Page 98 of Julian

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.

I stand near the glass of the owner’s suite watching the two most important men in my life laugh together.

Julian and Dylan spend the entire game talking. With each passing period, the body language becomes more comfortable, more at ease, like they’ve been in each other’s lives for years. Julian has fully bought in. He’s not there in the distracted, half-listening way adults often talk to teenagers while waiting for the conversation to end. No, Julian engages with Dylan fully, the same engagement he brings to boardrooms and meetings and every other space where he commands attention so naturally.

The game unfolds as background noise to them at times.

Every few minutes Dylan points excitedly toward the ice while discussing some statistic or matchup trend, and Julian meets him there, expanding on the thought, challenging it occasionally, explaining nuances of roster construction or player efficiency metrics. It all has my brother practically glowing.

At one point Dylan explains why he thinks the Vipers’ second line generates stronger offensive pressure late in periods because of their transition speed through the neutral zone, and instead of politely nodding, Julian leans forward and says: “Interesting. Explain that.”

And Dylan does. Confidently. Watching it happen is surreal.

The Vipers end up beating Boston 3–2 in a game dramatic enough to send the crowd into absolute hysteria by the third period. The final buzzer sounds and the arena erupts around us, green towels spinning through the air while fans scream themselves hoarse.