Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Emmy didn't remember falling asleep.
She remembered the Uber pulling up to her building. Remembered the elevator, the key in the lock, the way her apartment felt like someone else's in the dark. She remembered kicking off those ridiculous heels somewhere near the door and thinking she should change, shower, do something.
She woke up on the couch in last night's dress, mascara ground into the throw pillow, morning light slicing through the blinds like an accusation.
Her phone was on the floor, face down.
She left it there.
The apartment was too quiet.
Emmy peeled herself off the couch. Coffee first.
The machine gurgled to life while she stood at the counter. On autopilot, she plugged in her phone and watched the Apple logo appear with the same sick dread she'd felt waiting for grades, for callbacks, for any verdict that might reshape her life.
She already knew this shape. Crater-sized. And Grant was the one standing at the center of impact while she watched from a safe distance, holding the detonator.
Eighteen texts. Seven missed calls. A dozen Google alerts for "Grant Knight."
She clicked the green messenger icon. Her parents, Brynn, Mrs. Jasinski asking when a good time would be to drop off a casserole. Callie from 3B with a simple "GIRL." Jaciel with a tough break chica, arepas on me today.
One text from Harper. Just one: Saw the news. Hope you're okay.
After the golf tournament, Harper had shown up at her door with croissants and a bobby pin. Now Emmy got five words and punctuation straight out of the Chicago Manual of Style.
By habit, she opened her father's text first.
Dad
Emmy. I've read the Boston After Dark piece three times. The attribution standards are appalling but the facts appear sourced. Also, did you know Grant was using a matchmaker? This seems like something you would have mentioned.
She almost laughed at that one. Almost.
West hadn't texted. That was either very good or very bad.
She opened Safari. Typed "Grant Knight matchmaker" into the search bar before she could stop herself.
The results loaded instantly.
Boston After Dark: Boston's Most Eligible Hermit Needs Help Finding Love
SportsCenter Update: QB Grant Knight Reportedly Using Professional Matchmaker
ESPN Boston: Franchise Quarterback Confirms Personal Details to Gossip Site
X Trending: #GrantKnightMatchmaker
Emmy clicked the Boston After Dark link. Petra's byline sat at the top, neat and professional, like she hadn't just detonated a bomb in Emmy's life.
Sources confirm that Grant Knight, the notoriously private quarterback who has spent a decade deflecting questions about his personal life, has been working with a professional matchmaker for the past several months.
The matchmaker, whose identity remains unconfirmed, was spotted at last night's Commonwealth Club charity auction acting as an intermediary between Knight and his date.
Emmy's name wasn't in Petra's article.
But the internet had done what the internet does.
She scrolled down to the comments, then to the quote-tweets, then to the Reddit thread someone had already started.
The golf video had resurfaced—she saw the thumbnail, a red circle drawn around Grant's figure in the background, arrow pointing to his face.
PROOF: Grant Knight's "matchmaker" identified as Emmy Woodhouse, sister of teammate West Woodhouse.
From there, the short leap to Elite Connections. To Cecelia. Screenshots of Emmy's LinkedIn. A photo from West's wedding, Emmy and Grant standing three people apart, someone drawing a line between them with the caption they've known each other for YEARS.
It had taken less than six hours for strangers to piece together what Emmy had spent months trying to hide.
The comments were worse than the detective work.
What's wrong with him that he can't get a date on his own?
Imagine being so desperate you have to pay someone to find you a wife lmao
This is embarrassing for everyone involved.
Rich athletes be like "I'm too important to swipe right like regular people"
She stopped reading. Closed the browser. Put the phone face-down on the counter.
The coffee was ready. She poured a cup, wrapped her hands around it, and didn't drink.
Grant had practice this morning. Film review. The machinery of a playoff-bound team grinding forward regardless of what the gossip sites said—and he'd have to walk into that locker room knowing everyone had seen the headlines. Because she couldn't stop talking to a stranger at a party.
Her phone lit up with an incoming call.
She picked it up too fast—but it wasn't Grant.
It was West.
"Emmy." Not Em. Not hey. Just her name, flat and strange in her brother's voice.
"West. Hi." She tried to sound normal and failed.
Neither of them spoke. Emmy listened to her brother breathe on the other end of the line and wondered when that had become uncomfortable.
"How's Brynn?"
