Page 103 of The Play

“You want wine?” Grant asked, making a detour to one of the glassed-in fridges built under the island. Tugged out a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc he favored. He was pretty sure Darcy had specified they’d be having roast chicken, and he could smell the rich, succulent scent of it in the air as it heated.

“Sure, I’ll take a glass.”

Grant gestured towards one of the cabinets, and Deacon grabbed glasses and he poured them each a good measure.

They’d shared meals before. Always casual and unplanned, though, like they’d both realized, subconsciously, that if it was more, if it was purposeful, it would be too intimate.

And this was intimate, undeniably.

But it also felt so comfortable, like they’d performed this dance together a hundred times already. They sat next to each other companionably, candles flickering around them, knees bumping together, as they ate.

“This is good,” Deacon said, taking a sip of his wine. “What is it?”

“Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand. Little vineyard I visited during one of my trips down there and I invested in later.”

“Do you always just . . .do that?” Deacon wondered.

Grant stabbed a roasted carrot with his fork, popped it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“Always save people who need it.”

“Ah, I don’t know about that.” But he did know about it. They both did it, that much was very clear to Grant.

“Yes, you do,” Deacon said, glancing over at him as he cut his chicken.

“Well, everyone likes it when you give them money,” Grant said, trying to play it off as it was just that simple.

“But you don’t just give them money, did you? Don’t tell me you just gave this winery money and then moved on. That’s not like you.”

Grant sighed. He loved it when Deacon really saw him, but he also wasn’t used to it—especially when it wasn’t Darcy doing it. He was out of practice having a real kind of relationship, where you actually shared things.

With Deacon, he already knew him so well, them growing closer over the last six months, that there was no hope of pretending otherwise.

“Yeah, I did give them some help,” Grant admitted. “Some marketing advice. Sent their labels to my marketing department, who offered some suggestions to help bump up their visual interest.”

“Then you do just do that, then,” Deacon teased, nudging Grant’s foot with his own socked one.

“I guess I do.” Grant didn’t know why he felt ashamed of it. Why he didn’t want to admit it.

“You’re more than your bank account, you know,” Deacon said matter-of-factly, like he wasn’t routinely reduced to the number of zeros he possessed.

“Thanks.”

“I mean, you should act like it. And also realize how much you do. Lots of billionaires don’t work as hard as you do.”

“And lots of them do.”

“But they’re working hard trying to squeeze the last dime out of everyone. That’s not you. That’s never been you. You have all these programs for the InTech employees.” Grant couldn’t help but be surprised that one, Deacon knew about his InTech work, and two, that Deacon would care. “And then there’s everything you did for the Condors. You could’ve just bought the team and fixed the worst of the problems and called it good. But you didn’t.”

“I like fixing problems. But not just surface-level stuff. That’s easy. No challenge there. It feels good to have rooted out the worst of the shit here. To offer InTech employees the best of me with the hopes they give the best of themselves back.”

“Then why isn’t the NFL grateful every fucking day for everything you’ve done?” Deacon wondered.

Grant made a face. Shoved his chicken around his plate. “Good question. I mean, I’m not exactly some kind of savior, I’m not doing anything special. I’m only doing what’s right, what everyone should be doing, that they’re not doing—”

“No,” Deacon interrupted him. “No. You’re not just doing what everyone else should be doing or might be doing, if they were better people. It’s more than that. You’re more than that.”

He couldn’t help it; he stared at Deacon. “You really think that?”

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