Anatomy of a Meet Cute, page 9
Don’t be stubborn. Ask Grant. Then we can have ice cream to celebrate.
Deciding to answer the text later, she dropped her phone in her pocket. It occurred to her that Jehan was right. Dr. Schwartz was the most appropriate person. But from what little she’d seen of Dr. Schwartz, a pregnancy-care program under him would look almost exactly like the program they already had.
Sam bit down on her bottom lip. Maybe her best option was Grant? The thought made the muscles in the back of her neck bunch. Asking Grant to be her adviser was like suggesting that she put all the holes in her knowledge and personal imperfections on a billboard and post it outside his house. She was trying to do something new on her own, not get bogged down by his judgment and stern glances.
Then again, she had learned a lot in the last three months alone. June Sam wouldn’t even recognize August Sam, and not just because she hadn’t found a good place to get her eyebrows done then. She was a better doctor now. Asking Grant didn’t have to be a big deal. Sam could swallow her pride and ask for help. After all, he’d be swallowing his pride once he found out she’d secured funding. No one here was losing, per se. They were both making compromises . . . kind of.
Sam had thought she was out of good reasons to stop stalling and ask Grant for help. Then she’d remembered that she had patients. And then the day had sort of slipped away from her. Or at least that was what she’d told her roommates when she’d shuffled home last night.
But now that she was standing in the middle school gym with Duke’s eyes burning a hole into her, she was pretty sure she had managed to stall without fooling anyone except herself. It was just that she really didn’t feel like having this conversation with Grant.
PHTHUNK. The sound of a ball being slammed into the floor jolted her out of her thoughts. Sam looked over to find Duke clutching the ball. Arching an eyebrow at her still-half-tied basketball shoe, he asked, “You gonna go over there or not? ’Cause I didn’t research all those foundations so that your stubborn ass could mess up this program.”
“I’m goin’. Let me tie my shoe.”
“You’ve been tying that shoe for twenty minutes, and the game is going to start in five, so . . .” Duke trailed off, bouncing the ball again and giving her a sideways look. “You scared or something?”
“I’m not scared,” Sam said, rolling her eyes and tying off the loop of her shoelace.
“If you’re scared, I can go talk to him. I mean, I want this program for my patients too.”
“I’m not scared. I’m just tryna figure out exactly how to suggest he involve himself.”
“Right. And that is different from scared how?” Duke asked, humor softening the edges of his accusation as Sam stood up.
“It’s different because I’m going over there right now. Happy?” Sam said, throwing her arms wide and sauntering backward. The slow walk gave her a chance to glower at Duke and had the added benefit of offering her a moment to steel her nerves. Not that they needed steeling. Maybe just a little reinforcement.
Duke smirked and slammed the ball into the ground a few more times before turning toward the basket to attempt a jump shot—which he missed, much to Sam’s personal enjoyment.
Dropping her arms, Sam turned around and forced herself to slow-jog toward Grant’s end of the court, where he was going through his meticulous midrange-jumper routine. Sam watched as his calf muscles flexed with the effort of lifting himself off the ground. It was the only part of him that even looked like he was working. The rest of his shot was the same graceful movement she had observed before. Watching him was almost like watching a dancer. A very good-looking dancer . . . who was also a colleague.
Grant’s back was to her, giving her a moment to compose herself. This didn’t have to feel like she was waxing her eyebrows with duct tape. She could just say, Hey, Grant. Remember that program we talked about—yes, the one you told me not to bother with . . .
Okay, no. If she was going to be petty, this partnership wouldn’t work. Sam flinched as a teammate noticed her hovering and nodded in her general vicinity, redirecting Grant’s focus from the basket to whoever was lurking just over his shoulder. When he turned to face her, his expression shifted from laser intense to something softer. Passing the ball off to his teammate, he jogged the few feet between them.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Hi,” Sam said, suddenly wishing that she had spent less time dragging her feet and more time preparing for this conversation. After all, he was smiling that smile. The one that felt like the sun warming her up after too much time in an air-conditioned building. She wished she could say that she had gotten used to it, but as Grant stood there waiting for her to say anything, she knew she still had work to do in that department. “Got a minute?”
