Chapter 7 #2
Emmy felt heat climb her cheeks. "This Emmy is hoping to not embarrass herself too badly."
He laughed, warm and surprised. "God, I love that. Everyone else who walks onto this court acts like they're auditioning for Wimbledon." He gestured to the baseline. "You warmed up?"
"In my apartment. With a wall."
"A wall." His grin widened. "The wall give you any trouble?"
"It was undefeated."
"Then you're ready for me." He walked back to his baseline, bouncing a ball. "Light hit first. Get you loose. Then we see what you've got."
Emmy moved to her position, racquet in hand.
The one Grant had given her felt familiar now—she'd been hitting against her apartment wall all week, getting used to the weight, the balance, the way the strings responded when she made contact.
Thank god Mrs. Jasinski turned off her hearing aids after nine.
She wasn't good. She knew she wasn't good. But she was prepared.
"Ready?" Tyce called.
"Ready."
He hit a gentle ball toward her forehand. She swung—too early, but she adjusted, made contact, sent it back over the net. Not pretty. But in.
"Good." Tyce returned it, easy. "Keep your eye on the ball. Not on me."
That was harder than it sounded. Tyce was in his element here—confident, fluid, his strong wrists snapping the racquet through each stroke like it weighed nothing.
His chestnut hair fell across his forehead the same way it had in that Nike ad a few years back.
Tennis tan. Easy smile. A man told he was beautiful so often he'd stopped noticing.
That confidence felt familiar. Daniel had smiled like that too—right up until Emmy caught him in lies he'd somehow convinced her were her fault.
She shook it off. This was business, not personal.
They rallied. Ten shots. Twenty. Emmy's breathing grew harder, moving side to side, remembering everything Grant had taught her. Fight or flight, Em. Choose fight. The ball came to her backhand—she rotated her hips, followed through, sent it cross-court.
"Nice!" Tyce sounded genuinely pleased. "You have played before. I thought you were lying—most people do."
"I had a good teacher."
"Anyone I know?" He hit another ball, a little harder.
Emmy hesitated, chasing it down. "I'm not sure. Well—everyone knows him. Or thinks they do." She returned the shot, a little breathless. "Grant Knight."
Tyce's next stroke faltered—just for a second, just enough for Emmy to slam one past him into the corner. He recovered instantly, but his eyes had sharpened.
"Ah." He collected the ball, bouncing it twice. "You were with him last night. On the terrace. Your date?"
"No." The word came out too fast. "We're just friends. Old family friends."
Tyce's eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice was all charm. "Good." He grinned. "Because I have a confession, Emmy Woodhouse."
"A confession?" Her voice squeaked.
"I know I signed up to be matched." He hit another ball her way, easy, keeping the rally alive. "But I'm not really looking. I've got my eye on someone already."
He winked at her. Emmy felt heat flood her cheeks.
"Our little secret?" Tyce said.
Emmy nodded, flustered, and missed the next shot entirely.
Forty minutes later, Emmy shook Tyce's hand at the net.
She'd lost 6-3. Her lungs were burning, her hair had escaped its ponytail entirely, and she was fairly certain she'd sweated through every layer she was wearing.
But she'd kept rallies going. She'd taken a game off him—admittedly while he was signing an autograph for a tennis mom who'd wandered onto their court, and another when she'd used the hem of her tank top to wipe her forehead and he'd hit his return directly into the net.
She'd made a Wimbledon quarterfinalist pretend to work for points, which was probably the best she could hope for.
"That," Tyce said, "was the most entertaining set I've played in months."
Emmy wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. "So does that mean—”
"Email me the contract. I'll have it back to you today."
Two clients. Two athlete clients, both signed within her first month. Cecelia couldn't call her a fluke now. Emmy felt her shoulders drop from somewhere around her ears. "Thank you. I promise you won't regret it."
"Oh, I never have regrets." He winked. "Life's too short."
He grabbed his bag, draped a towel around his neck. "I want to see you again. Are you going to the Fairway for Kids tournament Thursday?"
Emmy's brain kicked into gear. The annual charity golf tournament—celebrities and athletes hitting terrible shots for Children's Hospital. Fertile ground for prospective clients. "Elite Connections is sponsoring a hole, actually."
"Perfect." His grin was conspiratorial. "Tell Cecelia I'll get her whole team on the VIP list. Make sure your name's on it."
"I'm sure she'll send Sabine too. She's Cecelia’s—“
"Star matchmaker. Yes, I've heard." Tyce's smile flickered, something dismissive crossing his face.
"God, that woman is cold. I tried to make conversation with her at the gala and she looked at me like I was something stuck to her shoe.
" He shook his head, laughing. "Beautiful, sure, but no warmth.
No spark. I don't know how she matches anyone—she's like a robot in designer heels. "
Emmy felt an unexpected flash of... something. Not quite defensiveness—Sabine had never been warm to her either—but it seemed harsh.
"She's very good at her job," Emmy offered.
"I'm sure she is. Anyway." Tyce's easy smile returned, all charm again. "Thursday. I'll introduce you to everyone worth knowing—and warn you about the ones who aren't." He grinned, and a dimple popped in his cheek. "See you on the fairway, Emmy."
She retrieved her bag, took a long drink of water, forced herself to sit. Her legs were shaking—physical exertion, she told herself. Just the match.
Her phone buzzed.
Mom
Emmy dear, you never confirmed for Sunday dinner. Serle's doing roast chicken. Dad has already informed her we'll all be having turmeric lattes afterward for immunity. Grant's coming after his game. Dinner at 7.
Emmy stared at the screen.
Sunday dinner. Tomorrow. Grant at the old kitchen table, in the chair he'd claimed when he was twelve, nodding along to her dad's theories about seasonal allergens while Serle quietly refilled his plate for the third time.
It had never felt complicated before.
She typed back.
Emmy
I’ll be there.
Then stared at the words for a long moment before hitting send.