Chapter 8 #2
The door opened behind Grant, and West and Brynn tumbled in on a wave of cold air and leftover adrenaline. A bruise was blooming on West's cheekbone, purple edging toward green, but he didn't seem to notice. He was still talking, gesturing with his hands the way he always did after wins.
"—and then Morrison just sat down on the safety, Brynn, literally sat on him, and the ref didn't even call it—" He spotted Grant and clapped him on the shoulder. "Tried to catch you after the press conference but you ghosted. There he is, though. The surgeon himself."
Emmy caught Grant's eye again. He pressed his lips together, fighting a smile.
"Living room," Dad said. "Both of you. The ice packs are ready."
West was already moving, familiar with the routine. Grant followed, squeezing Emmy's shoulder in commiseration as he passed.
Brynn appeared at Emmy's elbow, unwinding her scarf. "West talked the entire drive over. I know more about Morrison's blocking technique than I ever needed to." She smiled, easy and fond. "Good game, though."
Mom emerged from her study with ink on her fingers and a distracted smile. "Did we win? The cheering sounded positive."
"We won, Mom."
"Wonderful. You get your speed from me, you know." She patted West's arm as she passed.
"Dinner's ready," Serle announced from the kitchen doorway. "Before the chicken gets cold."
The dining room settled into familiar chaos—Dad still listing symptoms Grant should monitor, Mom asking West if he'd ever considered how jousting techniques might apply to modern football blocking, Brynn catching Emmy's eye with the patient amusement of someone who'd married into this family with full knowledge of what she was getting.
"So, Emmy." West reached for the bread basket. "How's the new job? You're being weirdly quiet about it."
Emmy felt Grant go still across the table. Her fingers found the stem of her water glass.
"It's going well. Really well, actually. I signed my second athlete client this week."
"Two clients already?" Brynn looked impressed. "That's amazing. What's it like? The matchmaking process, I mean. I've always wondered how it actually works."
Emmy relaxed into the question. Safe territory.
"It's part psychology, part detective work.
You start with intake forms, but those only tell you what people think they want.
The real work is figuring out what they actually need.
" She tore off a piece of bread. "Someone might say they want ambition, but what they really want is someone who makes them feel ambitious. There's a difference."
"That's fascinating," Brynn said. "So you're reading between the lines."
"Constantly. And with athletes especially, there's this whole other layer—they're used to people wanting access, not them. So you have to find matches who have their own thing going on. People who aren't going to make the relationship their whole identity."
"Makes sense." West grinned at her. "You know, this really is the perfect job for you. You get paid to tell people what's wrong with them and who they should date. It's basically what you've been doing for free since middle school."
"I don't tell people what's wrong with them—"
"You told me my prom date was 'aesthetically acceptable but conversationally limited.'"
"She thought the FL in fluid ounces meant Florida ounces, West."
Emmy smoothed her napkin across her lap, aware of Grant's attention like a hand resting on the back of her neck.
"So who are they?" Brynn asked. "Your clients. Anyone we'd know?"
Emmy hesitated. "I can't say names. Confidentiality. But—" She glanced at Grant, then away. "One of them is fairly high-profile."
"Come on," West pressed. "A hint."
"Fine. One hint." Emmy smiled. "Tennis."
"Serena Williams?" Mom looked up, interested for the first time.
"She's married, Mom."
"Is she? Good for her."
"Not Tyce Duke?" Dad reached for the bread. "I heard he's the new pro at the Commonwealth Club."
"You know who Tyce Duke is?" Emmy couldn't hide her surprise.
"Of course I know who Tyce Duke is. I watch tennis. It's very soothing—like a metronome." He tore off a piece of bread. "His backhand is remarkably consistent for someone who learned on clay courts. Though I understand he's had some controversy. Something about a referee in Rome?"
"He's very handsome," Mom added absently, returning to her chicken.
"Mom."
"What? He is. I have eyes, Emmy."
"Tyce Duke." West let out a low whistle. "That's a get. How'd you land him?"
