Chapter 5 #3
He didn't give her a choice. He walked her to the sideline bench, keeping a heavy, grounding arm around her shoulders. Pressed her down onto the bench.
"Head between your knees."
"I don't need—"
"Head. Knees. Now."
Emmy dropped her head between her knees. She heard the zipper of his duffel bag, the rustle of movement. A cold bottle pressed against the back of her neck.
"Stay there."
"I'm supposed to be helping you," Emmy said into her own lap, feeling ridiculous. "You're the one bleeding."
"I'm fine. You went sheet white."
He moved the cold bottle from her neck to her hand. "Drink this. Electrolytes. Your blood sugar probably crashed."
Emmy sat up slowly. The world had stopped spinning. Grant was crouching in front of her, watching her face with that narrow-eyed intensity he brought to fourth-quarter film review. He held out a neon yellow Gatorade.
She took it. She took a sip.
"Better?"
"Yes," she admitted. "Sorry."
"It's just..." She looked at his hand again. The blood was still welling, stark against his skin. She looked down at herself and gasped. "Oh no."
She pointed to a single, tiny droplet of blood on the white fabric near her hem. "I knew the wearing white thing was stupid. Who made up that rule? Some man probably. And on a grass court! You'd never get the stains out."
A smirk played at his mouth while she rambled. "I'll buy you another one."
"It was insultingly expensive," Emmy muttered, rubbing at the spot uselessly. "You might change your mind when you see the receipt."
"Sweetheart." Dryly. "I just signed an eighty million dollar extension. I think I can swing a tennis dress."
Emmy stopped rubbing. The adrenaline crash was settling into something specific—a heaviness behind her ribs, a prickling awareness of exactly how close his face was to hers. She looked from the dress to his hand.
"Okay. You're rich. We get it," she said softly. "But you're still bleeding."
"It's nothing." He didn't break eye contact. Reached for his bag, ignoring the injury completely. "I'll clean it up when I get home."
"Grant."
Emmy stood up. Her legs were still a little shaky, but her voice was steady. She placed her hand on his forearm to stop him.
"Please." She looked up at him. "Let me."
Grant froze. Looked down at her hand on his arm, then up at her face. Held her gaze for a long moment, the refusal dying in his throat.
Finally, he let out a short exhale. A sound of surrender.
He sat down on the bench, elbows on his knees, and extended his left arm.
"Okay," he said quietly. "All yours, Doc."
Emmy sat next to him. She unzipped the kit and took his hand in hers. Massive. Heavy. Calloused. And now that she was steady, the sight of the scrape just made her want to fix it.
"This is going to sting," she warned, peeling open a wipe.
"I've had worse." He didn't look at his hand. He was watching her face.
Emmy dabbed the wipe against the raw skin. Grant didn't flinch. But she felt his fingers curl, the tension traveling up his forearm.
"Em."
His right hand was under her chin, tilting her face up. His thumb brushed her jaw.
"I'm fine," he said softly. "I promise."
His hand was warm. His eyes were steady, the amusement gone. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the way the green darkened near the pupil.
Emmy forgot about the blood. She forgot about the Gatorade.
She was extremely aware of three things: One—she was still holding his left hand in both of hers. Two—his right hand was cradling her face like she was something fragile. Three—if she leaned forward six inches, she could kiss him.
The thought arrived fully formed. She could just lean in. Press her mouth to his. Taste the salt on his skin.
Grant's thumb moved. Just slightly. A tiny stroke along her jawline, so gentle it might have been accidental if every nerve ending in Emmy's body hadn't staged an immediate and comprehensive coup.
She stopped breathing.
For a moment—half a second, maybe less—his expression broke open. The press-conference composure dissolved and underneath was something raw, something unguarded, pupils blown wide and his gaze dropping to her mouth and back up so fast she almost missed it.
Then he blinked. And it was gone.
The hand on her face dropped. The air where his palm had been went cold, and Emmy's skin registered the absence before her brain caught up—a specific, physical negative, like stepping out of sunlight.
"The bandaid." His voice came out rough, scraped raw. "You were fixing the bandaid."
"Right." Emmy's voice was approximately one octave too high. "Bandaid. Yes. Medical attention. That's what's happening here."
Neither of them moved.
Her hands were still trembling when she smoothed the adhesive over his knuckles.
"Thanks," Grant said. He stood up abruptly, grabbing his towel and scrubbing it over his face. "You should go. You have a busy day. And I have... I have a date."
Thea. The word dropped like a trapdoor.
Emmy stood up, clutching her racquet.
"Right," she said, forcing a bright smile. "Thea. She's going to love you. Just be yourself. But maybe ask her about dead languages too. She'll appreciate the range."
"Dead languages. Got it." He shoved the medical kit back into his bag. "Drive safe, Em."
"You too."
She turned and walked out of the court. She didn't look back.
Emmy got into her car. She started the engine. She sat there for a long moment, gripping the steering wheel.
Grant was West's best friend. That was the only label that mattered. A fixed point in her universe, platonic and permanent.
She pressed her thumb to the inside of her jaw. Where his hand had been. The skin still felt warm, or she was imagining it, and she wasn't sure which was worse.
Grant Knight
Keep your elbow up on the backhand. You drop it when you're tired.
Emmy
Yes, coach.
Grant Knight
Smart ass.
Emmy smiled at her phone. Then caught herself smiling. Then forced herself to stop.
Grant Knight
Drink water. You're going to be sore tomorrow.
Emmy
What about you? How's your hand?
Grant Knight
I'll live. It's not my throwing hand. I'm good.
A pause. Then:
Grant Knight
Thanks again. For the first aid.
Emmy's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
She didn't text back. She couldn't. Because if she did, she might say something true.
So she drove home in silence, Grant's texts glowing on the seat beside her.