Page 116 of The Play

“But you didn’t,” Grant said.

“No,” Deacon agreed, ducking his head. “Come on, get in. Let’s grab some dinner.”

“You haven’t eaten yet?” Grant said, opening the door and sliding into the truck.

Deacon shook his head. “Worked out after practice. Probably too hard. But . . .” He trailed off, not needing to explain why he had.

Nate and then, so much worse, Rex.

“Dinner it is. You got a place in mind?”

“Yeah,” Deacon said shortly, but then didn’t turn the car on. Instead, he looked over at Grant. “You here to make sure I don’t kill him? Or because you wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” Grant said. Because they were both true.

Deacon sighed. “I’m not that stupid. Even if I wanted to, even if I wanted to find him and make him take it all back, it would only make it all worse. It wouldn’t exonerate you, in the end.”

“No,” Grant agreed.

“I hate . . .I hate that this gave him the opening to make everyone think that maybe you’d do this with someone else. Maybe we shouldn’t have—”

“No.” Grant interrupted, repeated himself, but stronger this time.

Deacon looked surprised. “I’m not saying never. I’m saying . . .cool it for a few weeks. A few months.”

It was only what Darcy had told him once. That when Deacon retired, whenever the season ended for the Condors, there was nothing stopping them from starting a relationship then.

Grant had never been as convinced as her that nobody would care, even if Deacon was retired—and for so long, he’d never wanted to do a single fucking thing to tarnish Deacon’s reputation, not when he’d worked so hard to preserve it, or to jeopardize any of the employees who trusted him to make the right moves.

In the end, he hadn’t been able to help it. Selfishly, he’d dismissed the space between them and crossed the line himself.

“No,” Grant said for the third time.

Deacon shook his head and chuckled under his breath. “How’re we gonna solve this, then?”

“I don’t know,” Grant said, as Deacon started the truck and headed out of the garage.

Grant nearly brought up what Darcy—and now Nicole—kept suggesting. But he wasn’t ready to take that risk, and he knew if he said it, even if he even breathed a word about it, Deacon would be willing to do it.

In any other scenario, Grant would’ve been thrilled at the thought Deacon would be willing to do anything he asked, if he thought it would help him in any way. They were the same, that way.

He’d bought a fucking football team—he’d spent nearly a billion dollars—when Deacon was in trouble.

Would Deacon be willing to get in front of any number of reporters and tell every single one of them that he loved Grant?

It wasn’t even a fucking question. Which was the whole problem. Deacon would save him—right until they went off the cliff, together.

Relationships rarely survived the intense scrutiny, the invasive questions, and the media digging into every aspect of the participants’ personal lives. How could a relationship only a week or so old hope to survive it?

To Grant’s surprise, Deacon didn’t stay in town, but drove them out of town and then drove and drove until he pulled up at a shack, all the way out towards the ocean, tucked out on an inlet.

“What’s this place?” Grant asked, stretching. They’d been mostly quiet on the drive.

“Shrimp shack. Best one in the county,” Deacon said, glancing over at him. “You okay with this?”

Grant rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re asking if I’m okay with paper napkins and eating with my hands and the fact that this place looks like it’s been around for at least fifty years.”

“No, no, of course not. Just . . .it’s real rustic,” Deacon said. “Carter suggested it, though, so it comes highly recommend, at least. He lives out this way.”

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