Forty minutes later, Emmy shook Tyce's hand at the net.
She'd lost 6-3. Her lungs were burning, her hair had escaped its ponytail entirely, and she was fairly certain she'd sweated through every layer she was wearing. But she'd kept rallies going. She'd taken a game off him—admittedly while he was signing an autograph for a tennis mom who'd wandered onto their court, and another when she'd used the hem of her tank top to wipe her forehead and he'd hit his return directly into the net. She'd made a Wimbledon quarterfinalist pretend to work for points, which was probably the best she could hope for.
"That," Tyce said, "was the most entertaining set I've played in months."
Emmy wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. "So does that mean?—”
"Email me the contract. I'll have it back to you today."
Two clients. Two athlete clients, both signed within her first month. Cecelia couldn't call her a fluke now. Emmy felt her shoulders drop from somewhere around her ears. "Thank you. I promise you won't regret it."
"Oh, I never have regrets." He winked. "Life's too short."
He grabbed his bag, draped a towel around his neck. "I want to see you again. Are you going to the Fairway for Kids tournament Thursday?"
Emmy's brain kicked into gear. The annual charity golf tournament—celebrities and athletes hitting terrible shots for Children's Hospital. Fertile ground for prospective clients. "Elite Connections is sponsoring a hole, actually."
"Perfect." His grin was conspiratorial. "Tell Cecelia I'll get her whole team on the VIP list. Make sure your name's on it."
"I'm sure she'll send Sabine too. She's Cecelia’s?—“
"Star matchmaker. Yes, I've heard." Tyce's smile flickered, something dismissive crossing his face. "God, that woman is cold. I tried to make conversation with her at the gala and she looked at me like I was something stuck to her shoe." He shook his head, laughing. "Beautiful, sure, but no warmth. No spark. I don't know how she matchesanyone—she's like a robot in designer heels."
Emmy felt an unexpected flash of... something. Not quite defensiveness—Sabine had never been warm to her either—but it seemed harsh.
"She's very good at her job," Emmy offered.
"I'm sure she is. Anyway." Tyce's easy smile returned, all charm again. "Thursday. I'll introduce you to everyone worth knowing—and warn you about the ones who aren't." He grinned, and a dimple popped in his cheek. "See you on the fairway, Emmy."
She retrieved her bag, took a long drink of water, forced herself to sit. Her legs were shaking—physical exertion, she told herself. Just the match.
Her phone buzzed.
Mom
Emmy dear, you never confirmed for Sunday dinner. Serle's doing roast chicken. Dad has already informed her we'll all be having turmeric lattes afterward for immunity. Grant's coming after his game. Dinner at 7.
Emmy stared at the screen.
Sunday dinner. Tomorrow. Grant at the old kitchen table, in the chair he'd claimed when he was twelve, nodding along to her dad's theories about seasonal allergens while Serle quietly refilled his plate for the third time.
It had never felt complicated before.
She typed back.
Emmy
I’ll be there.
Then stared at the words for a long moment before hitting send.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The game was on low volume with subtitles because, despite a decade of NFL Sundays, her father still could not handle the full sensory experience of professional football.
"The commentators have no respect for audience blood pressure," he'd explained when Emmy arrived, already reaching for the remote. "The way they dramatize every play. It's medically irresponsible."
So Emmy sat on the living room couch, watching her brother and Grant move across the screen while closed captions scrolled beneath them—[CROWD CHEERING] [WHISTLE BLOWS]—and her dad white-knuckled his recliner, phone in one hand, positioned for optimal viewing of both the television and the Hendersons' front yard.
