Page 117 of The Play

“Carter lives all the way out here?” Not much surprised Grant but that astonished him.

“I know, right?” Deacon said, grinning as they walked up to the shack and he held the door open for Grant. No doubt even if someone out here recognized them, Grant had a feeling they wouldn’t give two shits.

“Carter sure has unexpected depths,” Grant said.

The hostess—if that was even her job, other than smacking her gum and lazily waving them towards an empty table—brought menus after they’d sat. They were laminated in plastic and consisted of one thing—shrimp—with a variety of choices of sides.

“The seafood’s the best thing about living out here,” Grant said, leaning back.

Deacon looked amused. “The best thing, huh?”

“Okay, second best.”

“I was kinda gunning for occupying the top five,” Deacon confessed, leaning forward across the pitted and scarred wooden table. “What do I gotta do to get there? Go down on you right now, in the middle of this place?”

Grant choked on the beer the waitress had just brought them. It was only available in bottles here, which was probably safer, all around.

“Or,” Deacon added with a lopsided grin, “how ’bout I just say I love you?”

“You could start with those, and how about you tell me too what happened in practice? Coach K seemed a bit shaken up.”

Deacon groaned. “Just everyone pissed off by Nate runnin’ his mouth. That was all.”

“If you’re gonna tell me sometimes practice goes bad, and it’s fine, you can save it.”

“Yeah, you know that happens,” Deacon said. But his back hunched over, muscles suddenly tense, and Grant regretted saying anything. Especially when Deacon had been so charming and flirtatious since they’d arrived here.

But they couldn’t just ignore this, sweep it under the rug like it didn’t exist.

“Sure, it happens,” Grant said lightly. “So you don’t want to talk about it?”

Deacon shot him a look. “Not really. I’m still pissed as hell at Nate, and he deserved it. It wasn’t his place to say that shit.”

“Except it wasn’t shit. He was trying, in his completely misguided way, to defend you. And me. I’m only disappointed he didn’t really listen to what Nicole said about no comment.”

“Yeah, yeah, and then of course I felt guilty ’cause I was angry. Now Rex? I don’t feel guilty about being angry about that. I wish he’d just go away.” Deacon sighed. Took a long drink of his beer. “Doesn’t seem like that’s gonna happen, though.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised if this is his last shot at attention,” Grant said. “He was wrong before. If he’s wrong twice—and despite his chatter, there’s no evidence he can possibly produce to prove anything he’s claimed—then he’ll go away. Nobody will even be willing to listen a third time. And then there’s Cheryl.”

“You think Rex will finally shut up? God, I hope so.” Deacon let out a sigh. “And I thought you said you were taking care of Cheryl.”

To Grant’s surprise—they were practically in the bayou backwater of South Carolina—he reached out and took Grant’s hand and squeezed it, but didn’t let it go, either.

Held on to it, calloused thumb caressing the sensitive skin on Grant’s palm.

“I am, it’s just . . .it’s not as simple as it sounds. She’s been in her job a long time.”

“Just hate it when he talks about you. The way everyone talks about you,” Deacon said.

“I don’t particularly enjoy it, either. But when it gets us out here, away from everything else, well, I don’t hate that.”

“I kept meaning to take you here, thought you’d like to get away from the chatter, and I’m only sorry it took me so long.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for that,” Grant ordered him, but couldn’t help his smile.

“I won’t. Or for how much I love you,” Deacon said.

Chapter 17

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