"I need you to teach me how to play tennis. Like, immediately. I need a crash course."
Grant laughed. Low, rumbling, vibrating through the speaker. "You? Tennis? Em, the last time I saw you hold a racquet, you were using it to fish an earring out of a storm drain."
"That is... accurate, but unfair. I have coordination! I do Pilates five days a week at the Wharf with a demonic instructor called Cobalt Sky."
"Cobalt Sky." A beat. "Aren't those both colors? Bit monochromatic if you ask me."
"I'm serious! I don't need to be Serena Williams. I just need to not look like a complete fool. Please, Grant. You're the most athletic person I know."
“Including West?”
“As if I could tell him about this! Yes, including West.”
She could practically hear his smug satisfaction over the phone.
"Why the sudden urge to hit a fuzzy yellow ball, Em? You trying to impress a guy?"
"It's for a client meeting. Networking. We're doing a... active consultation."
Silence on the other end. The amusement evaporated.
"Which client?"
Emmy hesitated. "It's a high-potential profile for the athlete division.”
"Emmy. Is it Duke?"
"He trapped me! He said he didn't trust people who don't sweat!"
"Tomorrow." Immediate. No hesitation.
"What?"
"Tomorrow morning. I can get us onto the private court at my building."
Emmy let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for ten minutes. "Thank you. You're a lifesaver. What time? Nine?"
“Six.”
“Six?!” Emmy shrieked. "Grant, the sun isn't even fully committed at six.”
"You want to play with the big dogs, Em? You wake up when the big dogs wake up." His voice dropped, taking on that irritatingly authoritative captain tone. “SixAM. My lobby. Do you have a racquet?"
"I think there's a vintage Wilson in my closet?—"
"Never mind. I'll handle it. Go to bed, Princess. You're gonna need the beauty sleep."
The line went dead before she could object to the nickname.
Emmy stared at the phone. She was going to kill him. After he saved her career, she was definitely going to kill him.
Thursday morning arrived with the subtlety of a blunt force trauma.
At 5:58 AM, Emmy walked into the private fitness center of the Millennium Tower clutching a water bottle like a weapon. She was wearing a pristine, blindingly white tennis dress she had expedited from Revolve. It had a pleated skirt, a cutout back, and a price tag that should have come with a stern talking to by her financial advisor.
She looked the part. She felt like a fraud.
She swiped her guest pass and headed for the indoor court. The rhythmicthwack-echo-thwackof a ball being hit reached her before she opened the glass doors.
