"Like sports?"
"Sports serve a purpose. Physical excellence has value. But let's not pretend it's intellectual."
Thea's fingers tightened on his arm. He expected her to jump in—to mention the concussion research they'd just discussed, the helmet sensors, the cognitive baseline testing. They'd been talking about it twenty minutes ago.
Instead, Thea gave a soft, diffusing laugh. "Well, we can't all be academics, Margaret." She patted Grant's arm—twice, like calming a dog. "Grant has his strengths. He's very... efficient at the physical side of things. We should probably leave the theory to you."
Grant's jaw locked.
Efficient at the physical side of things.
Like he was hired muscle.
He was done.
"That's not—" Emmy started.
But Dr. Ashford was already moving on, pleased to have been proven right. "Exactly. Athletic excellence and intellectual rigor are simply different skill sets?—"
Emmy's champagne glass hit the nearby table with controlled violence.
"You're conflating strategy with instinct when they're fundamentally different cognitive processes." Each word measured, precise, furious. "Split-second decision-making under pressure requires pattern recognition and situational awareness that most people never develop. It's not just physical. It's intellectual."
The circle went quiet. Other conversations stalled, attention swinging.
Across from him, Sabine had materialized with Cecelia, both their faces carefully blank. Thea's hand was still on his arm, but Grant barely registered it.
He was looking at Emmy.
"No one's arguing they're the same." Emmy's voice sharpened, hands moving now. "I'm arguing that dismissing one as purely physical is intellectually lazy."
Cecelia's lips had gone thin. One of the board members took a careful step backward. Thea's hand dropped from Grant's arm.
"Reading a defense pre-snap. Adjusting a play call in under two seconds based on what eleven moving bodies are doing. Processing all of that while three-hundred-pound men who lift cars for fun are sprinting toward you with clear intent—" Emmy's voice was rising, her hands carving the air, completely oblivious to the silence spreading around her. "That requires high-level cognitive function. That's not instinct. That's patternrecognition under pressure most people never develop because they've never had to."
Where had she learned progression reads?
"The average NFL quarterback processes more information in three seconds than most people handle in three minutes. Pre-snap reads. Post-snap adjustments." Emmy's breathing had quickened, voice gaining speed. "Hot routes versus audibles. Understanding not just what the defense is doing but what they're trying to make youthinkthey're doing."
Grant went very still.
Hot routes versus audibles. She knew the difference. That wasn't ESPN highlight terminology—that was film study language.
"Zone versus man coverage. Recognizing the distinction in under two seconds while reading the safety's eyes and tracking the Mike linebacker." Emmy was locked on Dr. Ashford like they were the only two people in the room. "Processing all of that and making the correct decision more often than not—that's what separates quarterbacks who succeed from ones who wash out."
She'd been studying. Not skimming articles for cocktail party facts—actually studying. Learning the architecture of his job.
"That's why Grant Knight is at the top of his field." Emmy's face was flushed, eyes bright, breathing hard. "Because he can process all of that information and make the right call. That's not instinct. That's intelligence."
Someone laughed—surprised, genuine. The pun had landed.
Grant barely heard it. He was watching the way her chest rose and fell, how the flush had spread to the bare skin between her shoulder blades. She'd defended him. After Thea had dismissed him—after his own date had patted his arm and told a room full of strangers to leave the thinking to the grown-ups—Emmy had gone to war.
Not for his profession or his sport. For him. Specifically him. Had researched his world so she could articulate exactly why they were wrong about the person standing in it.
And she wasn't looking at Thea. Wasn't checking if her sales pitch had worked. She was still locked on Dr. Ashford, breathing hard, that red dress catching light with each breath. Defending him like he was hers to defend.
"Well." Dr. Ashford's voice could've etched glass. "I believe you've made your point, Miss Woodhouse. Though perhaps with more passion than is appropriate for the venue."
