Chapter 2 #2
She leaned forward, eyes bright, and kept going. "But you… Right now, you look like a guy who doesn't do serious. What if, instead, you looked like a guy who's been selective because he was waiting for something real?"
She paused. Let that land. Working him like a closing argument.
"I can give you that. Efficiently. Discreetly. No apps, no blind dates with women who just want to tag you in an Instagram story. I can filter the noise and find you someone who actually fits."
He watched her hands while she talked. The way she timed her gestures to land with key phrases, shifted her weight forward at the right moments, paused before the verdict to let the jury feel the weight.
She'd built her case the way his mother used to build a closing argument—every exhibit in order, every objection anticipated, the kill shot saved for last.
If it had come from a stranger, he might have been impressed.
But he was still looking at her hands. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her pen, like she was trying to strangle a confession out of it.
Antonio returned with their order. He set the hazelnut latte in front of Emmy, then placed both paninis in front of Grant without a word.
"That's the benefit for me," Grant said slowly, watching Emmy eye the second panini. He pushed the plate across to her. "Now tell me the truth. What happens if I say no?"
Emmy pushed the plate back toward him. Not breaking eye contact.
Stubborn. "If you say no," she said, her voice tighter now, the professional polish cracking, "I tell Cecelia I overstepped.
I lose the job. I go back to the soul-sucking marketing assistant roles I'm overqualified for to make rent, and I try to apply again at Elite Connections after I have more experience under my belt. Though I doubt Cecelia would see me again.”
Grant pushed the panini back to her. Quietly insistent. A negotiation within a negotiation.
Emmy's mask slipped. Just a fraction. She gave him a wry grin—self-aware, a little embarrassed—and picked up the sandwich.
"I need this, Grant." She looked down at her coffee cup like it held answers.
"I'm good at this. I know people. I know what makes them work together.
I just need the chance to prove it on a stage that matters.
Cecelia Ferrance is the best in the Northeast. Maybe the country. If I can make it there, I'm set."
Grant let himself see her. The ambition, sharp and hungry.
The thing that had always driven her—the need to prove herself, to be taken seriously, to be more than West Woodhouse's little sister or John Woodhouse's carefree daughter.
And underneath it, the precariousness. The tightrope she was walking between the person she was and the career she wanted to deserve.
He knew the industry. Not matchmaking specifically, but the ecosystem around it—the sharks who built empires on other people's insecurities, the consultants who promised discretion and delivered gossip column fodder, the whole predatory apparatus that fed on people willing to pay for the illusion of exclusivity.
He'd met women like Cecelia Ferrance. Self-made, ruthless, brilliant at reading what people needed and packaging it back to them at a premium. The kind of operator who'd chew through a twenty-five-year-old with good intentions and never look back to see what was left.
"Em." He set his sandwich down, met her eyes. "I'm not looking to settle down. I'm horrible to date right now, because football comes first. Always. No woman who's in it for the right things is going to stick around for that."
Emmy's expression shifted. Not defeated. Recalculating. Always recalculating.
"That's exactly why this works," she said quietly.
"You're not looking for forever right now.
You're looking for a partner who understands that football is the priority.
Someone whose life is full enough that they're not waiting around for you to be available.
Someone who gets that September to February is yours, and February to September is negotiable at best."
Grant felt a muscle in his jaw jump.
He didn't need a matchmaker. He needed a quiet season to get his team to the playoffs.
Emmy must have seen the refusal forming on his face because she leaned forward quickly, words tumbling out.
"I have some other athletes on my radar too.
If I can bring them in as clients, you'd be off the hook eventually.
I just need you to say yes for now. Cecelia wants a big name to prove I can deliver. Once I have a few others onboarded—"
"Emmy." He cut her off gently. "We both know that's not how this works."
She stopped. Swallowed.
"Once Cecelia Ferrance has my name on a contract, she's going to squeeze every drop of PR value out of it. 'You didn't hear it from me, but a certain quarterback has Elite Connections to thank.' That kind of thing." His eyes didn't leave hers. "You know I'm right."
Emmy looked away. She couldn't argue with that.
"How long do you have?" Grant asked.
"What?"