Emmy didn't have to look at Grant to know he was watching her. "We played tennis. He wanted to see if I could keep up."
"You played tennis?" West laughed. "Em, you're terrible at tennis."
"I took some lessons."
Grant's fork paused. Emmy's gaze dropped to his hand—the left one, where the scrape from the tennis court had faded to a thin pink line across his knuckles. Evidence. Sitting right there against her mother's French linen tablecloth.
"And I held my own," she continued, not looking at the scar. "Even took one game off him."
"You took a game off a Wimbledon quarterfinalist?" West looked skeptical.
"He might have been distracted." Emmy felt heat climb her cheeks. "Signing autographs." She took a very deliberate sip of water. "Anyway, Tyce signed. That's what matters. And hopefully he'll introduce me to other potential clients, open some doors."
"I'll bet he will," Grant muttered.
Emmy shot him a look. He didn't look up.
"Cecelia Ferrance is a piece of work," West said. "She's been sniffing around the team offices for years trying to poach players. As if we need help finding dates."
Brynn smacked his arm. "Because hitting on girls at bars yields great results."
"Hey, it worked on you."
"I felt sorry for you. And then you wouldn't go away."
West clutched his chest in mock offense. Brynn ignored him, turning to Emmy. "I think it's a great idea. What adult has time to weed through organic dates these days? If you can afford a dating service, why not use one?"
Emmy shot her a grateful look. "Exactly. It's not about being desperate—it's about being efficient."
"So what's next for the matchmaking empire?" West asked. "Any big events coming up?"
"Actually, yes. I'm going to the Fairway for Kids tournament next Thursday. Elite Connections is sponsoring a hole, and I'll be networking with potential clients."
Grant's hand stilled on his water glass.
"The golf tournament?" he asked.
"Mm-hm. At Brookline Country Club. Should be a good opportunity to—"
"I'm playing in that."
Emmy blinked. "You are?"
"Every year. Me and a few guys from the team." Grant set his fork down. "West usually plays, but—"
"West isn't going this year," Brynn said.
West looked up from his chicken. "I'm not?" Brynn gave him a look. "Oh—right. Yeah. I'm not. I have somewhere to be?"
Emmy narrowed her eyes. West was many things, but a convincing liar wasn't one of them. "What's going on with you two?"
"Nothing." West shoved more bread in his mouth. "Just busy."
"You're the worst liar I've ever met."
"I'm not lying. I'm just—" He looked at Brynn, helpless. "Can we tell them?"
Brynn set down her fork, a smile spreading across her face. "We were going to wait until dessert, but—" She reached for West's hand. "I'm pregnant."
The table erupted.
Dad stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. "How far along? Have you seen a specialist? The prenatal vitamin market is a minefield, Brynn, you need to be very careful about folic acid content—"
"John, let her finish," Mom said, though she was already dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. "A baby. Oh, West. A baby."
“Eleven weeks," Brynn said, laughing as Dad started listing questions. "Yes, we have a doctor. Yes, I'm taking vitamins. The appointment next Thursday is the first ultrasound."
West was grinning so hard it had to hurt the bruise on his cheekbone. "We wanted to tell everyone together. In person."
Emmy was out of her chair before she knew she was moving, pulling West into a hug and then Brynn, her eyes stinging. "I'm going to be an aunt."
"You're going to be an aunt," Brynn confirmed, squeezing her tight.
When Emmy sat back down, the table had dissolved into happy chaos—Dad grilling Brynn about her OB-GYN's credentials, Mom murmuring something about Tudor christening traditions, Serle quietly bringing out a bottle of sparkling cider she must have had waiting.
Emmy looked across the table at Grant.
He was watching the scene with his jaw slightly loose, eyes warm but not all the way. She'd seen that face once before—at West's wedding, during the toast. The same careful happiness of a man standing at the edge of someone else's life and knowing exactly how far inside he'd ever get.
"Absolutely not."
