Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Grant's tablet screen reflected in his bathroom mirror, game footage playing while he knotted his bow tie.
Florida's secondary was getting shredded by crossing routes. Their cornerbacks bit on every pump fake, safeties slow to rotate. He could exploit that. Davis running the shallow cross, pulling the linebacker, then hit Morrison on the post when the safety jumped—
His phone buzzed on the marble counter.
Emmy
Your name's at the door with Thea's. Table 12. Thank you for doing this.
Professional. Helpful. The same tone she'd used all week—efficient reminders about the event, Thea's preferences, what to wear. Like there had been nothing between them but platonic friendship while his blood dripped on her tennis whites.
His phone buzzed again.
West
Mom wants to know if you're coming to Sunday dinner after the game. She's making that chicken thing you like.
Grant smiled despite himself. Karalyn Woodhouse had been feeding him since he was twelve years old and threw a punch defending West on the playground.
After his parents died, she'd made damn sure to keep feeding him—like he was still that scrappy kid fighting for her son, not a man with a personal chef.
Grant
Tell her I'll be there. Win or lose.
West
How's Emmy? You been checking up on her like I asked?
Grant's hand stilled on his bow tie.
West
She's fine. Had pizza the other day.
He didn't mention that the pizza had been on her couch at 11 PM. Not that there would be a problem with that. He and Emmy were friends. Friends had pizza. Friends saw friends in pearl-colored silk pajamas and didn't think about it afterward.
Repeatedly.
West
Good. Appreciate it man.
Grant set the phone down.
The gala had been Emmy's idea, of course. She'd called three days after the tennis lesson, voice bright and professional.
"I know you hate these things," she'd said, "but Elite Connections is sponsoring a table and Cecelia wants her star client there. And since you're due for Date Two with Thea anyway, we could combine them? Kill two birds?"
Smart. He'd give her that. One night instead of two, back-to-back obligations handled efficiently. He'd agreed because it made sense, not because hearing her voice had done something complicated to his chest.
He finished his tie, checked his reflection. The bow tie sat straight. He adjusted his cuffs, his thumb brushing the rough, pink skin of the healing scrape across his left knuckles. It had been a week, but the mark lingered—a souvenir from a morning he hadn't been able to stop replaying.
His date with Thea had been... normal. She was smart, interesting, interested in him. They'd talked about her research, his season, the documentary she'd just binged on HBO. She'd been curious about him, about his wants, his past, his plans.
Actually, she'd been a little more than curious.
Grant picked up his keys, remembering the end of that night. They'd been standing outside the restaurant, waiting for her Uber. Thea had stepped into his space, her hand sliding up his lapel, fingers pressing against the solid muscle of his chest.
"I've heard the view from your penthouse is incredible," she'd murmured, her voice dropping an octave. "I'd love to see it."
Green light if he'd ever seen one. She was beautiful, smart, and clearly willing to skip the "wait and see" phase. Ten years ago, Grant wouldn't have hesitated.
But he'd gently taken her hand and stepped back. "It's a mess right now," he'd lied smoothly. "Another time."
He hadn't invited her up. He wasn't a monk, but he was thirty-two and tired of waking up next to women who looked at him like he was a Super Bowl ring they could wear to brunch. He wanted to see if she stuck around for the conversation, not just the view.
They'd parted mutually interested—or so he'd thought—and when he'd called her with Emmy's proposed pivot to the museum gala for their second date, Thea had seemed both charmed and excited.
So why did he feel like he was suiting up for a game he'd already decided not to win?
Grant locked his condo door and headed for the elevator. Game in two days. Gala tonight. Date Two with a woman who deserved better than a man mentally reviewing defensive schemes while she talked.
The elevator doors closed.
The Museum of Fine Arts had gone full peacock for the evening.
Grant stepped out of his car and into the organized chaos of valet parking—luxury sedans, a Tesla or two, one vintage Bentley that looked like it belonged in a different century. He handed his keys to a kid who couldn't have been more than seventeen and headed for the entrance.
The woman at the door had an iPad and a professional smile.
"Mr. Knight. Table twelve." She tapped something on the screen. "Your guest hasn't arrived yet, but please, go ahead. Cocktail reception's in the atrium."
Grant nodded and walked into money doing what money did best: performing philanthropy.