"You said you need to deliver. What's your actual deadline?"
"Two weeks from when she gave me the ultimatum.
That was yesterday." Emmy's voice went quieter.
"So thirteen days to get you signed. To prove to Cecelia that I can actually deliver an athlete client.
But the actual matchmaking..." She hesitated.
"That would run through the season. Through the post-season, if applicable, and the Super Bowl in February. "
Grant processed that. Thirteen days to commit. Then six months of actually doing the thing.
"And how often are we talking? Dates, events, whatever this entails."
Emmy smoothed the edge of her portfolio, aligning it more precisely with the table.
"I know you're busy. Maybe one or two dates a month during the regular season?
And four networking events total—charity events, that kind of thing.
Places you'd probably go anyway. Then we'd reassess based on. .." She trailed off.
Based on whether he'd found someone. Right.
He could do this. Sign the contract, give Emmy the credibility she needed with Cecelia.
One date a month wasn't terrible—he'd been doing that anyway with the Madisons and Emilys of the world, just without the strategic framework.
The networking events were things his agent already had him scheduled for.
He could go on strategically bad dates. Women who were clearly wrong, nothing that could go anywhere. He'd be politely engaged but impossible to please. "No chemistry," he'd say. "Great person, just not the right fit."
By the time playoffs started in January, he'd have the perfect excuse to pause everything. Too focused, can't be distracted, we'll revisit in the off-season. By then Emmy would be established enough at Elite Connections that his participation wouldn't matter anymore.
She gets the job. He stays single. Everybody wins.
Something settled in his chest. Not resolve—heavier than that, and lower. The same weight he felt in the tunnel before a game, when the crowd noise was just vibration in his sternum and the only thing left was to walk out.
"I have conditions," Grant said.
Emmy scrambled to open her portfolio, pen at the ready. "Okay. Name them."
"No one knows I'm a client."
Emmy's pen stopped. "What?"
"I mean no one. Not the media, not your colleagues, not anyone outside this booth and Cecelia's office." Grant kept his voice flat. Final. "And especially not West."
"Grant—" Emmy's voice pitched higher, the composure cracking. "The whole point of signing you is the credibility. Cecelia hired me because I could deliver an athlete client. A high-profile athlete client. If I can't even mention your name—"
"Then you'll have to deliver results instead of PR."
Emmy stared at him. He could see her calculating—the promise she'd made to Cecelia, the career she was trying to build, the value of his name versus the reality of his conditions.
"She's going to want to use you," Emmy said quietly. "Not publicly, maybe, but—you know how this industry works. Whisper campaigns. Donor dinners. The implication alone is worth—"
"Worth my privacy?" Grant's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "Worth my season getting derailed because some gossip columnist decides 'Desperate Quarterback Hires Matchmaker' makes a fun headline?"
Emmy flinched. Good. She needed to understand what she was asking.
"I know what I'm worth to her, Em. That's exactly why I'm not giving it away.
" He leaned forward, holding her gaze. "I've seen this play out a dozen times.
I sign a contract, shake a few hands at a gala, and next thing I'm a walking billboard whether I agreed to it or not.
Cecelia gets to name-drop me to every rich divorcée in Boston while I'm trying to make the playoffs. My personal life becomes content."
"She wouldn't—"
"She would. You told me yourself she's the best in the business." Grant's voice softened slightly, but didn't waver. "You think she got there by respecting boundaries?"
Emmy was quiet. They both knew what Cecelia Ferrance was.
"So here's the deal," Grant continued. "Cecelia can know I signed.
She's your boss—she needs the paperwork, the contract, whatever.
But my name doesn't leave her office. No marketing.
No whisper campaigns. No 'you didn't hear it from me' at donor dinners.
No one else on staff knows I'm a client.
As far as the rest of Elite Connections is concerned, I don't exist in your system. "
"And if Cecelia pushes back?"
"Then I walk." His voice softened, just slightly. "I'm not trying to tank your career, Em. But I'm not anyone's trophy client. I'm doing this for you. Not for her PR budget."
Emmy looked down at her portfolio. Grant could see her running the math—what she'd promised Cecelia versus what Grant was offering. The gap between them was significant.