Jack stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Jim Mora was a coach for the Indianapolis Colts whose postgame rant in response to a reporter’s question about making the playoffs went viral. Playoffs? What playoffs? he’s seen spitting out from the podium. Green, the coach of the Cardinals, played an undefeated Bears and almost beat them, until the fourth quarter where the wheels came off and they lost the game. Green lost his shit during the post-game press conference. The reporter had to feel grateful for that barrier, because Green looked one step away from introducing his fist to the reporter’s face. Kind of how Jack looks right now. He’d like to take physical action against something—the class, the course syllabus, his tutor.
I need to watch my words carefully so that it doesn’t look like I’ve been sitting in the same class for the last two weeks. I put the tutor’s worksheet aside.
“Okay. Let’s look at game theory from a football standpoint. Take Seattle’s last play in the Super Bowl. Both run plays and pass plays from the one yard line had a close to 60% chance of success. But any play can be defended if the defense knows what to expect. If the run game is more powerful, then the rational decision is to run the ball because their physical resources are geared toward running. But the Patriots knew that Seattle had a more powerful run team, so their expectations play a role. Seattle decides that the expectation has a higher value than the powerful running game and calls a pass play.
“You have the statistical average of success of any given play impacted by the physical resources—your players—measured against the opponents players and the players expectations.”
“The political parties are opponents and the election is their Super Bowl, with the primaries and all of the stuff that comes before it acting as the season.” He’s starting to get it. Maybe I won’t have to do anything for him. He makes a few notes. “How do I find out the statistical chance of success?”
“Demographics. I guess that’s why polling is so popular. The parties try to analyze the likelihood of success of a position before moving to the bargaining table. Individual actors, such as the president, can increase or decrease bargaining power based on the position of power.”
“Size up the strengths and weaknesses of a certain political structure, the general mood of the electorate, and then predict?”
“I think that’s a fair analysis.”
“But there are like a dozen different models.” The space between his eyes gets tight.
“It looks by the syllabus, you’re only studying four of them.”
That cheers him up considerably. “Thanks, Ellie. That helps a lot. I don’t feel as helpless as I did before.”
“So your grade is a midterm?” I ask, pretending I don’t know.
“An ungraded one, a few assignments we can do outside of class by logging into our student account, and then a final paper. Five thousand words on one of these models applied to the passage of a National Marriage Act.”
“I’ll proof whatever you need me to proof.” I’m dreading the paper myself. I don’t fully grasp game theory and I foresee a lot outside-of-class reading in order to manage two extra papers—one for Jack and one for me.
“Thanks.” He leans back and looks at the ceiling. “Maybe Dad is right, and I am a dumb fuck.”
“You’re not.” I squeeze his arm. “This sort of thing is tough for everyone. You should see these kids at my grant center—”
“Oh fuck, what time is it?” He glances at his phone. “Sorry. I have to go. I’m going to miss a team meeting.” Jack jumps to his feet and throws his book into his gym bag. He refuses to meet my eyes. I hate that he’s down on himself because of this class. Jack has always hated dumb jock jokes because they hit too close to home. But he’s not dumb. On the field and with his team he doesn’t feel that way. It’s only in the classroom.
“Dinner later?” I ask hesitantly.
“Maybe.” But by the despondent tones in his voice, I’m guessing that’s a no.
20 Ellie
“You were right. The book was good.” Masters’ eyes are heavy lidded, but it probably has more to do with tiredness than any sexiness on my part. We’re eating ribs, for crying out loud. When I okayed this place, I forget that ribs is the messiest meal around. Right up there with slurping spaghetti noodles.
Like everything Masters does, he manages to consume a full rack with ease and physical grace. One rib goes in his mouth and the bone comes out clean.
I struggle for about five minutes to cut the meat off, and then think fuck it, because I’m hungry, and start gnawing on it like the rest of the patrons. Masters smiles at me so I guess I don’t look too disgusting.
“Did you stay up all night reading it?” I shove the basket of mostly eaten ribs aside and start wiping up. It takes three paper towels and a wet wipe before I feel human again. I pop two peppermints in my mouth and watch as Masters does the same.
“Most of it. I read a lot on the plane to the game. Fell asleep on the way home.” He stretches, and I try not to pant too much as the worn blue of his T-shirt stretches across his defined pectorals.
“Your roommate didn’t mind, or do you, Knox Masters, get your own room?” I tease.
“I don’t think Johnny Football got his own room on the road.” He grins and I swear I hear panties drop three tables over. “Matty was, ah, occupied and I sat in the executive lounge. They have food up there. Free.” The smile on his face turns conspiratorial. “I ate a shit ton of olives.”
His confessional tone makes me laugh. A silence settles between us—the kind that happens right before someone ends a call—but I don’t want to hang up. So I ask him something that’s bothered me since we met in the stadium. “Why didn’t you ever tell me to keep your draft plans a secret?”
“I knew you wouldn’t tell,” he replies. The surety in his voice sounds obvious.
“How?” I shake my head.
“I just knew and you haven’t, so I’m right.” He leans forward and pins me with those turf green eyes of his. “Sometimes I know things in my gut immediately. Like in the game against Wisconsin my freshman year. I knew that they would run a trick play when I saw the tight end drop back off the line of scrimmage. I watched the tight end the whole time, and when he got the ball and flicked it back to the quarterback—
“You were there. You intercepted the ball and ran it in for a touchdown. Your first one as defensive end for the Warriors.”
“That’s right.” This time his voice is a tiny bit smug. He has every right to be. I’m here, rattling off his game plays like he’s a rock star, and I’m a groupie who knows every lyric to every song, even the ones on the B-side of the album.
“Anyone else up there?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Ace. He looked over at me a lot, hoping I’d leave.”
“Why?” I know the defense and offense like to hang separately, but that seems extreme.
“He’s banging the coach’s daughter, but thinks we don’t know. Everyone but Coach knows.”
I blanch. “I’m guessing that this is a problem for Coach?”
“Yeah.” Masters shrugs as if this is no big deal.
“He could cause problems for Ace.”
“No.”
“He could,” I insist. Why can’t he see this? It’s like Jack and high school all over again. “Ace could get benched or worse.”
Masters is so smart about the game. I can tell the way he acts on the sidelines, constantly in communication, that he’s clued into his teammates. There’s not a moment I’ve been with him in public that someone hasn’t stopped to say hi to him, and he’s always greeted those people with an easy smile and a word of gratitude. Thanks for watching the game. Thanks for cheering for us. We need your support. Sixth man! High five.
But about a potentially season wrecking affair between his starting quarterback and the coach’s daughter, he’s blind. Can I chalk this up to his sexual inexperience?