Page 3 of The Play

“You sure?”

Deacon had the nerve to look grateful, with none of the easy, ready smug acceptance of a man who believed people rearranging their schedule to suit him was only what he deserved.

Ugh. There was a part of Grant who wished that Deacon Harris really had been that big dumb football player with an ego the size of the field he played on.

“I’m sure,” Grant said. He outlined how much each week would cost, hoping even though he knew it was stupid to worry that the explicit topic of money wouldn’t derail the easy friendliness they’d found in the last ten minutes.

But it didn’t. Deacon just nodded. “I’ll bring you a check tomorrow,” he said. As easy as that. He didn’t even try to negotiate the rate, which was something Grant was sadly used to by now.

“Let’s talk about this,” Grant said, changing the subject as smoothly as he could, pointing to the test paper in front of him, with the big circled F at the top.

“Ugh, do we have to?” Even looking like he was being marched to the gallows, Deacon’s eyes still twinkled, unexpectedly bright despite their depths.

“Yes.”

As much as Grant liked looking at him, he was here for a purpose. If Deacon did fail to pass statistics, it would jeopardize his future on the football field. Not just his collegiate career, but the future NFL career everyone kept talking about in big capital letters, punctuated with too many exclamation points.

“Gonna be tough on me, huh?” Deacon teased. “I like that.”

Grant certainly intended to be—though Deacon flirting with him wasn’t going to make anything easy. “Yes.”

“Alright, then. Where did I go wrong?”

So many of Grant’s tutoring clients needed their hands held, but even more than that, they needed their egos stroked. They might need help, but they never wanted their faces rubbed in that particular fact. But Deacon didn’t seem to be needing the gentle treatment, if his blunt, straightforward words were to be believed.

Grant glanced down, scanning the quiz. The problems were readily apparent even though he barely took a minute to identify them.

“We’re gonna work on some of your basics,” he said, pulling out a blank sheet of paper from the stack next to his elbow.

“That sounds . . .” Deacon winced. “Not very interesting?”

“It’s not, but it’s gonna mean these go away,” Grant said, pointing to the big red F.

“Then basic away,” Deacon said, waving at him.

Deacon hadn’t had very many expectations of his statistics tutor. Lie, his brain supplied: you had zero expectations of your statistics tutor.

The frustration that he’d needed a statistics tutor at all had sucked up most of his brain power whenever he’d considered the situation.

But he hadn’t expected Grant Green.

The cliche Grant had dished back at him—What, you expected some kind of mousy guy afraid of his own shadow? A guy drowning in pocket protectors? Unable to make even basic conversation?—had been exactly what he’d predicted when booking his first tutor.

But Grant wasn’t really like that.

He might be quieter, and more apt to blush than to flirt back whenever Deacon couldn’t help himself, but he could also be unexpectedly and slyly funny and was such an excellent tutor that Deacon kept going to his tutoring appointments, even though each one became progressively more and more difficult.

Not because he didn’t understand statistics.

Nope.

The problem was not statistics.

It was the crush Deacon didn’t want to have on his tutor.

Would he have ever looked at this guy normally?

He could at least be honest with himself and say no, probably not. Grant had shaggy brown hair, desperately in need of a trim, always falling into his eyes, hiding a pair of shockingly clear green eyes. He was at least five inches shorter than Deacon, maybe an unassuming five foot ten, and looked like he’d never been to a weight room, though his trim build had begun to star in every single one of Deacon’s dreams.

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