Page 115 of The Play

“That’s your problem, not mine,” Nicole said.

She didn’t have to say he’d have to handle it, because they both knew what would happen if Grant couldn’t convince Deacon to stay out of it.

They didn’t need everything to go from merely dire to catastrophic.

“I’ve got it.”

“I am going to release a statement making it very clear he’s lying out his ass,” Nicole said. “We can’t no comment this.”

No, they couldn’t. Not when Rex was essentially accusing him of sexual harassment.

“But,” Nicole added, “you know what would help? If we added a little about your love story with Deacon. Make it clear that you’re not just some horny maniac who can’t keep your hands off your players, but that it’s different with Deacon. That Deacon’s special.”

“Darcy talked to you, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but she didn’t have to,” Nicole said. “It’s the right move. The sooner everyone realizes you’re not just scratching a fucking itch together, the sooner this is containable.”

“No,” Grant said inexorably. Not yet. Don’t make me do this yet.

“Grant—” Nicole argued.

“No,” he repeated firmly. “If our strategy changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

She looked annoyed. “I don’t have to tell you that a love story looks better than a story about a sexual predator. I don’t think it would fix everything, but it would sure make it less terrible,” she said.

“Talk to him,” she reminded him, standing up.

“Despite the rampant and insane speculation about us, we do actually exchange words and not just fluids when we get together,” Grant muttered.

Nicole laughed. “I never doubted it. It’s the rest of the world I’d like to convince.”

“Noted,” Grant said, and a moment later, she walked out, leaving him alone with a whole brain full of unpleasant thoughts and so many questions he didn’t have answers to.

He sent a text to Darcy, and when he got the reply, he closed up his laptop, shoved it in his bag, and after sending another message to his driver, headed to the garage.

He’d just started contemplating the keypad next to the door of Deacon’s truck, wondering what four digits Deacon might find memorable enough, when he heard footsteps behind him and turned.

Deacon’s hair was still damp and his gray t-shirt clung to his pecs and his biceps, and okay, there was definitely a part of Grant that wanted to exchange bodily fluids with him.

But he hadn’t come down here for that—even if it ended up being a pleasant supplement.

“Hey,” he said.

“A surprise?” Deacon asked, shooting him a look as he unlocked the truck, but didn’t get in, just threw his bag into the back. “What’s the occasion?”

“We need to talk,” Grant said.

There was no way he hadn’t heard about Nate—or about Rex, too—so it was foolish to assume he could break the news gently and easily. But that didn’t mean they could get away without discussing it. At the very least, he could encourage Deacon not to tear Rex apart.

“Yeah, I was going to text you,” Deacon said.

But he hadn’t.

And a frisson of unease skittered down Grant’s spine. What if, in trying to preserve this, he’d lost it already and just didn’t know it? Deacon’s gaze was still warm on him, but what if his version of talking was actually a breakup?

Grant ruthlessly shoved aside the part of his brain that piped up that if he had, it would make everything a hell of a lot easier.

He didn’t want easy; he wanted Deacon.

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