Grant glanced up at the clock above the gym door and smirked. “I have four minutes, in fact.”
The joke was so corny it cut through the awkwardness she was feeling, forcing a snort-laugh out of her. That smile might be a magnet, but his jokes were a repelling force. “I’m not giving you credit for that joke.”
“Okay, but you laughed at it.”
“I laughed because it was bad.”
“No takebacks. I need to be able to tell my mom someone other than her thinks I’m funny.”
“I’ll let you have it.” This time Sam did laugh against her better judgment. Whatever, she needed to butter him up anyway. “But only because your mother deserves happiness.”
“Thank you.” Grant nodded. “So what can I help you with? Please tell me you aren’t thinking of leaving medicine.”
“What? God, no. I just got here. Why would you think that?”
“Let’s just say it would be in keeping with the theme of new hires after a few months of long shifts.” Grant shook his head.
“Good news. I’m not quitting. Just the opposite, in fact.” Sam watched as Grant wrapped the hem of his jersey around his hand, making an informal armrest for himself. “So remember when Dr. Franklin said that I could start a birthing program if I could find funding and a senior adviser to take on the institutional risk?”
“Not really.” Grant’s smile tightened, echoing the suspicion in his eyes.
“Well, I managed to find myself some funding. Now, I just need a senior adviser, since I’m still in my first year of training to run my own research program.” Sam drew out the last sentence. A small part of her hoped that he would leap up and volunteer for the position. Instead, he looked like he was about two seconds away from forfeiting the game and running for the door. Forcing herself not to pull at the hem of her shirt, she finished her ask. “Anyhoo . . . I thought about it, and you seem like the best-qualified person for the job. So what do you say?”
Grant’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “That is a big ask. What did you envision this adviser doing for the program?”
“Honestly, Dr. Franklin told me I had to have one since I’m in training to run a program and not, you know, actually running one yet.” Sam shrugged. The corners of Grant’s mouth turned southward. Sam checked herself. No matter how she felt, her goal was not to scare off the only viable adviser she could think of. “I sort of envisioned me and the doulas just coming up with a model to test and you as our figurehead in meetings or if we get into trouble. I mean, you’d have to participate in some meetings too. I think. I’ve never set up a research program before. But I figure that’s what I’m at SF Central to learn.”
“And you think I have time to teach you because . . .” Grant let the end of his question fall off.
Sam looked around the gym, searching for so much as a hint for how to answer him. He seemed to expect her to approach this request in a different manner. As if he were operating under some sort of code that only people who had attained perfection knew. That he expected this from Sam, who had a hole in the armpit of her sweatshirt clearly indicating that she had not reached that level of personal excellence, was almost unreasonable. In fact, it irked her. If she had her druthers, she wouldn’t have to ask for anyone’s help, let alone someone who had apparently attained some state of faultless existence.
Sam waited one more beat for some magical, flawless explanation for why she wanted him to help to pop into her brain other than the truth. When it didn’t come, she broke down and said, “Candidly, you were the only senior adviser I could think of who wasn’t likely to shoot the idea down on sight.”
“Flattering,” Grant deadpanned.
Sam floundered. “Well, if we are going to be partners, I figure it is good to reinforce honesty in our relationship.”
Grant didn’t look nearly so amused. “It’s just that I have limited time. If you drop the ball on something, the burden ultimately falls on your senior adviser.”
“You mentioned the workload thing before. I know it’s a lot of work, but I managed to find funding, so obviously, this idea is viable. Why do you think I’m going to fail?” Sam’s spine stiffened. She wasn’t totally oblivious to the fact that she had limited time, but clearly Anjo believed she could manage it, so why couldn’t Grant? She’d find a way not to let him and her patients down even if it meant giving up sleep—and Housewives.