Dad had positioned himself between Brynn and the kitchen like a goalie defending the net. "You are growing a human being. The dishwater chemicals alone—"
"John, it's just soap."
"It's endocrine disruptors, Brynn. I've read studies."
West appeared behind his wife, hands on her shoulders. "Come on. Let's go sit. You know he's not going to let this go."
"I feel fine—"
"You feel fine now. But unnecessary exertion in the first trimester—" Dad was already steering them toward the living room. "Karalyn, bring her some water. Filtered. And a pillow for her lower back."
Emmy watched them go, biting back a smile. Brynn caught her eye and mouthed help me before disappearing around the corner.
"Well." Emmy turned to the mountain of dishes on the counter—Serle had been firmly sent home, Dad probably wanting to interrogate Brynn without witnesses. "Guess it's us."
Grant was already rolling up his sleeves. "Wash or dry?"
"I'll wash. You just spent three hours throwing missiles."
He held up his hands, flexing his fingers. "These hands can handle anything you throw at them."
Heat crept up Emmy's neck. She turned to the sink before he could see it. "Just dry the plates, Grant."
He didn't argue. Just took the towel she handed him and positioned himself at her elbow, close enough that she could smell soap and something warm underneath that she was not going to think about.
"So." Emmy scrubbed at a serving dish. "West is going to be a dad."
"Yeah."
"Did you know?"
"No." Grant dried a plate, set it aside. "He's terrible at secrets, but he kept that one."
They worked in silence for a moment. The clink of dishes, the rush of water.
"Are you really playing in the golf tournament?"
"The team sends a group every year. Big fundraiser for the children's hospital." He shrugged. "And I like golf."
"How magnanimous of you."
"I contain multitudes." He took another plate from her. "You nervous?"
"Should I be?"
"Lot of big names at those things. Big egos." He dried the plate carefully. "Just watch yourself."
"I can handle a golf tournament, Grant."
"I know you can."
He set the plate down.
"But you don't have to do it alone, Em."
The warmth of the water, his body close enough to smell, the clink of her mother's good china—something tightened low in Emmy's chest. Standing at this sink doing dishes with Grant while her family's noise drifted in from the living room. Like trying on someone else's life and finding it fit.
Would he stand here one day, announcing his own wife's pregnancy? Would Emmy be watching from across the table, applauding on cue?
She handed him a dripping plate. "So. I've been thinking about your matches."
"Oh?" Grant's voice was carefully neutral.
"I'm going back to the drawing board. Juliana was wrong. Thea was—well. Thea was a disaster." She scrubbed at a stubborn bit of sauce. "I'm going to do this differently. Actually meet the candidates myself before I send you on any more bad dates."
"You're personally screening them now?"
"I should've been doing it from the beginning." She rinsed a serving bowl, studiously avoiding his gaze. "You deserve better than what I've been giving you."
A pause. Then: "You don't have to—"
"I want to." The words came out harder than she'd intended. Emmy looked up at him. "You're trusting me with this. The least I can do is take it seriously."
The corner of his mouth pulled, just slightly. His eyes didn't leave hers.
"Okay, Em." He took the bowl from her. "Whatever you think is best."
They finished the dishes in silence. From the living room, Emmy could hear her father explaining the importance of prenatal DHA supplementation while West made increasingly desperate sounds of agreement.
When she handed Grant the last plate, their fingers brushed. She pulled back faster than she needed to.
Grant dried the plate, set it on the stack. Folded the towel over the oven handle with the precision of someone Serle had trained before his voice changed.
"Well," Emmy said. "At least now we know why West was acting like that."
"The man couldn't lie his way out of a paper bag."
"He once told Mom he hadn't eaten the last brownie while he still had chocolate on his face."
"He told Coach Henderson his hamstring was fine while visibly limping."
"A gift," Emmy said. "Truly."
Grant's mouth curved. Then it settled, and what was left was the look he'd had at the pregnancy announcement—warmth with a door shut behind it.
“Next Thursday," she said. "The golf tournament."
"I'll be there."