Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Through the front window, he could see Emmy already tucked into the corner booth furthest from the entrance. She had a laptop open, a leather portfolio squared perfectly with the table's edge, and a posture so rigid she looked like she was waiting for a firing squad rather than a coffee date.
Grant stopped on the sidewalk. Feet planted. Hands in pockets.
He'd spent twenty-four hours thinking about her phone call.
The panic in her voice. The careful professionalism she'd tried to layer over desperation like concealer over a bruise.
Emmy Woodhouse didn't ask for help. She fixed things.
She organized things. She managed every detail of every situation until it bent to her will through sheer force of optimism.
Except now she needed him to sign up for matchmaking. To let her parade him through networking events and set him up on dates with women who'd be ‘perfect for him.’ To pretend he wanted something he'd never particularly needed.
When West moved to Newton with Brynn, Grant had promised him he'd be there for Emmy if she needed anything.
West would be in the city for weekly practices, but they both knew his focus was elsewhere now.
He'd looked at Grant over a beer, serious for once: "She's going to struggle without me close-by. Just... keep an eye on her, yeah?"
But this wasn't what West meant. This was insane.
He'd have to let her down easy.
Grant pushed open the door. The café smelled like burnt espresso and damp wool, a scent that hadn't changed since he and West were eighteen and hiding out here to avoid college applications.
Antonio had been ancient then. Antonio was ancient now.
Time moved differently in this place, like it had decided urgency was for other establishments.
The man himself looked up from behind the counter—seventy-something, permanently unimpressed, working a crossword puzzle in pen. He glanced at Grant's face, grunted something that might have been acknowledgment, and went back to his puzzle.
Privacy. That's why they'd always come here.
Antonio's was one of maybe three places in Boston where Grant Knight, franchise quarterback, three-time Pro Bowler, and the face plastered on billboards from Fenway to the Seaport, could walk through the door and be nobody.
Just another guy ordering coffee. Antonio didn't care about stats or endorsements.
He cared about whether you were going to order something or waste his booth space.
The man had once glared at a state senator until he left for taking too long to decide between muffins.
Emmy didn't look up until Grant was halfway across the café.
When she did, the tension bled out of her shoulders, her rigid posture softening like someone had cut the strings holding her upright.
A smile broke across her face—genuine, unguarded, the kind she used to give him when he'd show up at the Woodhouses’ unannounced and she'd come bounding down the stairs in a ponytail and mismatched socks.
"Grant." She stood, and for a second he thought she might hug him, but she caught herself, smoothing her dress instead. Professional Emmy reasserting control. "You're early."
"So are you." He slid into the booth across from her. "When did you get here?"
"Two. Maybe one-thirty." She grimaced. "I was nervous."
"I can tell."
The grimace deepened—the same one she'd worn at eighteen when she'd backed her mom's car into their mailbox and tried to convince him it had always been like that.
Same tight smile, same defiant chin. Emmy had never learned how to hide when she was in over her head.
It was one of the things he'd always liked about her.
She performed competence beautifully, but the cracks showed if you knew where to look.
Emmy blinked, then laughed. "God, I forgot you do that."
"Occupational hazard. I read defenses for a living." Grant leaned back, making himself comfortable. Making the space less formal. "How've you been? It's been what, four months since the wedding?"
"Five." Emmy's smile went a little wistful. "You look good. Healthy. No visible injuries."
"Season just started. Give it time."
"Don't even joke." But she was relaxing now, the Emmy he actually knew emerging from behind the professional facade. She closed her laptop, pushed the portfolio aside. "How's West? I know you see him more than I do these days."
"He's good. Happy. Boring." Grant grinned. "All he talks about is his wife and his lawn. It's tragic. The man used to be fun."
Emmy's eyes went wide with mock horror. "My brother has a lawn. He's become our parents. Does he have an HOA? Is he feuding with the neighbors yet?"
"Worse. He asked me about gutters last week. I had to pretend I knew what a downspout was."
She laughed again, and Grant felt something in his chest ease.
Antonio appeared at the table, grumpily tucking his crossword puzzle into his apron pocket. Must've been a hard one today. His expression suggested the puzzle had personally wronged him.