“I don’t mean fail like a crash and burn,” Grant said, his expression softening slightly. “More that research and community programs are a full-time job. Not a five-hour-a-week thing, so you are going to need help from time to time, and with my fellowship wrapping—”
“Y’all about ready to go?” Duke called from center court, making both of them jump. Sam had never been so happy to be interrupted in her life. Duke must have psychically sensed that things were not going her way and stepped in to save the day. Okay, maybe that was giving him too much credit. It was a few minutes past six thirty, so it was more than likely he was just trying to get the game going before they all starved to death.
“Yup,” Grant called, waving to him. Turning his attention back to Sam, he squinted. “How about this? I’ll play you for it.”
“What?”
Sam’s face must have looked like her voice sounded, because Grant started laughing almost immediately. “You look like I asked you if you wanted to commit a bank heist.”
“I mean, this is the future of a community program and the success of my research initiative, and you want to bet it on a basketball game?”
“Sounds about right.” He shrugged and started walking slowly toward the center of the court, forcing Sam to jog to catch up with him. “Besides, you said it yourself: Who else might say yes?”
“If this is how you are going to make a decision, why not just flip a coin?”
“Makes the game more fun,” Grant said, stopping just outside the knot of players who were gathered for the tip-off. “Deal?”
Sam sputtered. This was not how responsible people made career decisions. This wasn’t even how irresponsible people made career decisions. Why couldn’t he just give her a straight answer? What was the point in making her guess? This was why she said that he was too perfect. Only people who never failed would bet on something like this, because they thought they were going to win. Cocky much?
She wanted time to think, or at least a second to reason with Grant, but Duke and the Central Flyers’ center were already shaking hands. She was out of time. Holding her breath for three seconds, she looked over to find Grant staring at her, a smirk glued to his face. A face she sort of hoped got hit by a rogue no-look pass.
“Fine.” She exhaled, watching as Grant’s smirk turned into a full-blown mischievous grin.
“May the best team win.”
“You mean my team,” Sam said with more bravado than she felt before sinking into a defensive stance.
Her tank top stuck to her like a rumor clinging to a celebrity. And Sam was sure she’d managed to sweat off her extra-strength deodorant. She didn’t care. In high school, she’d been convinced that the state championship game was the single most important game she would ever play. She thought she knew what it meant to want to win so bad it hurt. But that was before she spent a full hour in a horse stance chasing Grant Gao around the court while Duke missed every possible shot that was more than two feet away from the basket with her precious program on the line.
With two minutes to go, Sam’s thighs were practically screaming as she sank her dribble a little lower to shield the ball from Grant’s reach. They were down four points. She could make that up with a couple of smart plays. Duke was having a bad night, but both Theo and Raphael were playing solid if she could get them the ball. But that was a big if because Grant seemed to predict her every move. She’d barely think of a play, and he’d be standing in her way, ready to block a pass. His defense was so close that some of the sweat she was wearing was probably his. At least he smelled good.
Sam wrinkled her nose at the thought. Now was not the time or place for a scent analysis of the person who was making her life difficult. Praying Theo was watching her closely, Sam threw her shoulder into Grant’s body and bounce passed the ball to her teammate.
“Oof. That’s a charge,” Grant said, rubbing the spot on his chest where Sam had treated him like a human battering ram.
“No one else called it.” She smiled as Theo sank a midrange two-pointer. All she had to do was make sure Grant didn’t score, and she could win this thing.
“I see you don’t deny it.” Grant laughed, jogging to retrieve the ball from beneath the basket, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.
“All’s fair in community programs and basketball.” Sam shrugged. “But you could give up and join the program. Then you wouldn’t have to take a shoulder to the chest.”
“Where is the fun in that?” Grant said, carefully keeping a forearm between her and the ball as he began to dribble down the court.
