Page 129 of The Play

“Damn straight,” Landry said, raising his voice too, and giving Deacon a high-five. “We’re gonna fight.”

“Every step of the way.” Riley’s smile came a little easier now.

But after Deacon showered and changed, when he stepped out of the locker room, Grant was leaning against the wall, and he was not smiling. Security was greatly improved from a few weeks back, when he’d gotten mobbed, and that was good, but Grant’s expression was not.

“Hey,” Grant said, brows drawn together.

“Hey,” Deacon said.

He knew what Grant was going to say before he said it.

There was a chance he could change his mind; after all, they hadn’t lost today because they’d been distracted. They’d lost because of a technicality, really, and they’d fought for every point they’d scored—and against the Bills for every point they’d scored.

But the problem was Deacon didn’t really want to talk him out of it.

“Rough loss,” Grant said, still frowning.

“Yeah,” Deacon agreed. They hadn’t discussed what they were doing after the game, but it just made sense to follow him as Grant pushed off from the wall and headed towards the door that led to the VIP garage under the stadium.

“You want dinner?” Grant asked, as the car pulled up.

“Sure.”

“I’ve got a good place in mind. But it’s—” Grant paused.

Deacon didn’t need it spelled out for him, or for Grant to explain exactly what he was really asking.

“Whatever you want is always fine by me,” Deacon said gently and put a hand on Grant’s shoulder, squeezing it, then trailed his fingertips down his arm, to his hand.

He gave Grant time to move. After all, there were plenty of people in the garage—staff and a few coaches, and even players, heading towards their cars. But Grant didn’t move, even though his hand trembled a little as Deacon gripped it.

Grant’s smile was grateful and full of love. “You did say that,” he said lightly.

“Yeah, maybe you finally believe it now.”

“I always wanted to,” Grant admitted.

The car pulled up, and Richard got out.

Deacon gave him credit for not looking surprised in the least to see him, or for batting an eyelash at the way they were holding hands.

“Mr. Harris,” he said, “can I take your bag?”

Deacon hesitated for a second—he was definitely not the “Mr. Harris” and the “let me get your bag for you” type—but Grant was, or Grant was now, and if he wanted to be with Grant, then he was going to have to get used to living this way.

“Sure,” Deacon said, handing the bag to the driver. He was glad that a few years back Jem had forced him to get rid of his nasty old duffel bag and invest in something nice. It had cost a fortune, but Jem had argued that he was worth it—and also a multi-millionaire now, so he needed to look the part.

Well, he needed to look the part more than ever now.

Speaking of that . . .Deacon glanced down at his jeans. He’d just thrown a pair on and one of his favorite long-sleeved t-shirts. Was he dressed nicely enough? Grant was in another one of his suits, but he’d pulled his tie off, leaving the collar of his rust colored button-up open at the neck.

“Am I dressed alright for where you wanted to go?”

Grant smiled at him. “You’re fine, but honestly, they aren’t going to turn us away.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to . . .” Deacon cleared his throat, unused to feeling this way. Not sure if he liked it or not. He was always sure and confident. And if someone didn’t like him or something about him, they could fuck off. But not now. Not when he was with Grant and their opinion also reflected on him. “I don’t want to create trouble for you.”

“You couldn’t possibly,” Grant said, as they climbed into the back seat of the car, Richard shutting the door behind them.

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