"She's fine. Morning sickness." He didn't elaborate. The silence stretched long enough that Emmy could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the drip of the coffee maker, the sound of her own breathing.
"West—"
"How long?"
She closed her eyes. "What?"
"The matchmaking thing. You and Grant. How long has this been going on?"
"A few months. Since September." She pressed her free hand flat against the counter. "It was professional. Cecelia needed a high-profile client and Grant was—"
"Available? Convenient?" West's laugh was short and humorless. "Whose idea was it?"
Emmy didn't answer.
"Right." He exhaled. "Never mind. I know whose idea it was."
"West, I didn't—"
"He never could say no to you, Em. You know that." The words landed like stones. "I just don't understand why you didn't tell me. Either of you. Three months of—what, secret meetings? Dates I didn't know about? And I'm finding out from Brynn showing me a gossip article?"
"It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?" West's voice rose. "Because from where I'm standing, my sister was sneaking around with my best friend and neither of you thought I deserved to know."
"I wasn't sneaking around with him. I was doing my job."
"Was Tyce your job too?"
Emmy's breath caught.
"Because I saw the photos," West continued. "You on his arm at that auction. The two of you at the golf tournament. Is that what this is? You just—work your way through the client list?"
"That's not fair."
"Neither is lying to me for three months." West exhaled hard. "Can you tell me—without a doubt—that you don't have feelings for him?"
Emmy opened her mouth. Closed it.
She should say no. It was the truth—she didn't have feelings for Tyce, had never had feelings for Tyce. But that wasn't what West was really asking, was it? The question underneath the question. Grant. West was asking about Grant.
And she couldn't answer that one. Not without lying again.
"That's what I thought." A pause that lasted long enough to hear the highway underneath.
When he spoke again, his voice was harder.
"Emmy, he's like a brother to me. You're my sister.
If this goes sideways—" He stopped. Started again.
"Get a handle on it. Whatever this is. Before you make things worse. "
Emmy pressed her hand flat against the counter. The linoleum was cold under her palm. Solid. Real. Everything else felt like it was tilting sideways.
Get a handle on it. Like her feelings were a loose thread she could just tuck back in. Like she hadn't already made things worse—like worse wasn't the only direction she knew how to go.
And the worst part was, she didn't even know what she was supposed to get a handle on. What she felt for Grant. What she'd done to Grant. Whether those two things were even separable anymore, or whether she'd ruined the chance to find out.
"I didn't mean for this to happen." Her voice cracked on the last word. She pressed her knuckles against her mouth, holding back something that wanted to become a sob.
"You never do." West's tone was flat. "But this isn't some project you can just drop and move on to the next thing. This is Grant, Emmy. Our Grant."
She squeezed her eyes shut. "Would it really be the end of the world if Grant and I—if there was something there?"
The silence lasted long enough that she thought he might have hung up.
"Emmy." West's voice was gentler now, which somehow made it worse. "Grant's not your life raft. Stop imagining things that aren't there."
The words landed like a fist to the solar plexus. Emmy's breath left her in a rush, and for a moment she couldn't draw another one.
The silence stretched. When West spoke again, the anger had drained out of his voice, replaced by something worse. Tiredness. Distance.
"Look, I talked to Grant this morning. He's handling it. PR team's putting out a statement, we've got the away game tomorrow, he's focused on that." West paused. "And Bailey's been solid through the whole thing. Nothing ruffles her."
"You know Bailey?"
"Yeah, they came by last week for dinner.
" There was a warmth in his voice now that hadn't been there for Emmy.
"She's great. Grounded. Real. Brynn cornered her with a million pregnancy questions—she's a pediatric surgeon, did you know that?
—and she actually had answers. And Grant was.
.." He trailed off. "He was happy, Em. Relaxed.
Made fun of my burgers the whole night."
Emmy stood very still.
"He's always had a soft spot for you," West said quietly. "You know that. And I don't know what you were doing with this matchmaking thing, whether it was just business or whether you were—" He stopped. Started again. "But he's got something good now. So maybe just... let him have it."
He's always had a soft spot for you.
Not anymore, Emmy thought. Whatever softness Grant had held for her, she'd burned it to ash in a parking lot outside the Commonwealth Club.
"I hope it works out," she said. The words scraped her throat. "With Bailey. I hope—I'm glad he's happy."