It was the most persuasive argument he could deploy.
Deacon braced his hands on the railing, glancing over at Grant.
His muscles, impressive in college, were on a whole other level now. Grant could see them tensing and flexing under his long-sleeved shirt.
“It was bad,” he said quietly.
Grant knew. He’d read everything he could get his hands on. Every report. He’d insisted, over and over again to the NFL, that he needed full disclosure of the existing situation before he agreed to rescue their current PR disaster. He’d interviewed countless staff, past and present. Even a handful of players. Deacon had been at the top of every list of players available to talk to him.
But he hadn’t reached out to Deacon yet.
Grant had entertained some semi-insane idea that he didn’t want to see him, to talk to him, until the deal was done. Until he knew he could face Deacon and make all the promises he was making now.
The irony—that he couldn’t make them true, not until Deacon gave his approval.
“But then,” Deacon continued, before Grant could figure out what to say to that—which vow he could make that would convince Deacon it would never be like that, not ever again—“you knew that, didn’t you?”
“It’s why I’m here,” Grant said with a confidence he hoped wouldn’t be completely misplaced.
He’d never run a football team before. He only knew anything about the sport because Deacon had caught him and ensnared him and he hadn’t been able to free himself in the last twelve years.
But he still believed he could do this.
Of course, it would be a hell of a lot easier if he had not only Deacon’s approval but his cooperation.
If they became a team of two—two people who cared about the Condors so much they were willing to risk everything to exorcise the rot from the inside out.
“I don’t know how to do this, not really. I can run a company. I run a damn good company,” Grant confessed. “But I’ve never run a football team.”
“Hey, me neither,” Deacon said.
“But you’ve been playing in the NFL long enough that you do know. You’ve been a team captain for the last five years. You were—you are—this team, Deacon.”
Deacon didn’t know why he’d expected Grant Green to play fair, not after all these years.
Sure, they hadn’t been close back in college—only spending a handful of hours together every week for part of a semester, but it had been enough. He’d seen how good Grant was. How smart. How insightful.
It shouldn’t surprise Deacon that he was even better now.
Or that after over a decade in corporate America—fucking running corporate America, in fact—he’d be exceptional at reading people and then using what he’d learned for his own purposes.
“But you’ve been playing in the NFL long enough that you do know. You’ve been a team captain for the last five years. You were—you are—this team, Deacon.”
He’d known, coming in, that Grant would try to persuade him to stay. To give it one more year, at least. He’d steeled himself against the inevitable request. Reminded himself of all the terrible things he was desperate to escape and put behind him forever.
But he hadn’t counted on Grant Green in the flesh.
How he’d grown. The easy confidence he wore like a cape making him even more deliciously attractive. He hadn’t counted on his own crush, resurrected, just that easily.
Could a grown man of thirty-five even have a crush? Deacon supposed it had to be true, because if this wasn’t a crush, he didn’t know what else it was.
If it wasn’t a crush, he didn’t even want to put a name to it.
He hadn’t counted on Grant using the one argument that could possibly win him over.
Help me.
But Grant didn’t leave it there. No, he was formidable now. He’d been impressive then, in an entirely unassuming way.