Grant's tablet screen reflected in his bathroom mirror, game footage playing while he knotted his bow tie.
Florida's secondary was getting shredded by crossing routes. Their cornerbacks bit on every pump fake, safeties slow to rotate. He could exploit that. Davis running the shallow cross, pulling the linebacker, then hit Morrison on the post when the safety jumped?—
His phone buzzed on the marble counter.
Emmy
Your name's at the door with Thea's. Table 12. Thank you for doing this.
Professional. Helpful. The same tone she'd used all week—efficient reminders about the event, Thea's preferences, what to wear. Like there had been nothing between them but platonic friendship while his blood dripped on her tennis whites.
His phone buzzed again.
West
Mom wants to know if you're coming to Sunday dinner after the game. She's making that chicken thing you like.
Grant smiled despite himself. Karalyn Woodhouse had been feeding him since he was twelve years old and threw a punch defending West on the playground. After his parents died, she'd made damn sure to keep feeding him—like he was still that scrappy kid fighting for her son, not a man with a personal chef.
Grant
Tell her I'll be there. Win or lose.
West
How's Emmy? You been checking up on her like I asked?
Grant's hand stilled on his bow tie.
West
She's fine. Had pizza the other day.
He didn't mention that the pizza had been on her couch at 11PM.Not that there would be a problem with that. He and Emmy were friends. Friends had pizza. Friends saw friends in pearl-colored silk pajamas and didn't think about it afterward.
Repeatedly.
West
Good. Appreciate it man.
Grant set the phone down.
The gala had been Emmy's idea, of course. She'd called three days after the tennis lesson, voice bright and professional.
"I know you hate these things," she'd said, "but Elite Connections is sponsoring a table and Cecelia wants her star client there. And since you're due for Date Two with Thea anyway, we could combine them? Kill two birds?"
Smart. He'd give her that. One night instead of two, back-to-back obligations handled efficiently. He'd agreed because it made sense, not because hearing her voice had done something complicated to his chest.
He finished his tie, checked his reflection. The bow tie sat straight. He adjusted his cuffs, his thumb brushing the rough, pink skin of the healing scrape across his left knuckles. It had been a week, but the mark lingered—a souvenir from a morning he hadn't been able to stop replaying.
His date with Thea had been... normal. She was smart, interesting, interested in him. They'd talked about her research, his season, the documentary she'd just binged on HBO. She'd been curious about him, about his wants, his past, his plans.
Actually, she'd been a little more than curious.
Grant picked up his keys, remembering the end of that night. They'd been standing outside the restaurant, waiting for her Uber. Thea had stepped into his space, her hand sliding up his lapel, fingers pressing against the solid muscle of his chest.
"I've heard the view from your penthouse is incredible," she'd murmured, her voice dropping an octave. "I'd love to see it."
