Page 121 of The Play

He wasn’t angry with him. He didn’t blame him. But Deacon couldn’t help but hold himself responsible.

He’d wanted this, and he’d made it happen, refused to take Grant’s no for an answer. Pushed, because that’s what he’d always done when there was something he craved. He was such a stubborn, selfish asshole.

But before he could descend into his sulk, his phone dinged again.

God, of course, Grant wouldn’t give up.

He pulled his phone out again, but this time when he looked at the screen, it wasn’t a text from Grant.

It was from Jem.

Tough loss, he’d written.

Probably knowing that anything else would be lost on Deacon right now.

Yeah, Deacon texted back. Didn’t say, if you’d been with us we might’ve pulled that out, because he wasn’t stupid enough to believe Jem would’ve been the difference.

The Condors had shown up disorganized and distracted, and the Ravens had been an arrow, piercing their armor before they’d even realized they were under siege.

But Jem knew him well enough to understand how much worse that was.

This game had been winnable, if they’d been focused. If they’d had a solid week of practice under their belts.

You okay? Jem asked.

Was he okay? No, he was not okay. He was . . .guilty. Guilty as hell.

He wanted to get up in the front of this plane, in front of all the players and the coaches and the staff and apologize for not being able to keep his dick in his pants.

Wanted to apologize for falling for the last person he should’ve picked.

But it was already done. He couldn’t go back in time and stop it.

Just the same as they couldn’t redo this week of practice and replay this game. They could only move forward.

No, Deacon texted back. But I’m trying to be.

It’s not your fault, Jem immediately responded, before Deacon could even glance away from his phone screen. Don’t you dare decide it’s your fault.

You know me too well.

Deacon was considering sending something else, maybe even asking his best friend how the hell he was supposed to not blame himself, when a body dropped down into the empty seat next to him.

Unsurprisingly, the rest of the team had sensed his terrible mood post-game and given him a wide berth, but this person—Riley, Deacon realized, glancing over—hadn’t gotten the memo.

Or maybe he had.

“Talking to Jem?” Riley asked innocently.

“Did you tell him to text me?” Deacon heard how gruff his question was.

He didn’t need this team to coddle him. Not when he’d so epically let them down.

“Nope, but it wasn’t too hard to guess. You didn’t have that sappy look in your eye that you normally do when you’re talking to or about Mr. G, so Jem was an easy choice.”

“Ugh,” Deacon said. Not sure if he was happy or worried that he looked sappy. But then that couldn’t come as too much of a surprise. He felt sappy about Grant.

Still. Even. Despite everything.

---