conference room for a staff meeting with Director Allen. They were going over a trade prospect analysis Emmy had put the finishing touches on the day before. With the trade deadline approaching, she was buried and stressed about taking time off for her sister’s wedding.

Of course Piper decided to get married in July when the entirety of major-league baseball was hurtling toward career-changing decisions backed by the data Emmy was personally responsible for analyzing.

She pushed thoughts of the wedding aside and focused on the task right in front of her. Unfortunately, Gabe Olson was also right in front of her because he’d sat in the chair directly across the table from her. He wore a buttery yellow shirt today that drew out the golden hue in his skin. He had a ballpark tan just like she did: arms, face, and neck a few shades darker than everything else. But she fully suspected Gabe Olson was one solid shade of SoCal bronze under his shirt, probably from jogging along the beach.

She nearly winced at the sudden image of Gabe Olson jogging shirtless and sweaty in the sand as it bounced through her mind. Where didthatcome from? She shook it away and turned her attention to the front of the room where Director Allen stood. He was in his early fifties, had a PhD in statistics, a neat part in his graying hair, and a pair of wire-framed glasses.

He stood in front of a data dashboard Emmy had built projected on a screen. The dynamic visualization of numbers and charts was the end product of hundreds of thousands of data points the R&A teamcompiled and crunched. This specific one contained data on the top five players up for potential trade and the players they were considering trading them for: position, stats, contract status, and attached budget. The back-end database that populated the information was updated daily what with a new game’s worth of numbers constantly pouring in.

“Vasquez, what do we know about him?” Director Allen said, and pointed to one of the prospects the team was considering trading for. All the numbers were right there, but Emmy knew he liked to have it described along with any extra commentary for context.

She took the cue to answer. “In his third year with Pittsburgh. Was a second-round draft pick. Bats over three hundred when hitting cleanup. Solid slash line otherwise. Based on the numbers, he’s a top prospect.”

“Hmm. Who else wants him?” Director Allen asked.

“San Fr—” Emmy started, but Gabe cut her off.

“San Francisco, Arizona, maybe Cleveland.”

Emmy shot him a glare for talking over her. He had a knack for either stealing her words or repeating exactly what she had just said. His voice often got heard over hers one way or another.

“The numbers are solid,” Gabe said. “Players like him; coaches like him. He’d be a great addition in more ways than one. Management should move on him if we want him.”

“Thanks, Olson,” Director Allen said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Emmy squeezed the pen in her hand until the plastic whined in protest. She nearly snapped it. It was instance number ten thousand where she and Gabe had said the same thing, and he’d gotten credit for it. Sometimes she wondered if she needed to light her hair on fire or maybe stand up on the table and shout, because creating impeccable dashboards and being able to spew stats like a fire hose wasn’t enough.

“How’s Hollander looking?” Director Allen asked about their own player they were considering trading.

Emmy jumped in before Gabe could speak again. “Not great. He’s slashing one twenty-five, two fifty, and two hundred flat,” she said in reference to his batting average, on-base percentage, and slugging percentage, the three stats that told everything about a hitter. “He’s put up three errors in ten games, and he—”

“Came in clutch last night.” Gabe cut her off again. “His double in the fifth scored the go-ahead run.”

Emmy gnashed her teeth, both that he’d interrupted her again and that he’d explained a fact she was well aware of. She’d seen Hollander’s at bat with her own eyes at the game. “Sure, but that was a fluke. His averages tell a different story.”

Gabe dismissively shook his head. “This is just his pattern. He’ll bounce back. I suggest removing him from the list altogether.”

Emmy scoffed. “Seriously? He’s dead weight right now. Not producing at the plate, making errors in the field. If you ask me, he should be first on the list.”

“I disagree,” Gabe said, and defiantly cocked his head. Their conversation had picked up a cadence like they were arguing alone and not in a room full of their co-workers and higher-ups.

“Based on what?” Emmy said.

“A feeling.”

“Afeeling? Olson, you’re staring at the data, and you’re telling me you want to make this decision on afeeling?”