"Use this. It's forgiving. It'll help with the spin."
Emmy took it. It felt balanced. Expensive.
"Show me your grip."
Emmy gripped the handle, trying to remember what the YouTube guy—TennisTom24—had said. She held it out like she was shaking hands with the racquet.
"Wrong."
He stepped around her. And then he was behind her.
His chest pressed against her back—solid, warm, approximately the size of a small country. His arms came around her, hands covering hers on the racquet grip, and Emmy's brain immediately abandoned all higher functions.
This is a tennis lesson, she reminded herself sternly.He is correcting your grip. This is purely educational. There is nothing weird about your brother's best friend surrounding you like a very muscular eclipse.
She took a careful breath. Without her heels, the top of her head didn’t quite reach his shoulder. She felt strangely unarmed—how long had it been since she'd worn shoes without even the barest inch of platform?
"You're holding it like a frying pan," Grant murmured, his voice low near her ear. "Rotate your hand. Here."
He guided her hand, his fingers calloused against hers. Turned her wrist, locking the grip into place.
He didn't make her feel stupid for not knowing. Didn't sigh or use that particular tone her ex had perfected—refreshingly literal-minded—that made every correction feel like confirmation she wasn't quite enough.
"Loosen up," he said.
"Like this?" she squeaked.
"Yeah. Like that."
He didn't move away immediately. For a second, they just stood there.
Then Grant cleared his throat and stepped back.
"Okay." He walked backward to the net and grabbed a basket of balls. "Let's see the swing. Don't think. Just hit."
Twenty minutes later, Emmy was sweating, her Wimbledon bun was falling out, and she had successfully hit exactly three balls in bounds.
"I can't do it!" she groaned, dropping her head.
"You're overthinking the mechanics. You're trying to do geometry in your head."
"Geometry would be easier!"
"Tennis is rhythm." He stopped in front of her. "Look at me."
Emmy looked up. He was close again. Wasn't even winded, just looking at her with that intense, quarterback focus.
"Forget the court," he said quietly. "Forget Duke. Just hit the ball to me. Like we're playing catch."
"Grant, I am going to embarrass myself. I should cancel. I should fake COVID."
"You're not cancelling." He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers grazed her cheek. "You got me, Em. That counts for something."
Emmy blinked. "You're different. You're doing me a favor. Tyce would bechoosingthe agency."
Grant went still. His hand dropped from her face.
"I chose the agency," he said. Low.
