Page 54 of The Play

To make snide, sly comments?

To insinuate he wasn’t the player he was because he was Deacon Harris, but because he sucked Grant’s dick?

He couldn’t bear it. Not after all the work he’d done to guarantee otherwise.

“Exactly,” Darcy said. She let go of the laptop bag. “Think about that, okay? For me, but mostly for yourself. ’Cause anyone who makes you feel this bad, they matter, and we don’t get an unlimited number of those.”

An unlimited number? Grant nearly laughed. There’d only been one, ever, who mattered the way that Deacon did.

“Noted,” Grant said. Because if he told her the truth, that he’d only ever wanted Deacon in that achingly real way, she wouldn’t let him just consider it. She’d intervene. Darcy’s best attribute was that she fixed problems, but in this case, nobody could fix this except for Grant.

“You promise you’ll really think about it?” she asked archly.

“I promise,” Grant said. Because even though he didn’t want to think about it any longer, there was no question that he would, anyway.

“Bro, you tryin’ to set the single game tackle record?”

Deacon glanced up to see Nate standing there, in front of him.

On the field, Riley and the offense were about to head into the red zone. It had been a long drive too, but Deacon’s breath was still caught in his chest.

He had been pushing. He knew it.

Jem wasn’t here to call him on it. He’d seen both Beck and Micah shoot him a few concerned looks before exchanging a handful of their own, always in their own unspoken language. They couldn’t know that even seeing them, locked up in their happy little bubble, made him even angrier.

Even sadder, too.

Up until now, Nate had steered clear, seemingly oblivious to why Deacon was trying to single-handedly annihilate the Pittsburgh offense, only excited that he was doing it. But now he was here, in front of Deacon and questioning him.

Deacon looked up tiredly. “Don’t care about the record. Don’t care about any record. Just care about the scoreboard,” he said. It was true—and when he looked up at the scoreboard, it showed the Condors winning 24 to 7.

That wasn’t even considering the touchdown Riley and Landry and Carter were attempting to score right now.

“Well, we’re kicking ass.” Nate flopped down next to Deacon. “You, specifically.”

“You got in on the last sack,” Deacon said.

He’d just been about to drill the Steelers’ quarterback solo, after pushing through their offensive line like it was butter and he was a hot knife, when he’d spotted Nate coming from the other side, evading the left tackle with one of Jem’s old moves, and they’d sacked him together.

“Yeah,” Nate said grinning. “It’s a good move.”

“It isn’t mine.” Deacon couldn’t even be mad because it wasn’t like Jem would be angry he’d taught Nate his tricks—he’d only encourage the passing of the torch.

Nate and Micah and Beck, they would be his legacy, when Deacon retired.

What else would he have?

Not someone to come home to, that was for fucking sure.

He still couldn’t believe Grant had told him, after kissing him back, the way he’d always imagined, the way he’d always dreamed, that they were only going to be friends.

Every time he thought about it, he was furious.

Furious at Grant, for lying to him. Furious at Grant, for lying to himself.

Furious at his own stupid naivety, for thinking it could be different.

Furious at fate, for setting the one man in his path that he couldn’t have, when he’d never wanted anyone else.

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