It annoyed Sean that Conference Room 2A was the farthest point in the school building from the front entrance. It was also the wing closest to the showers where the girls varsity team could walk from immediately after soccer practice. Those who had bothered to show up to the meeting, that is. It said something about how well Kaitlyn was regarded that half the team still showed up at the request of a newbie sophomore, inluding the captain of the season Susan Kaminski. Some of those present were juniors from Sean's class while others were seniors who glanced at him curiously, aware of his recent notoriety. There was something intimidating about being stared at by a group of exhausted and impatient atheletic girls still fretfully warm from the shower. Unsurprisingly none of the coaches were present for a meeting that they hadn't authorized or blessed.

Phyllis Gibbs managed to look regal even in designer jersey and shorts. She crossed one leg over the other, shaking her head and swishing long dark hair as she pulled off her hair band. Dark blue eyes regarded Sean disdainfully, an imperious smile twitching her lips, sharp nose and wide cheekbones giving her the air of a warrior queen. She had been the last to walk in and had carefully picked a seat a little apart from the other girls. Sean cleared his throat nervously, trying not to stare at Phyllis. He fiddled with his laptop until the wall projector deigned to notice the ethernet plug. Kaitlyn gave him an encouraging grin and a thumbs up. Sean ignored Kaitlyn, while trying to ignore Phyllis, and accidentally pushed his mouse over the edge which hit the floor ejecting its battery. Sean scrabbed on all three functional limbs, trying to retrieve the errant device, his face warm with embarrasment.

"Oh, this is going to be good," Phyllis remarked, prompting a few giggles.

"Get on with it, Cook," Susan snapped, "we haven't got all night."

"Right," Sean coughed, "Um... we're here because... I was asked to find ways to potentially up your game in the playoffs."

"Because you are the resident expert on soccer?" sneered a senior girl Sean didn't recognize.

"Girls," Susan let out a long suffering sigh, "We agreed to let the guy have his say... I'd like to get home in time for dinner, please."

"Thank you, Susan," Sean flashed her a dazzling smile, he found the captain attractive enough to focus on for more than two seconds but not stunning enough to intimidate him, "the records show that your team's gameplay is approximately on par with Cardiff's historic performance in the playoffs. An analysis of rival teams also reveals comparable performance. In fact, the teams we compete against have been so equally matched even during overtime that most matches in the past five years have come down to sudden death tiebreakers. With each team getting five alternating penalty kicks, it basically boils down to luck."

"Tell us something we don't know," Susan nodded impatiently.

"I don't know of any way to improve your gameplay," Sean admitted, "and your coach can do a far better job on that front than I could." This was greeted with annoyed exclamations ending with 'duh' or 'bloody surprise".

"Cook," Susan began ominously, "if you've been freaking wasting my time..."

"I can't improve your gameplay," Sean raised his hand unperturbed, "but perhaps I can suggest a way to consistently win a sudden death round."

"How?" demanded Phyllis angrily, "Most penalty kicks can't be blocked, moron. As you just admitted it comes down to luck."

"Not quite," Sean grinned, ignoring the insult, bringing up data summaries on his screen, "Most can't be blocked but some can, enough to tip the balance, and that's where I'll focus on. Most players are right handed or right legged, and their strongest kick is to their the left which is the goalie's right. The goalie knows and anticipates that. But the kicker knows what the goalie is thinking and will very often kick to the goalie's left. The strategy settles into an equilibrium as you'd except. In every match, both Cardiff and the opposing team have sent penalty kicks to the goalie's right only 60% of the time."

"Not exactly rocket science," muttered another senior.

"If the kicker is really accurate she can always score by sending the ball to the very edge of the goal, of course," Sean continued, "but such shots have a high risk of missing the goal entirely, and most kickers tend to avoid that. But there are other winning strategies, besides kicking to the left or right. Kicking to the center, for instance, right down the middle. But hardly any kicker ever does that. Why not?"

The girls stared at Sean like he was crazy.

"Because , dumbass," drawled Phyllis, "that would be stupid. That's where the goalie is, you know, standing."

"That's where the goalie stands before the kick, sure," Sean moved to the next slide, "but she's going to leap to the left or right, whereever she anticipates the ball will be. But center penalty kicks are so rare that I had to look for data beyond highschool soccer, before I could be sure of the trend. A center kick is 7 percent points more likely to succeed than a penalty kick to the left or right. But despite that it is rarely used."

