Chapter 5 #2
"You look like you're going to Wimbledon. But those shoes are going to send you to the ER."
Emmy looked down. Pristine, marshmallow-soft, very expensive. "These are running shoes! They have arch support!"
"They have a platform sole. You try to cut laterally in those, you're rolling an ankle." He shook his head, walking toward the sideline bench. "Stay there."
He reached behind his duffel bag and pulled out not one, but three shoeboxes. He stacked them on the bench.
"Come here."
Emmy walked over, bewildered. Grant tapped the middle box.
"Try those."
Emmy opened the lid. Inside was a pair of sneakers that looked like they meant business—sleek, low-profile, shoes that looked like they'd been designed in a wind tunnel.
She checked the tongue. Size seven.
"How did you know my size?"
Grant took a very long drink of water. Didn't look at her. "Guessed."
"You guessed exactly right?"
"I bought three pairs. Half-size above, half-size below. Covered the spread." Still not looking at her. Very deliberately not looking at her. "It's called risk management. I don't want to explain to West why I let you break a metatarsal on my watch."
Risk management. He'd gone to a store, purchased three pairs of professional tennis shoes, and hauled them here at 6 AM. For her.
Emmy didn't know what to do with that information. So she sat down and started lacing.
They fit perfectly. Of course they did.
"Okay," she said, standing up and bouncing a little. She felt lower to the ground. Exposed. "I'm shod. Let's do this."
Grant reached into his bag and pulled out a racquet. Not an antique—a sleek, matte black Wilson Clash.
"Use this. It's forgiving. It'll help with the spin."
Emmy took it. It felt balanced. Expensive.
"Show me your grip."
Emmy gripped the handle, trying to remember what the YouTube guy—TennisTom24—had said. She held it out like she was shaking hands with the racquet.
"Wrong."
He stepped around her. And then he was behind her.
His chest pressed against her back—solid, warm, approximately the size of a small country. His arms came around her, hands covering hers on the racquet grip, and Emmy's brain immediately abandoned all higher functions.
This is a tennis lesson, she reminded herself sternly. He is correcting your grip. This is purely educational. There is nothing weird about your brother's best friend surrounding you like a very muscular eclipse.
She took a careful breath. Without her heels, the top of her head didn’t quite reach his shoulder. She felt strangely unarmed—how long had it been since she'd worn shoes without even the barest inch of platform?
"You're holding it like a frying pan," Grant murmured, his voice low near her ear. "Rotate your hand. Here."
He guided her hand, his fingers calloused against hers. Turned her wrist, locking the grip into place.
He didn't make her feel stupid for not knowing. Didn't sigh or use that particular tone her ex had perfected—refreshingly literal-minded—that made every correction feel like confirmation she wasn't quite enough.
"Loosen up," he said.
"Like this?" she squeaked.
"Yeah. Like that."
He didn't move away immediately. For a second, they just stood there.
Then Grant cleared his throat and stepped back.
"Okay." He walked backward to the net and grabbed a basket of balls. "Let's see the swing. Don't think. Just hit."
Twenty minutes later, Emmy was sweating, her Wimbledon bun was falling out, and she had successfully hit exactly three balls in bounds.
"I can't do it!" she groaned, dropping her head.
"You're overthinking the mechanics. You're trying to do geometry in your head."
"Geometry would be easier!"
"Tennis is rhythm." He stopped in front of her. "Look at me."
Emmy looked up. He was close again. Wasn't even winded, just looking at her with that intense, quarterback focus.
"Forget the court," he said quietly. "Forget Duke. Just hit the ball to me. Like we're playing catch."
"Grant, I am going to embarrass myself. I should cancel. I should fake COVID."
"You're not cancelling." He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers grazed her cheek. "You got me, Em. That counts for something."
Emmy blinked. "You're different. You're doing me a favor. Tyce would be choosing the agency."
Grant went still. His hand dropped from her face.
"I chose the agency," he said. Low.
"Because you had to. Because of West."
"I didn't have to do anything." No teasing now. No deflection. "I could have hired anyone in the country. I chose you."
The court felt smaller. The net felt farther away. Emmy felt like she'd missed a stair in the dark.
"Why?" Barely above a whisper. "Why did you say yes when we both know it's the last thing you wanted?"
That muscle in his jaw. The one that only moved when he was trying not to say something.
"Because I know you."
Simple. Direct. Like it was obvious.
"You'd walk onto that court next week and get destroyed rather than admit you couldn't do it. So if you're going to do it—" He held her gaze. "You're going to be prepared."