“You have a strange idea of fun.”
“Watching you lose, after all the trash you talked during the last game? I’ve never had such a good time.” Grant’s voice was barely above a whisper, sending tingles down Sam’s spine that had nothing to do with their wager.
Nope. She forced herself to focus on the sound of Grant’s teammates around her clapping for the ball. Pulling herself back together, Sam said, “This won’t be nearly as much fun for you when you lose.”
“Making you sweat is always fun.”
Sam’s heart stopped as heat flooded her face. Endorphins, adrenaline, serotonin, dopamine, and every other hormone and neurotransmitter known to science went to war in her brain, causing everything to pause. Surely he didn’t mean that kind of sweat. She was vaguely aware that her jaw might have dropped. Grant’s smile was as mischievous as ever.
Everything happened at once. Sam had only stopped for what felt like a fraction of a second to try to blink her thoughts into coherence when Grant backed up, dropping his forearm, leaving just enough space to pull off one of his perfectly executed jump shots. Sam stopped stock still as she watched the ball soar overhead in a perfect arc. It was as if she could hear the clean swooshing sound of the net before it even approached the basket. She had just enough time to close her eyes before the sound actually came and with it the ohs of both teams celebrating a perfect shot.
The agony and irony of the moment sank in as the muscles in Sam’s throat closed almost immediately. She had used the exact same distraction technique on Grant a few weeks ago. All he’d done was throw a new package on it, and she’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. How could she be that stupid?
Tears threatened to glass over her eyes as soon as she opened them. No matter what, she refused to cry in a middle school gym over a stupid basketball game. Honestly, what kind of program adviser would bet their involvement on a game anyway? Instead of just saying no, he’d toyed with her, setting her up to fail before the center had even gotten off the ground. Worse, it was a humiliating defeat. The kind perfect people like him—whose greatest failure was probably having to try parallel parking in a tight spot twice—couldn’t possibly understand.
Pulling her shoulders back, Sam breathed in for the count of three before opening her eyes and pasting on her very best I’m-not-bitter smile. Running her palm down her shorts so that her hand wasn’t sweaty, she turned to face Grant. “Disappointing for me. But I expect you’re relieved to be off the hook. Good game.” Sam mentally awarded herself a consolation prize for not adding you asshole to her concession speech.
Grant’s forehead wrinkled in surprise, and for a heartbeat, Sam wondered if he might refuse to shake her hand. Then he smiled. “Oh. I forgot about that. Good game.”
“Sure. You just happened to save that mean jumper until things were desperate.” Sam had to dig deep to make that joke. Looking around the court, she prayed for someone to come and interrupt the conversation. Hell, she would take a freak tornado warning to get out of this without another word.
“Just lucky, I guess.” Grant shrugged. “So listen—”
“That was an amazing shot!” Raphael popped up over Sam’s shoulder, causing Grant to jump in surprise.
“Thanks,” Grant said, holding out a hand to Raphael.
“Seriously, it was a thing of beauty, man.”
“I’ll let y’all discuss it,” Sam broke in, sensing a chance to get out of the gym before things got more awkward and she was forced to talk to Grant about what she would do for a program adviser in place of him. Better to leave with at least some of her dignity intact. Waving over her shoulder, she called, “Good game,” before jogging over to her gym bag.
Anger and hurt threatened to overwhelm whatever rational thoughts she had. How could she lose this game? She’d basically beaten Grant before—it was tough, but she’d done it. Instead, she’d let Grant in all his perfect smiling glory take a thing she cared about and turn it into a game. A game she’d lost, no less. She never should have asked for his help. Help always had strings attached. Really, this disaster was as much her fault as Grant’s. More, even.
Throwing her holey sweatshirt over her head, Sam waved to Duke, who was happily chatting with Theo. Nodding his acknowledgment, Duke said something to Theo, who laughed, before he shuffled over to her. “What’s up?”
