Page 128 of The Play

“You understand that’s true.” Deacon’s statement wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Grant said.

He did, now.

Just as surely as Deacon had always owned his heart, he had the same hooks right back into Deacon’s.

He’d wanted it for so long, and hadn’t quite believed it could be true, but there it was, unmistakable.

“We’ll see what happens after the Christmas game,” Grant said softly. He didn’t want to make this even more about him—about them—but he would, if push came to shove.

If he thought that it would save this team.

“You know I’m with you, every step of the way, no matter what it is,” Deacon promised, his lips lingering on Grant’s cheek.

And maybe Grant had hoped it was true, but now Grant knew it, in a way he hadn’t before.

Chapter 19

“Merry fucking Christmas to us,” Carter groused as he flopped down on the bench in front of his locker.

“You okay, Carter?” Deacon asked.

The game against the Bills hadn’t been a blowout, not like last week’s against the Ravens. No—they’d been in it until the last second. In fact, Deacon had been sure they had the win in the bag when with a minute and a half left, Riley had driven the offense down the field and had scored what everyone believed was the winning touchdown, a beautiful little slant to Landry.

But then, Josh Allen had done Josh Allen things, extending a play when Nate had been sure he had him wrapped up in a sack, way behind the line of scrimmage.

He’d thrown a long, deep pass to Stefon Diggs, who’d been, as far as Deacon and Micah and Beck had believed, covered.

He and Micah had grappled with the ball—and nobody on earth could blame Micah for losing it at the last second. The refs had reviewed the play for what felt like an eternity, and Deacon had been sure that the play was going to go their way and they’d call it an incompletion.

But they hadn’t.

That had given the Bills the ball at the twenty-five yard line, and they’d only had to send their kicker to make a fairly easy field goal.

With five seconds on the clock, they’d done just that, and suddenly the Condors weren’t on the brink of being a lock for the playoffs, they were barely hanging on to their wild card spot, in serious danger of losing it with only two games remaining on the schedule.

“I’m bummed, but I’m okay,” Carter said, shoving a hand through his hair. “God, that was shitty. But maybe you should be asking Riley over there if he’s okay.”

Riley had thrown his helmet on the sideline after the field goal had been good.

“I’m fine,” Riley said, but there was an edge of testiness in his tone. Deacon recognized it, because he felt it too.

It was the fucking worst to lose.

Especially like that.

Deacon turned around the other direction, making sure Micah hadn’t descended into self-recrimination and self-doubt—and no, he looked pissed, Beck with an arm around him, as they sat in front of their lockers, but he didn’t look devastated.

To a point, anger was the most productive emotion when it came to this moment.

Guys could take it too far, like Carter did sometimes, but being fighting mad was always an improvement over giving up and feeling defeated.

“Hey, guys,” Deacon said, raising his voice. “You know, we’ve got two more games. We’ve still got a real chance to make the playoffs. Take this feeling. This feeling right here, where you’re pissed and you’re annoyed and you want to fight the world—take it and use it. We can win these next two games, and hold on to our playoff spot. There’s nothing stopping us, except us.”

“Except Josh Allen,” a voice in the back of the room said morosely.

“Josh Allen didn’t beat us. We beat us,” Deacon re-affirmed firmly. “Take this and bring it to practice this week. ’Cause I don’t know about y’all, but I’m not going down this easy. I’m not going down without fighting for every goddamn inch.”

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