He looked at Emmy first. Waited.
"Black coffee," Emmy said. "That's all."
"Come on, Em." Grant leaned back. "I haven't seen you in months. This is an occasion. Get the hazelnut latte. My treat."
Emmy huffed, but the hard line of her mouth gave way. She turned back to Antonio. "Fine. A large hazelnut latte. Extra hot."
Then she looked at Grant. "I can't believe you remember that."
"I have a brain. I use it occasionally." He turned to Antonio. "And aren't you getting food? You're fidgety."
"I'm fine."
"I'm getting food. Two turkey paninis."
Antonio grunted and shuffled away. A man of few words, all of them unnecessary.
His eyes went back to Emmy. She was opening and closing the flap of her portfolio.
She had shadows under her eyes that concealer couldn't quite hide—five months, and she looked more tired than he'd ever seen her.
When had Emmy ever looked tired? She'd always run on some internal battery the rest of them couldn't access, organizing everyone's life while they were still figuring out breakfast.
Her hair was pulled back in a sleek style that made her look like a real adult—someone with a career and a 401k and opinions about interest rates.
But a few strands had escaped near her temple, and he thought of early high school mornings picking West up for practice, little Emmy sitting at the breakfast table with her ponytail falling apart around her face, awake before the whole house.
His hand twitched. Muscle memory from a thousand casual moments when fixing her collar or tucking her hair back had been automatic.
The privilege of growing up together—tracking mud through the Woodhouse kitchen after practice, sleeping over in West's room while Emmy made them all pancakes with sprinkles in the morning, her cheering from the sidelines at his high school games with her elementary friends.
Except they weren't those people anymore—the ones who'd sprawl across the Woodhouse living room arguing about movies, the ones who touched without thinking about it. Somewhere between his rookie season and now, the ease had slipped away. Adulthood had built walls where there used to be open doors.
He could smell vanilla—faint, familiar, the same perfume she'd worn since high school. Some things hadn't changed.
Other things had.
"Okay," she said, taking a breath that seemed to square her shoulders.
"The matchmaking thing."
"The matchmaking thing." Emmy bit her lip. “I should start by saying thank you. For even considering this. I know it's completely insane that I called you out of nowhere and asked you to let me find you dates, and you probably think I've lost my mind—"
"Em." Grant leaned forward, cutting off the spiral before it could build momentum. "I'll always answer when you call. You know that." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I'll listen to your pitch. But this matchmaking thing... you know it's not me."
Emmy started to speak, and he held up a hand.
"But I'll listen," he said.
She went quiet, and he could see her recalculating. Whatever pitch she'd rehearsed in the mirror this morning, she was adjusting it now. Reading the defense, calling an audible.
"Okay," she said quietly. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped a note—professional, polished. Her hands started moving as she talked, gestures for emphasis, the way she always did when she was building an argument.
Grant slid her water glass six inches to the left without looking at it. Muscle memory. Emmy knocked things over when she got animated. She didn't notice. She never did.
"Grant Knight," she began, and he bit back a smile at the formality. "You are thirty-two years old. You are a three-time MVP, a team captain, and the face of a franchise. You just signed a $150 million contract extension. On the field, you are untouchable."
She slid a piece of paper across the table. Not a contract. A printout of a Google search regarding his dating life. Thorough. Slightly terrifying. Very Emmy.
"Off the field," she continued, "you date beautiful women.
Models. Actresses. The kind of women who look perfect on your arm at charity galas and terrible in your kitchen at 7 AM.
" She tapped the printout. "But none of them last more than three months.
And the media narrative is starting to shift from 'eligible bachelor' to 'commitment-phobic. ' Or worse—'player.'"
Grant opened his mouth. Closed it. She kept going. Unstoppable force, meet immovable object.
"I know that's not fair. I know you're private, not a player.
But in your market, perception matters. 'Stoic Leader' is good.
'Happily Settled Leader with the Right Person' is better.
It screams stability. Maturity. Legacy. Look at West—he's settled with Brynn and somehow more popular than ever. Everyone wants to sponsor him."
“Em,” he said. “I don’t want to be popular. I don’t need any more sponsorships.”