Page 120 of The Play

“No, you got this,” Deacon said.

Riley nodded and his eyes were glowing with that determination that shone so brightly from inside him. A lamp that nobody could ever extinguish.

Deacon couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen that light when Grant had, but he was just glad he had.

The Ravens hadn’t gotten the memo, though, and they didn’t line up to run the ball like Deacon had expected.

Surely they were wanting to run clock now, being up two scores, but instead, the Ravens went hard, and of course, the first play, they tried to throw deep to Flowers.

The only way to prevent the pass was to hope Micah could defend it—or for their core defensive unit to get to the quarterback.

Deacon was pushing against the center, trying to get to Jackson, so he couldn’t actually throw the pass, and in his periphery, he could see Nate struggling against the left tackle’s block.

Jackson backpedaled another few steps and then pulled his arm back, letting the ball fly.

Deacon’s eyes tracked it across the sky, a bullet straight towards where Flowers and Micah were jostling each other forty yards downfield.

There was a yell trapped in Deacon’s throat as Micah marched right up to the line of an illegal play and, before Flowers could haul in the ball, crossed right over it.

Goddamnit.

Deacon wasn’t even surprised when the yellow flag flew.

“Shit,” he heard Micah yell, throwing his hands in the air, even though he knew he’d crossed the line.

He’d been playing corner for long enough to know when he’d be called for defensive pass interference, and that had been a textbook move.

Of course, he’d had to take the risk. If he hadn’t, there was a very good chance Flowers would’ve caught the ball, and then they’d be deep in Ravens territory and headed towards scoring yet again.

“Hey, hey,” Beck called out to him as he jogged over towards his husband. “It’s all good. It’s fine. You did what you needed to do.”

Micah made a face, clearly visible even under the darkened visor of his helmet.

“You did what you had to do,” Deacon told him, repeating what Beck had told him. He patted him on the shoulder. “We weren’t expecting a deep pass there.”

“Yeah, they think they can put us away, drag the corpse behind the shed,” Nate muttered.

“Well, maybe. But we’re not going to make it fucking easy for them,” Deacon announced as his defense huddled up around him. “They want it? They’re going to work their asses off for it.”

At least, Deacon thought, as the game finally ended, they had.

They’d only scored two more field goals in the whole game, but it hadn’t been enough, because the Condors offense, even with Riley’s superhuman effort, just hadn’t gelled. It was definitely a situation of too little, too late, but the platitudes Coach K spouted didn’t make him feel any better.

Not when they’d come here, thinking they could clinch a playoff berth, and all they’d done was shit the bed.

They’d been outpaced and outplayed.

This was the bar, and they’d fallen way short of it.

The worst of it was that Deacon was sure it wasn’t just their skill or their effort. You could only drown out the distractions for so long before they overwhelmed you.

Were the Condors overwhelmed?

He didn’t know—but he was afraid of the answer.

Maybe that was why when his phone dinged, on the plane ride home, he glanced at the screen and then stuck it back in his pocket.

He didn’t want to talk to Grant right now.

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