Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The game was on low volume with subtitles because, despite a decade of NFL Sundays, her father still could not handle the full sensory experience of professional football.
"The commentators have no respect for audience blood pressure," he'd explained when Emmy arrived, already reaching for the remote. "The way they dramatize every play. It's medically irresponsible."
So Emmy sat on the living room couch, watching her brother and Grant move across the screen while closed captions scrolled beneath them—[CROWD CHEERING] [WHISTLE BLOWS]—and her dad white-knuckled his recliner, phone in one hand, positioned for optimal viewing of both the television and the Hendersons' front yard.
"Someone says that last hit on West was 'vicious.'" He looked up, stricken. "Vicious, Emmy. That's the word they used."
"He caught the ball and ran for twelve yards. That's good."
"The celebration is premature. Adrenaline masks damage." His thumb swiped the screen. "He won't feel it until tomorrow. Or worse—in twenty years."
His gaze drifted toward the window. Emmy knew what he was looking at without having to check: the twelve-foot Home Depot skeleton in Sour Bill Henderson's yard, and the Miami Dolphins flag he'd hung from its bony hand this morning.
"He's done it again." Her father's voice went flat. "That man has no decency."
"Dad. It's October. The skeleton is seasonally appropriate right now."
"It's never coming down, Emmy. You know that.
I know that. Three years of exposed evidence.
Come November he'll slap a pilgrim hat on it.
December, the Santa hat. It's a permanent installation and the HOA refuses to act.
" He turned back to the TV, jaw tight. "And now he's got it holding that flag while my sons play Miami. It's a deliberate provocation."
On screen, West lined up wide right. The ball snapped. He cut inside, hands up, and Grant's throw hit him perfectly in stride. Fourteen yards. First down.
"See?" Emmy pointed. "They're in sync. That's what you want."
"Someone on Reddit is saying Grant's shoulder rotation looked strained on the last drive." Her dad hadn't looked up from his phone. "They're concerned about his rotator cuff."
"Dad. We've talked about this. Please stop reading Reddit."
Her mother drifted through in her reading glasses and a floor-skimming caftan, an espresso martini in one hand and a pencil staked through her chignon. She paused, squinting at the television.
"Is that West? He looks fast."
"He is fast, Mom. That's his job."
"Mm. Did you know the Earl of Oxford was considered an exceptional athlete?
Jousting, mostly. Very dangerous sport. The head injuries alone—well, it explains a lot of things, if you know what to look for.
" She caught her husband's expression. "Though I'm sure football is much safer now. With the helmets."
"The helmets create a false sense of security," her dad said. "The brain still moves inside the skull. The helmets do nothing for rotational force."
Her mom patted his shoulder absently. "Come get me at halftime? They're supposed to be showing the trailer for that new murder film." She drifted away, already lost in whatever sixteenth-century conspiracy she was currently unraveling.
Her dad stared after her, and waited until the study door clicked shut before rounding on Emmy. "The dust in that room. I've suggested an air purifier. Multiple times. The respiratory implications—"
"I know, Dad."
Miami scored on a short pass. Her father made a noise like he'd been personally wounded, then craned his neck toward the window.
"He'll be out there by halftime. Mark my words. Pretending to check his mailbox so he can gloat."
"Sour Bill does not plan his mail retrieval around football scores."
"You don't know that. You don't know what that man is capable of." He turned back to the TV, muttering. "Three years. Three years that skeleton has been up. Easter bunny ears. An Uncle Sam hat. A graduation cap in May, Emmy. It's never even been to college."
The game continued. Grant handed the ball off on a running play, step back, watch the play develop. Even at low volume she could read the satisfaction in his posture when his back broke through for six yards.
Harper
Is it weird that Ryan brought me coffee this morning? He just showed up at the bistro on his day off.
Emmy
That's sweet. Did you tell him about Cole?
A long pause. Then:
Harper
Not yet.
Emmy frowned at the screen. Harper needed to focus on Cole—someone who'd filled out the questionnaire, who was actively looking, who was ready. Not the doorman who happened to have a nice smile.
You should
Cole's excited to meet you.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared.
Harper
Yeah. You're right.
