Chapter 6 #2
"There you are."
Grant turned.
Thea stood beside him looking like she'd stepped out of the museum's collection.
Dark hair swept up, emerald dress that moved like water, jewelry dainty and understated—the kind of restraint that came from people who'd had money long enough to stop proving it.
She'd mentioned her family on their first date.
Boston Brahmins, old money that probably had ancestors on the Mayflower.
She fit here in a way he'd been faking for a decade.
"Thea. You look stunning."
"You're not so bad yourself." Light touch on his arm—easy, comfortable. "Sorry I'm late. My driver had opinions about the best route and wouldn't accept feedback."
"Sounds productive."
"Riveting." She accepted champagne, surveyed the atrium with obvious pleasure. "God, I love this museum. Did you see the Sargent exhibit on the way in?"
"Came straight here."
"We should circle back before dinner. There's a portrait of Madame X that caused an absolute scandal—wore a dress with fallen straps to the Paris Salon in eighteen eighty-four and the critics lost their minds over exposed shoulders."
Movement caught Grant's peripheral vision. Emmy turning, that red dress catching light.
He looked back at Thea, cleared his throat. "Some things don't change."
"Exactly." Thea took a sip. "How was your week? Preparing for Florida?"
"Always."
"You mentioned you have a home game Sunday, right? One o'clock?"
"Yeah."
"I've never actually been to a football game." Curiosity, not apology. "Is it very loud? Should I bring earplugs?"
Grant blinked. "You want to come?"
"If you have an extra ticket? I'd love to see what you do." Another touch, brief and easy. "I know absolutely nothing about football, but I'm a quick study."
"It's straightforward once you understand the basics."
"I'm sure." Thea smiled and looped her arm through his—natural, comfortable, the way people moved when they liked each other. "Come on. Introduce me around. I want to meet the woman who's been matchmaking Boston's most eligible quarterback."
She steered him toward the center of the atrium.
Toward Emmy, now talking to a silver-haired man who looked like old money and older opinions.
Toward the evening he'd agreed to, with a woman who fit perfectly at his side.
One play at a time. Get through the gala. Be a good date. Stop noticing things he had no business noticing.
Emmy laughed at something the silver-haired man said when Grant and Thea reached her.
She turned, and Grant saw the shift—professional smile sliding into place like armor, posture straightening a fraction.
"Grant." She pulled a lowball glass from the small table beside her—clear liquid over ice—and handed it to him while simultaneously taking his champagne flute.
The exchange brought her close enough that Grant caught her perfume—something light, familiar, devastating. She was taller tonight. The heels brought the top of her head to his chin.
Grant looked at the glass in his hand, then brought it to his mouth. Sparkling water.
His chest dropped—the lurch of missing the last stair in the dark.
Emmy had already stepped back, including Thea in her professional smile. "You must be Thea. I'm Emmy Woodhouse."
"The famous matchmaker." Thea extended her hand, warm and easy. "This may only be our second date, but I have a feeling that anyone who could convince this one to actually show up to events like this deserves hazard pay."
Emmy's smile warmed as she shook, the champagne glass—his champagne glass—held casually in her other hand. "We at Elite Connections are just grateful Mr. Knight is able to make time for us during this busy season."
"Well," Thea said, "he speaks very highly of you. Family friends, he said?"
Emmy's professional brightness held, but her hand tightened on the champagne stem. "Yes, that's right. Grant and my brother West were thick as thieves growing up."
Thea's attention shifted to him, curious. He was still caught on the height difference. With the heels, Emmy's head almost reached his chin.
"I should let you two get to your table," Emmy continued, bright and professional. "I'm at Cecelia's for the speeches, but I hope you enjoy the evening."
"Thank you for suggesting the museum," Thea said. "It's perfect."
Emmy's smile warmed. "I'm glad you're enjoying it."
She turned back to the silver-haired man, dismissing them with graceful efficiency. Still holding Grant's champagne.
Grant let Thea steer him toward Table 12.
The sparkling water was cold against his palm. She'd known he didn't drink during the season. Had the glass ready before he'd even approached. Had choreographed the exchange so smoothly it looked like something they'd practiced.