He wasn't just helping her. He was arming her.
"Now get in stance." Grant stepped back, voice shifting to coach. "Keep your knees bent."
He walked back to the baseline. "Okay," he called out. "Forget form. Instinct only. Fight or flight, Em. Choose fight."
He slapped a ball toward her. It had pace.
Emmy reacted without thinking. She lunged, swung, and the ball ricocheted off her strings with a satisfying thwack. It sailed over the net.
"Ugly," Grant judged, but he was smiling. He scooped it up and fired it back. "Again."
Emmy scrambled left. Hit it back.
"Again."
He hit it right. Emmy sprinted, her new shoes squeaking violently, and shoveled the ball back over the net.
"Keep your feet moving!" Grant yelled. "Don't plant! Dance, Em!"
"I am dancing!" she shouted back, gasping as she chased a shot into the corner. She whacked it cross-court.
Grant adjusted his speed, meeting her chaos with controlled precision. Playing with her, but also playing for her—keeping the ball alive so she had to keep running.
"Is that all you got?" Emmy panted, resetting in the center.
Grant's eyebrows shot up. He caught the ball in one hand, looking delighted.
"Careful, Princess. I'm playing at ten percent."
"Give me twenty." Emmy was panting, flushed, possibly insane. "I can take it."
Grant's slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "Okay. Twenty."
He served.
Spin on the ball that made it kick sideways. Emmy yelped, stumbling, but she framed it back.
Grant moved in. Drop shot.
Emmy sprinted. "You jerk!"
"Run!"
She ran. She popped the ball up, nearly crashing into the net post. Grant was already there, volleying it back deep.
"Back!"
Emmy scrambled backward, panting hard, lungs burning, but she didn't stop. She chased the ball to the baseline and ripped a forehand.
It sang off the strings, low and fast.
"Yes!" Grant shouted. "That's it!"
He returned it. Emmy returned it.
They fell into a rhythm. The thwack-grunt-squeak of the game filled the room. Grant was moving her around the court like a puppet—left, right, short, deep—but he wasn't doing it to be cruel. He was pushing her right to the edge, and every time she got there, she dug in and pushed back.
She looked like a woman fighting a swarm of bees. But she was hitting the damn ball.
"Five in a row!" Grant called out.
"Six!" Emmy grunted.
"Seven!" Grant punched a volley back.
"Eight!" Emmy lunged. She lobbed it high.
Going out. Definitely out.
Grant didn't let it go. He chased it down, sprinting back toward the curtain, leaping into the air to hit an overhead smash.
"Nine!" he roared, landing like a cat.
Emmy laughed. She couldn't help it. She ran for the smash, deflecting it just in time. It popped up high, drifting toward the side benches.
"Ten!" Emmy screamed. "Get it!"
Grant sprinted for the wayward ball, diving sideways as it dropped near the metal umpire's chair. He stretched out, racquet fully extended.
He connected. The ball popped up and landed perfectly on Emmy's side.
But Grant didn't pop up.
He slid on the hard surface, his momentum carrying his hand straight into the metal leg of the chair with a sickening scrape.
He landed hard, then gave his left hand a sharp shake, frowning down at it. Pushed himself back to standing effortlessly, rolling his shoulder as he flexed his fingers.
"Grant!"
Emmy dropped her racquet and sprinted across the court. She reached him in three seconds flat, grabbing his arm.
"Oh my god. West is going to kill me. The entire city of Boston is going to kill me."
Grant looked at her, amused by the panic. "Em. I'm right-handed. I've had worse than this at a friendly scrimmage."
"You're bleeding! You have a game on Sunday!"
She looked down at his hand. His knuckles were scraped raw, the skin peeled back in jagged strips. Blood welling bright and fast, dripping down his finger and onto the pristine court.
The sight of it hit Emmy like a door swinging shut.
The adrenaline that had been sustaining her for the last hour vanished. The room tilted. The edges of her vision went soft.
She swayed.
"Whoa."
Grant was there. Good hand clamped onto her waist, injured arm bracing her shoulder.
"Easy." Low. Authoritative. "Breathe, Em."
"I'm fine," Emmy mumbled, though her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. She blinked hard, trying to clear the black spots. "I just... the blood."
"You're swooning," Grant stated, sounding partially concerned and partially like Christmas had come early.
"Swooning is for Victorian heroines and women in period dramas. I am having a vasovagal response, which is a medically recognized physiological phenomenon, and I would appreciate it if you would stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're memorizing this for future blackmail purposes."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would."
"I absolutely would. Come on. We're done for today."