Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Beside me, Dylan vibrates with excitement as we push through the crowd toward the entrance.
“I swear,” he says while adjusting the Vipers beanie on his head, “playing Boston should legally count as a hate crime.”
I laugh. “Please don’t say things like that in front of Julian.”
“He’d probably agree.”
Dylan’s right. One hundred percent, in fact.
By the time we make our way upstairs to the owner’s suite, warm-up music is already thundering through the arena and thousands of fans are filtering into their seats below us in restless waves of green and black.
Julian stands near the glass speaking with two executives when we walk in, but the second he sees us, his entire expression brightens.
Tonight he’s dressed more casually than usual in dark jeans beneath a camel coat, and looped around his neck—
The scarf. The one I made him.
Then I spot not one, but two more. Identical to the one I made him.
Julian catches the direction of my stare immediately, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“What?” he asks innocently.
I move closer, blinking at the matching green, black and white scarves folded neatly across the back of one of the suite chairs.
“Where did these come from?” I ask, completely confused as I pick one up.
Beside me, Dylan grabs another. “Wait… these are actually sick.”
Julian looks entirely too pleased with himself now.
“Well,” he says smoothly, leaning in to kiss my cheek and I blush at the PDA, “I happen to love mine. And it got me thinking about the soccer clubs in Europe. The scarves, the traditions with all the supporters’ sections.”
I stare at him, resisting the urge to touch my face where I the imprint of his lips still tingles. “You manufactured them?”
“I instructed the merchandise department to.”
Dylan looks between us like he’s watching business genius unfold in real time. “No way.”
“They go on sale tonight for the first time,” Julian says. “Limited release initially.”
I glance down again at the stitching and craftsmanship and honestly—they’re beautiful. Richer yarn than mine. Cleaner detail work. The Vipers logo woven perfectly into the pattern.
“These are incredible,” I murmur.
Julian’s gaze lingers on me for a second longer than necessary. “I thought so too.”
How am I supposed to emotionally survive this man?
Meanwhile Dylan already has his scarf wrapped proudly around his neck.
“Dylan,” Julian says, “I want to show you something.”
Dylan perks up immediately. “Yeah?”
Julian glances toward me. “Do you mind, Harper?”
“Of course not.”
The two of them head toward the far side of the suite where a discreet door blends invisibly into the wall paneling. Julian opens it and gestures Dylan inside. Meanwhile, I grab a glass of wine on a tray as a server passes me.
Curiosity takes hold of me and I follow Dylan and Julian in.
I do my best not to hover, but the truth is I’m completely endeared by Julian taking such an interest in Dylan.
Inside, the lighting glows blue from wall-to-wall monitors displaying player tracking data, heat maps, live camera feeds, shot charts, possession metrics—an entire universe of information moving in real time. It’s all getting set up for tonight’s game.
Dylan lets out an audible “Whoa.”
I smile instantly into my wineglass.
“This,” Julian explains, “is our analytics headquarters during live games.”
“You have all this running at once?” Dylan asks, awestruck.
“All game long.”
Dylan’s jaw is almost on the floor.
“It tracks player movement, shift fatigue, puck possession, expected goals,” Julian says, gesturing toward one of the screens. “That monitor there measures skating output and recovery rates during line changes.”
“That’s insane,” Dylan breathes. “I love this stuff.”
“I thought you might,” Julian replies easily.
Dylan moves closer to another monitor, completely engrossed now. “I’ve always been really into statistics,” he says. “Not just sports. Patterns in general.”
Julian leans casually against the doorway beside him. “That’s usually how analytics people start.”
Dylan glances back at him. “Yeah, that would make sense, I guess.”
“Absolutely.” Julian gestures again toward the screens. “The best analysts aren’t only good at math. They’re good at identifying stories hidden inside numbers.”
And then Julian says something that nearly makes me spill my wine. “You should meet our head analytics manager sometime.”
Dylan blinks. “Seriously?”
“Why not?” Julian shrugs before his expression turns thoughtful. “Actually, it would probably be smart for the organization to create a proper internship pipeline for students interested in sports analytics.”
Dylan looks stunned now and my heart flutters with gratitude.
“What better place to start than the analytics department?” Julian continues. “Young minds usually see things older people miss.”
This is like Julian. The guy who listens, who cares. The guy I didn’t think really existed, at least on this planet. He isn’t humoring Dylan or playing benevolent billionaire for my benefit. He’s genuinely engaged, listening seriously to Dylan’s thoughts the same way he listens to executives and owners and league officials.
By the time we emerge from the analytics room, they’re already midway through an animated conversation about defensive efficiency metrics and line chemistry.