"But if it was more commonly used," protested Susan, "the goalie is simply going to anticipate and compensate. Standard game theory as you mentioned before."

"Maybe, maybe not," Sean shrugged, "but it is low hanging fruit that is currently left unexploited. But even if you ordered your five handpicked penalty kickers to kick center more often, they aren't going to obey you. Do you know why?"

There was thoughtful silence, but no one ventured an answer.

"Let me go out on a limb here and tell you why," Sean grinned again, "Every player wants the team to win, right? But why exactly? Sure everyone loves to be a winner. But a win for the team or the school isn't the terminal goal here, no matter what the coach says, but only an instrumental goal for your individual dreams. Most of you here dream of winning a college sport scholarship, no matter how distant a prize that is. And if you send a penalty kick right down the middle, straight to the goalie... and if the goalie manages to intercept... how stupid are you going to look. Everyone is going to be baying for your blood, and you can kiss any hope of a college scholarship goodbye. And that, ladies, is why center kicks are so rare even if it might benefit the team. That's where your personal incentive diverges from the team's and you can no longer afford to take one for the team."

There was a moment of frozen silence and then outraged denials began, growing in volume.

"He's right you know," Susan laughed, shocking the protests quiet, as she eyed Sean appraisingly, "so what's the point of all this, Cook? Are we here just so you could lord it over us with your brilliant logic?"

"No," Sean shook his head patiently, "I'm telling you that once you acknowledge that your individual incentives aren't necessarily aligned with the team's, you can exploit that to win sudden death tiebreakers."

"But, Sean," Kaitlyn spoke hesitantly, "no one likes going against their own self-interest. It wouldn't be fair to ask that of anyone. So how..."

"Easy," Sean smiled, "just designate penalty kickers who don't share the same incentives with the rest of you."

"Get to the point, Cook," growled Susan.

"Who among you doesn't need a college scholarship?" Sean explained, "Who is so rich and so opinionated that she couldn't care less what the team or the coach or anyone else for that matter thinks of her?"

"Me?" Phyllis gaped, as all eyes turned to her, "you are recommending me as a penalty kicker?"

"You," nodded Sean, his next words sticking in his throat, "at first I thought you were on the team only because of your dad's connections..."

"I'll make you some connections, asshole," Phyllis bunched her fist, "I'll connect your ass to your mouth..."

"...but the more I dug, the more I realized just how bloody good you are," Sean continued, causing Phyllis to trail off in shock, "No one on the team likes you. The coach hates your guts and has taken away your playing time for insubordination. The only reason you are still on the team is because you are that good. And you couldn't care less about college scholarships. Not when your dad could buy a dozen colleges. You are playing because you love soccer... and also, I suspect, because you want to prove something."

"The only thing I care about is to stick it to the losers who dismiss me as just another rich girl," Phyllis spat out, blinking furiously, "to those dipshits who dismiss everything I achieve as something my dad bought for me. But I make one teeny screwup and I'm suddenly the rich kid who can't cut it without Daddy's help..."

Phyllis trailed off, getting up abruptly to walk out the door. There was uncomfortable silence.

"She'll be back," Sean announced uncertainly, to no one in particular, "I think."

Phyllis came back three minutes later, her face scrubbed fresh.

"So," Sean looked directly at Phyllis, "if you are ordered to deliver a center kick at the tiebreaker, can you do it? Without giving a shit about what the audience will say?"

"You bet you ass I will," Phyllis choked, and then smiled, the first time Sean had ever seen her smile that way. A happy smile without derision. It transformed her face.

"That's all well and good," Susan spoke cautiously, "but Phyllis is just one penalty kicker out of five..."

"Which should give us just enough of an edge to take us to regionals," Sean interrupted, "but I'm sure you can find one more kicker with a similar... background."

"I'll have to discuss it with the coach," Susan got up, sounding dazed.

"I wouldn't mention the reason for picking Phyllis," Sean warned, "selecting a kicker basically for being rich isn't exactly politically correct. Just make sure you have delegating authority during tiebreaker."

"Heck, if your shit works, Cook," Susan mused with a faraway look, "Seymour won't know what hit them."

END OF CHAPTER