On television, Grant threw deep. The ball sailed in a perfect arc, dropped into the receiver's hands at the thirty-yard line. The camera cut to Grant jogging back to the huddle, helmet obscuring his face.
"They're calling him 'surgical' today." Her dad shook his head. "Surgical. As if surgery isn't inherently violent."
"It's a compliment, Dad."
"It's a troubling metaphor."
The fourth quarter wound down. Emmy found herself tracking Grant's movements more than West's—the way he commanded the huddle, the small adjustments he made at the line.
She'd watched him play for fifteen years, since peewee games and high school championships and that first NFL start when she'd cried in the stands and pretended it was allergies.
Today, though. The breadth of his shoulders. The economy of his motion. The way he read the whole field before anyone else saw what was coming.
Something had shifted in the frequency, and she couldn't find the dial. She was used to being the one who read the room first. Scanned the field, identified the coverage, called the play. But lately Grant kept seeing things before she did—the real Harper, the real Tyce, the real Emmy underneath the performance—and she wasn’t sure what to do with someone whose reads were faster than hers.
The final whistle. 24-17. West caught the last pass of the game, a short crossing route that sealed the victory.
"Thank god." Her dad set his phone down, then immediately picked it up again.
Emmy stood, stretched. "I'm going to see if Serle needs help."
The kitchen smelled like rosemary and roasting chicken. Serle stood at the counter, slicing bread with the quiet competence she brought to everything.
"They won," Emmy reported.
"I saw." Serle nodded toward the small countertop television, still tuned to the post-game coverage.
Her nails, Emmy noticed, were painted in careful red and blue stripes.
"Your father's been in twice already. Once about the curcumin content in the turmeric lattes, once about whether the chicken was organic. "
"Was it?"
"The chicken is always organic, Emmy dear." She set down the knife, wiping her hands. "I told him I could get a different chicken next week if he'd like to research farms. He said that wasn't the point."
"It never is."
"No." Serle's mouth twitched. "Twenty years with this family—I know what I signed up for. Set the table? Everyone should be here by seven."
Emmy gathered plates from the cabinet, the good china her father insisted on even though it meant hand-washing everything afterward. Six place settings. Mom, Dad, West, Brynn, Grant. Her.
The same configuration as every month since West and Brynn got married.
The same table she'd been sitting at since her feet couldn't reach the floor.
She could predict every dynamic before anyone arrived—Dad's medical anxieties, Mom's Tudor tangents, West's competitive energy bleeding over from the game.
She'd figured them all out years ago, every last one of them, and she loved them for it and it wasn't quite enough.
But when she set the plate across from her usual seat—Grant's spot—her hand trembled slightly.
The doorbell rang at 6:58.
"He's late.” Dad was already moving toward the door. "I hope he didn't speed. The roads are damp this time of year, and people underestimate how that affects braking distance."
"Dad, please don't interrogate him."
"I never interrogate. It's called conversation, Emmy, and if done correctly it perpetuates itself."
He opened the door, and there was Grant.
He'd showered and changed since the game—dark jeans, a gray henley that stretched across his shoulders, hair still damp at the temples.
She'd seen him like this a hundred times over the years—post-game Grant, satisfied and loose.
But he hadn't made it to one of these dinners since spring, maybe earlier.
The season, her job hunt, life pulling everyone in different directions.
"John." Grant stepped inside, already bracing himself. "Good to see you."
"You took three significant hits in the fourth quarter." Dad didn't move from the doorway. "I counted. The one on the scramble—your head snapped back. Did the training staff check you?"
"Cleared by medical. All good."
"Medical clearance is not the same as actual wellness. Symptoms can be delayed. Are you experiencing any dizziness? Sensitivity to light? Difficulty concentrating?"
"I'm experiencing difficulty getting past the front door." But Grant was smiling—patient, warm, twenty years of practice with her father's particular brand of love. "I promise I'll tell you if my brain starts leaking."
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny." Grant caught Emmy's eye over Dad's shoulder. "Hey, Em."
"Hey." She kept her voice the exact temperature of normal. "Good game. That fourth-quarter drive was—what was it, Dad? Surgical?"
Dad shuddered. Grant ducked his chin, and his gaze held hers a beat too long before she looked away.
"Thanks. West was the one making plays."