The museum's main atrium soared three stories, all glass ceiling and marble floors.
White linens, silver settings arranged with surgical precision, a string quartet playing something Grant didn't recognize but suspected he was supposed to.
Champagne flowed. Conversations hummed at that specific frequency where everyone sounded important and nobody was listening.
He accepted a glass from a passing server and did what came naturally: read the field.
Exits. Bathrooms. Bar stations. The museum board clustered near a Calder sculpture, its red metal somehow both massive and delicate. Cecelia Ferrance holding court by the windows, her posture suggesting ownership of the building and possibly the air inside it.
And Emmy.
She was on the far side of the atrium, talking to an older couple.
The woman wore enough pearls to fund a small country.
The man's bow tie sat crooked. Emmy's laughter carried across the space—sweet and a little too loud for the carefully modulated conversations around her—and the late sun coming through the glass ceiling caught her hair.
Amber waves of grain, his brain supplied helpfully, because apparently he was having a stroke.
The dress was deep red. High neck, long sleeves, sophisticated enough for a museum gala.
She turned slightly to gesture at something, and Grant caught the collective shift of attention from at least three nearby groups.
She was the warmest thing in the room by a factor of ten, and more eyes than just his were drawn to her.
Pride warmed his chest.
He looked away.
Three women stood near the coat check, designer dresses and shoes and jewelry that came with insurance policies. One was definitely looking at him. She leaned to whisper to her friends.
Grant had stopped being surprised by recognition somewhere around his second season. Professional athlete in one of the most visible sports in the world—came with the territory. Grocery stores, gas stations, charity galas. Someone always knew your face.
He turned before they could approach and found himself tracking Emmy again.
She'd moved to a younger group now—a blonde woman in navy silk, a man with architect glasses, someone's plus-one looking bored. Emmy gestured with her champagne glass, animated.
Then Tyce Duke appeared at her elbow.
Hard not to recognize him—since retiring six months ago, he had a permanent spot in the Boston social pages and a presence that made gossip columnists reach for words like 'magnetic' and ‘untouchable.’ Tyce said something low, and Emmy laughed—head tilted back, genuine, that too-loud laugh she only did when something actually surprised her.
Grant's hand tightened on his champagne flute.
He watched Tyce lean in closer. The man had an easy physicality Grant recognized—the same kind of spatial confidence that came from decades in a body that performed at the highest level.
His hand settled light on Emmy's bare back as he gestured toward something across the atrium.
And Emmy leaned into it, just slightly, the way people did when they felt safe.
That was the problem with Duke. He wasn't performing. He was just like that.
Cecelia materialized at Grant's elbow, champagne flute catching the light. "Mr. Knight. How good of you to grace us with your presence."
"Ms. Ferrance. Wouldn't miss it."
"Cecelia, please. We're practically family now.
Have you met Sabine?" Cecelia gestured toward a woman standing dutifully at her elbow—tall, elegant, with a bone structure that would photograph like a dream and a smile that never quite reached her eyes.
"My star matchmaker. She closed three high-profile matches last quarter.
A tech CEO, a state senator, the curator here at the Museum of Fine Arts.
" Cecelia's voice carried a note of pointed pride.
"All still together. All actively recommending Elite Connections to their friends. "
Sabine inclined her head in acknowledgment, her expression coolly professional.
"Impressive," Grant said.
"She's my benchmark." Cecelia's gaze drifted to Emmy across the room, currently laughing too loudly at something Duke was saying. "Though Emmy's showing promise. Raw promise, but promise nonetheless."
Her shrewd eyes narrowed on him. "Her work procuring you has been truly impressive. You’re the topic of conversation at every table tonight." Cecelia's gaze swept the room, a general surveying the field before the charge.
Grant followed her sight line to Emmy, who'd already moved on to another group, working the room like she'd been born to it.
"She's a natural," he said.
"Mm." Cecelia's lips pursed. "Let's hope she remembers she's here to work, not socialize. Excuse me. Father Callahan is talking to that Mary Agnes Richards. Absolute disaster. Sabine! Go!"
She glided away, trailing expensive perfume and quiet threat.
Grant checked his watch. Thea should arrive soon. He should position himself near the entrance, be the attentive date, focus on the woman he was actually here with.
He stayed where he was.