Page 111 of The Play

“Yeah, yeah, I can do that,” Nate said, nodding in understanding. “I got this. God, I just feel like shit. After all you’ve done to help me, Deac.”

“It’s alright,” Deacon said, patting him on the shoulder. “Go take a moment. Get yourself together before practice.”

Nate trotted off and Riley looked at him. Didn’t say a word. But he probably didn’t need to. Didn’t need to say that he was also a rookie.

“You got a brother who was already a superstar when you showed up here,” Deacon said. “You knew the ropes, already.”

“It’s gonna make things a hell of a lot tougher for you and Mr. G,” Riley said.

Yes, it probably would. But things would’ve been tough already.

What was one rookie player’s offhand confirmation, anyway?

Everyone already believed it was happening.

Deacon told himself it was going to be fine, that this wouldn’t affect them strongly.

But from the moment practice began, it was clear it—or something—was on everyone’s mind.

Landry fumbled a pass he’d have caught ninety-nine times out of a hundred. He shrugged it off, like it was just the hundredth time, but he saw Riley’s lips compress and Deacon hated the surge of guilt he felt that he was fucking up everyone else.

Jem would tell him he was allowed to want things. That he was even allowed to have them. But Jem would also tell him that the team came first, always.

Nate was clearly miserable too, and way off his game. Nevermind learning Jem’s spin move, he was unable to do more than fruitlessly and pointlessly push back against the offensive line.

Not that it changed much. Riley missed open receivers. Carter dropped another one of his passes. Everyone felt distracted and off, and by the time practice ended, Deacon was finding it hard to believe that just this morning he’d been so fucking happy.

That he’d been naive enough to think they could weather this shitstorm without it impacting anyone else.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay,” Landry said, stopping by where Deacon was sitting on the sideline, sucking down Gatorade.

He’d made himself run sprints, at the end of practice, until he could barely move. Had straight up lied to himself that this wasn’t punishment.

But it felt like punishment.

Grant knew the moment Darcy walked into his office, her mouth a tense, flat line, that something was wrong.

“What now?” he asked, as he finished typing an email. After re-reading it quickly, he hit send and then looked over at her.

She’d not taken a seat, the way she normally did, just stood in front of his desk. “One of the rookies gave a quote about you and Deacon to a reporter.”

Not ideal. But they could deal with it.

“Initially, of course, the headline was just about as bad as it could get. Just about as bad as they could make it,” Darcy continued. “But if you read the article, the full exchange was in there. I do think, in his own rookie stupidity, the kid was trying to defend you and Deacon.”

“Of course he was.” Grant wouldn’t tolerate anyone on his team whose first thought—or second or third or thousandth—was to go sell out their team by blabbing to the media.

Didn’t mean the kid hadn’t created a firestorm, anyway.

“Are we still going with no comment?” Darcy asked. He heard everything she wasn’t saying. Everything she’d already said.

“Yes,” Grant said.

He had no intention of catering to the media. No intention of stooping to their rumor-mongering, gossip-first level.

“Alright,” Darcy said. She didn’t seem happy. Well, that made two of them. Grant hadn’t wanted his private business splashed all over the front page of every website in the whole fucking world. “And Coach K called up. He wants to see you, if you have a minute.”

“Do you know what about?” he asked.

---