She swayed.
"Whoa."
Grant was there. Good hand clamped onto her waist, injured arm bracing her shoulder.
"Easy." Low. Authoritative. "Breathe, Em."
"I'm fine," Emmy mumbled, though her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. She blinked hard, trying to clear the black spots. "I just... the blood."
"You'reswooning," Grant stated, sounding partially concerned and partially like Christmas had come early.
"Swooning is for Victorian heroines and women in period dramas. I am having avasovagal response, which is a medically recognized physiological phenomenon, and I would appreciate it if you would stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're memorizing this for future blackmail purposes."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would."
"I absolutely would. Come on. We're done for today."
He didn't give her a choice. He walked her to the sideline bench, keeping a heavy, grounding arm around her shoulders. Pressed her down onto the bench.
"Head between your knees."
"I don't need?—"
"Head. Knees. Now."
Emmy dropped her head between her knees. She heard the zipper of his duffel bag, the rustle of movement. A cold bottle pressed against the back of her neck.
"Stay there."
"I'm supposed to be helpingyou," Emmy said into her own lap, feeling ridiculous. "You're the one bleeding."
"I'm fine. You went sheet white."
He moved the cold bottle from her neck to her hand. "Drink this. Electrolytes. Your blood sugar probably crashed."
Emmy sat up slowly. The world had stopped spinning. Grant was crouching in front of her, watching her face with that narrow-eyed intensity he brought to fourth-quarter film review. He held out a neon yellow Gatorade.
She took it. She took a sip.
"Better?"
"Yes," she admitted. "Sorry."
"It's just..." She looked at his hand again. The blood was still welling, stark against his skin. She looked down at herself and gasped. "Oh no."
She pointed to a single, tiny droplet of blood on the white fabric near her hem. "I knew the wearing white thing was stupid. Who made up that rule? Some man probably. And on a grass court! You'd never get the stains out."
A smirk played at his mouth while she rambled. "I'll buy you another one."
"It was insultingly expensive," Emmy muttered, rubbing at the spot uselessly. "You might change your mind when you see the receipt."
"Sweetheart." Dryly. "I just signed an eighty million dollar extension. I think I can swing a tennis dress."
