Page 13 of The Play

Of course, Grant buying the Condors probably was everything he said. A good investment. Good diversification. Certainly he’d made enough money over the years. Deacon knew enough about financial planning from his own advisors to know that money just sitting in a bank account didn’t do anything.

Deacon turned to Grant. “Why are you really doing this?” he asked. “And yeah, sure, it’s a good investment. A football team isn’t ever going to devalue, unless of course, you run it into the ground, but I’m assuming you don’t want to do that.”

“I don’t,” Grant said. Shoved his hands in his pockets. Kept his eyes trained on the horizon, not meeting Deacon’s. “I like to fix things. And this is a team that needs fixed. Saved. Rehabilitated. There’s a streak of rot in it, and I want, more than anything, to root it out, not for morality’s sake alone, but because . . .” Grant took a deep breath. “Because I’ve been watching what the Piranhas are doing, and it’s something special, isn’t it? Something worth replicating, if we can.”

There was that we again.

“And because it just seemed like a goddamn awful waste,” Grant continued. “All that potential to do more than just play a game against twelve other guys, and it was just wasted.”

Deacon nodded. He felt the same. It had just about killed him when they’d played the Piranhas—he’d understood then what was really possible—and when he’d read about the Los Angeles Riptide and seen what they’d done with his own eyes.

Grant was not wrong. There was more to this, if only they could reach out and take it. If only they could build it.

There’s something there, something he’s not telling you, Deacon’s brain whispered.

But what Grant did say had to be just as good as what he wasn’t saying.

“I tried to save us, last year,” Deacon said quietly.

It was hard, still, to admit it.

To admit that he’d completely fucking failed when it had mattered most.

“But you were alone, you were doing it alone. Without help. This year, it’s gonna be different,” Grant promised. There was an undeniable empathy in his gaze as it moved from the ocean to Deacon’s face. An empathy Deacon hadn’t even realized he wanted. That he’d have hated from anyone else.

But not from this man.

He wanted to go to him and rest his head on one of those slim but clearly strong shoulders, under his navy blue coat, until he felt ready to fight again.

Yes felt like an unbearable temptation.

Deacon found himself wanting to just say it, way more than he’d ever anticipated.

Was that why it was so unexpectedly difficult?

Or was that because Grant was so much more potent now than in his faded memories?

“You’d have to get rid of anyone I say,” Deacon said, realizing how he was weakening. “Anyone.”

“Anyone,” Grant agreed. “Though I’ve done my own research too. Lots of interviews. Came to a lot of conclusions, probably same as you.”

“Maybe,” Deacon said. He wasn’t convinced.

But would anyone be able to convince him any better?

He wasn’t sure.

Nobody else could’ve made him rethink his retirement decision, that was for sure.

What would it be like, if he could actually look back on his last year playing the game he loved with pride?

Deacon could imagine it now, and it did feel good.

But what felt even better was the shadowy figure next to him, in his imagination. A man with beautiful green eyes and a spine of steel.

He turned to the same man, now.

“Last time, we weren’t partners,” Deacon said.

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