He didn't look back.
Dinner was assigned seating. They'd put him between Thea and a venture capitalist's wife—both the wife and her husband sufficiently used to celebrity that they didn't fawn or ask for autographs.
But their disinterest was so pointed it had its own gravitational pull, all conversation directed at Thea while they shot Grant surreptitious glances when they thought he wasn't looking.
The museum had wheeled out the works—five courses, wine pairings, speeches between the salad and the fish about supporting the arts.
Grant nodded at appropriate moments, answered questions about Sunday's game when the venture capitalist finally cracked and asked about Florida's pass coverage.
Thea carried most of the conversational weight because she was better at it.
She was good. Engaged the whole table, asked intelligent questions, made the venture capitalist laugh about disruption theory.
Grant saw that Emmy had matched him well.
Thea was exactly what he'd asked for—smart, interesting, comfortable in this world.
A woman he wouldn't have to worry about leaving alone in a room full of sponsors, or at an awards ceremony, or a charity gala.
Cecelia's table was close enough that when Thea tilted her head just so to respond to the man on her right, Grant caught a flash of Emmy's red over her shoulder.
Tyce Duke had joined Cecelia's table.
He'd pulled up a chair between Emmy and one of the board members, leaning back with the easy confidence of someone used to being welcomed wherever he sat.
Emmy listened, champagne glass raised halfway to her lips, completely absorbed.
Whatever the story was, it held her entirely—her eyes bright, focused on Tyce's face like nothing else in the room existed.
Grant picked up his water. Took a long drink.
"We've all been dying to know," the venture capitalist's wife said, finally addressing Grant directly, "what actually happens in those blue sideline tents?"
Dr. Morrison leaned forward. "Yes, I read an article about the latest CTE research. The longitudinal studies are finally starting to show patterns, though I imagine the findings can't be comfortable for the league."
Grant set down his fork. "They're not. But the science is what it is. We've been doing updated baseline testing since last season—cognitive function, memory recall, reaction times. Track it all throughout the year."
"That's the subconcussive hit research, isn't it?" Thea leaned forward. "I read something about helmets with sensors?"
"Yeah. They measure rotational force, not just linear impact." Grant demonstrated with his hands. "A hit straight-on registers differently than one that snaps your head sideways. The rotation's what causes the shearing—"
"The axonal damage," Thea finished. "That's what the Boston University study showed, right? Even impacts below concussion threshold can accumulate."
The venture capitalist looked between them. "So you're basically tracking brain damage in real time?"
"We're tracking hits," Grant corrected. "Whether they cause damage depends on a lot of factors. Force, angle, how many you've already taken, genetics probably."
"It's fascinating how much the science has evolved," Thea said, her hand finding his arm briefly. "Though who knew a sport full of neanderthals chasing a ball would be at the forefront of neuroscience?" She laughed, warm and easy, and the table joined her.
Grant smiled. Took a drink of his water.
Dr. Morrison asked about helmet design evolution, and Grant found himself actually enjoying the conversation—someone asking intelligent questions instead of whether he thought they'd cover the spread.
Thea asked good follow-ups, made connections to research she'd read.
The venture capitalist's wife finally thawed enough to ask about his foundation's youth concussion program.
Maybe Emmy had gotten this one right.
Dessert arrived—something architectural involving chocolate and gold leaf that looked like it required an engineering degree to eat.
A museum board member gave a speech about the transformative power of the arts.
Grant applauded at the right moments and tried not to calculate how many protein shakes he'd need tomorrow to offset the five-course surrender.
After the speeches, the tables dissolved.
This was the part where donors got their money's worth—proximity to people they wanted to know, conversations they could mention at their next cocktail party.
Thea and Dr. Morrison pulled Grant toward the Calder sculpture, the venture capitalist couple trailing behind with two museum board members Grant hadn't met yet.
Contemporary art and classical forms, apparently.
One of the board members was making a point about postmodern irony that seemed to involve a lot of hand gestures.
Grant tracked the rhythm of it—who was performing, who was engaged, who was waiting for their turn to talk.
Same dynamics as a press conference, different uniforms.
Emmy appeared at the edge of the circle like she'd been conjured.