Page 115 of Instigator
“Right.”
This new project is fun and exciting. Like a new relationship, except it’s with a computer and not a romantic partner. It consumes my every waking thought. I love it as much as I hate it.
Colt leans forward in his seat. “I think you should do it.”
“It would mean leaving the helmet project.” The one I committed to bringing to fruition, the work the board—and the team—are counting on me to produce results.
“They’ll survive without you.”
“You’re awfully glib about a project you’re invested in.”
“I’m not invested in the project,” he says. “I’m invested in you.”
“The board—”
“I joined the board because of you. Because you asked me to.”
He’s not a sports fan, and I only suggested it because I knew he was floundering without having something to fill his time. Now, he’s involved in multiple organizations, and he’s started a new company, but he’s still that quiet, awkward computer nerd who gets flustered around jocks.
Except for one.
I swallow. “Colty…”
“It’s been rewarding. I like the team, and I like that we’re doing good things for youth hockey,” he continues. “But it’s not my life’s dream. If I had to give it up, I would. I’d walk away in a heartbeat—and run to whatever new project you’ve got percolating.”
“It might not be anything,” I mumble, pushing the food around in my bowl.
He rolls his eyes. “I know you, and I know what you’re capable of. You’re building something that I want in on.”
“You don’t even know what I’m working on.”
“So tell me. If you need help coding, put me in, Coach.”
I giggle. “Look at you with your sports lingo.”
“Hey, I’m picking up a few things.” Colt smirks, his eyes crinkling. “What is it?”
“It’s a new predictive model.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Go on…”
“For draft picks. Or potential picks.”
When he nods, I launch into an explanation of what my statistical models can do. What I want them to do. There’s still so much uncertainty in drafting skilled players. They could get injured or be traded or crumble under the pressure or completely fail at living up to expectations. They could have reasons for stepping away from the sport.
There are so many variables. I’m stripping away a few, isolating the issues and accounting for a steady rate of attrition. It’s a meaty project. Heavy.
But if it works… if it works… it could be monumentally huge.
“I think this is a brilliant move for you,” Colt says when I’m done.
“I might sell it,” I admit.
“So refine it and sell it,” he says, as if it’s that easy. “You need a new project. The helmets were boring you. You might like them, but a piece of you is dying inside showing up every day.”
He’s not wrong.
“I like this idea. I can see it on your face, in the way you talk about it. You love this. Statistical analysis has always been your forte.” He pauses, and when I raise my eyebrows, he soldiers on. “I was getting a bit worried about you. Being with Aidan has been good for you, but I know you. You need to stay busy. And he has his own life outside of you.”
