Page 125 of The Play

“I don’t know. We live our fucking life?”

Grant looked pained. So pained that Deacon nearly wanted to take it back. But he’d lied before, and he still wasn’t making any fucking sense. Deacon might not have had a lot of partners—definitely not any partners he’d wanted for the long haul—but he knew enough to know if they weren’t honest with each other, all this was pointless.

“Yeah, and for how long?”

Deacon stared at Grant. “You think—”

“That we’d break under the pressure? Maybe. That going public would change everything? No question.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t change it for the worse. Maybe it would do what Darcy said—take the pressure off.”

“Not at first, no. And there’s no guarantee it would help, and then we’d be . . .fucking exposed. To the whole world. I never wanted it to be this way. Not my personal life. And definitely not my personal life if it ever involved you.”

As well as Grant knew him, that went both ways. And Deacon could see the panic and the fear written plainly across Grant’s face. He’d believed going public might finish them off.

But Deacon wasn’t that easy to kill. Not even that easy to budge, when it came to it.

It occurred to Deacon, staring at the man he loved, that maybe he knew him well, maybe Grant thought he knew him well, but he didn’t understand this. Not the way he needed to.

“Grant.” Deacon skirted around the kitchen island and tugged him off the barstool and into his arms. Grant went, but every muscle in his body was tense, and he didn’t even relax once Deacon pulled him close.

“Yeah,” Deacon murmured into his ear, “sure, if we give an interview, or whatever, it’ll change things. That’s inevitable. But I’m not going anywhere. I told you before—if you don’t want me anymore, you’re gonna have to tell me to leave.”

Grant pulled back a fraction, but he was still frowning. “You think I would? You think I’d tell you to leave?”

“I hope not. I believe you wouldn’t.” It was hard not to squirm under Grant’s intense green gaze. It flayed Deacon deep, right down to his marrow. Laying all his truths bare.

“But you’re still afraid,” Deacon stated.

“It’s hard as hell not to be. Not when this matters so much to me.” Grant paused. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was afraid. I am afraid. We just finally got together. I don’t want to risk that or lose that. Media exposure is hard enough on established relationships, and we’ve barely begun to figure out how this works between us. And Darcy and Nicole’s plan isn’t a guarantee. It would mean a lot more attention, at least initially. We’d be betting that it would die off naturally, on its own, after. And again, there’s the NFL. They wouldn’t be very happy about it if we got up together and held hands and said, yes, we’re together.”

“Isn’t it worth the risk? We’re . . .” Deacon swallowed hard. “The team’s distracted. We did that.”

“How’d I guess you’d be blaming yourself?” Grant sounded darkly amused. “But you can’t.”

“That’s what Jem said. And Riley.” And Coach Kelley, when he’d cornered Deacon yesterday, after practice.

He’d made sure Deacon understood that, before he’d let him go.

But the feelings had lingered anyway, despite everyone telling him that the loss hadn’t been his fault.

“They’re smart. They know what the hell they’re talking about. And I’m telling you, too. It’s not our fault. But I get it—it’s hard not to internalize the blame.”

“But you’re not ready for Darcy’s plan.” Deacon didn’t need Grant to say it to understand that he wasn’t.

Grant shrugged. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Let’s see what happens next week. It’s Christmas Day, at home. That’s a distraction. Maybe things will die down. I think we can use some of that motivation and push to put last week’s loss in Baltimore behind us. And the last thing I want is to rush into this without considering all the angles.”

“God, is it Christmas already?” Deacon said with a little bit of a groan. He should have realized. Everywhere he went he couldn’t stop hearing Mariah Carey singing about what she wanted for Christmas, and then there were the luxurious holiday decor all over the lobby of Grant’s building.

Even the street Deacon’s townhouse was on was festooned with plenty of lights.

But he hadn’t really put two and two together. He’d been too busy—and too distracted—by the Condors’ push for the playoffs and then by Grant himself.

“Yep. What do you want?” Grant asked.

Of course he would be thinking about gifts right now.

Deacon rolled his eyes and leaned down. Stopped a fraction of an inch away from Grant’s mouth. “I thought I’d made that clear,” he murmured.

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