Page 10 of The Play

Walking away from him had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

Would the owners really not approve the sale if Deacon told them not to?

Grant wasn’t sure. Of course, they’d prefer Deacon and the other players to be on board, in this extraordinary circumstance, but then they also wanted to transfer ownership as quickly and painlessly as possible. Minimize the bad press.

Let Grant get on with trying to save the Condors from total destruction.

“I’m here only as a favor to the rest of the guys on my team,” Deacon finally said. His voice quiet but filled with determination. “I don’t intend to play next year. I don’t care what you do with the team, as long as you don’t fuck it up more, for them.”

“What?” Grant could barely croak out. That couldn’t be right. Deacon couldn’t be calling it quits, finally retiring, just when he’d arrived, hoping to save him.

“I’ve had enough,” Deacon said with finality. He finished his drink, his strong tanned throat working as he swallowed.

He stood and Grant nearly reached out, helplessly, to grab him. To drag him back.

“Wait,” Grant croaked, but Deacon was already gone.

He’d let him go once. Okay, correction, he’d been the one to leave, but he wasn’t going to do that again. In a move lacking any kind of coordination and any of the dignity of one of only three thousand billionaires on the planet, Grant scrambled off the barstool and followed him.

Deacon’s back was still visible as he marched out towards the veranda that ran the entire length of the enormous guest section of the compound.

“Wait, will you,” Grant called out between gritted teeth.

Deacon only turned when he’d made it outside.

The sun had set and the stars were beginning to come out. It was very warm, for March, and the tropical breeze that caressed Grant’s cheek ruffled both their hair.

It was an unbearably romantic moment, Deacon outlined in the moonlight, and if he was sane at all, Grant would say, okay, retire, then, and now I can do this, and then he’d kiss him.

It was saying something that was the sane choice.

Grant knew that. He did.

And yet he was still committed to the insane side of the coin.

“You can’t retire. Not like this.” Grant tried to get his breathing under control.

Deacon looked at him, and it was like every single tutoring session, when the guy had always looked at him, not just through him, like everyone else. “Why not?”

Because I came here to save you, and if you don’t let me, you’re gonna ruin everything.

“Don’t let the last year be your final season,” Grant said.

Deacon hesitated, and Grant saw it. It had been so long since they’d seen each other in person, but he’d embarrassingly spent his few precious moments of free time over the last twelve years following Deacon’s career. Watching every interview he’d probably ever given.

So when Deacon hesitated now, Grant saw it and knew it—and he didn’t intend to let him get away now.

He leaned against the veranda wall, trying to look casual. Like Deacon retiring just when he’d shown up to save him wasn’t terrible and horrible and actually acutely embarrassing.

“You’ve got some juice in the tank, still. I can see it,” Grant continued.

Deacon shot him a questioning look. It sent a frisson of something skittering through Grant, but he ignored that. If he gave in to his attraction, in to his lust—because that was what it was, right?—then he couldn’t do this. Not the way he needed to.

“Isn’t that a tired metaphor?” Deacon asked in a darkly amused voice.

“Maybe,” Grant conceded. “Doesn’t change that it’s accurate. I know you’ve got it, you’re just tired of the bullshit. Anyone would be. But I’m here to fix it. I intend to fix it all, every bit of it. Let that be the last piece of your legacy. This team’s reputation, resurrected, and you a part of it. Keep playing, Deacon.”

Play for me, Deacon.

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