Page 12 of The Play

But that was gone, now. He was most definitely assuming.

“When you think of your career in ten years, in fifteen, in twenty, help me make that a memory you want to have. A memory you can look back on fondly, with affection. Not with dread or embarrassment.”

It was so annoying Grant knew exactly which buttons to push.

If Deacon hadn’t known him, he’d have guessed that the guy had done his research.

Maybe he had, still. After all, it had been twelve years.

“How do you know I’m embarrassed?” Deacon asked as a stalling tactic.

Grant shot him a look. “Of course you are,” he said bluntly.

Deacon sighed.

Grant clearly took that as an indication his armor was cracking. If only he knew.

“If it doesn’t work out, if you don’t like what I’m doing, if it’s not enough, if you want to retire, then do it. But give me a chance, first. Give us a chance.”

Deacon wanted to laugh, even though none of this was particularly funny. Give us a chance.

“I’ll think about it,” Deacon hedged.

But Grant frowned, clearly unhappy Deacon hadn’t just crumbled in the face of his most persuasive arguments. “You do realize why you’re here, right?” Grant asked.

“Still not stupid,” Deacon said testily.

The tropical breeze wrapped around them, the blanket of stars overhead making this seem like every date Deacon hadn’t taken Grant on.

He’d left school before he’d ever had a chance to do it.

“I know you’re not,” Grant reassured him.

But just before Deacon wanted to say, stop, stop, quit pushing me, Grant went quiet. Like he knew he’d pushed Deacon as far as he could before Deacon held up a hand in protest.

Deacon gazed out at the darkening ocean and considered what Grant was asking of him.

Before he’d come downstairs, he’d sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the worn note in his wallet.

Good luck in the NFL.

Over the years, he’d imagined so many second sentences to that simple phrase.

Even if you don’t need it.

I know you can do it.

Call me sometime.

Look me up after you’ve made it.

But those had all been Deacon’s imagination, not usually so overactive, but in this particular case, he’d gotten downright fanciful.

But, still, the sticky note had been something personal, in the midst of such an impersonal goodbye. Proof that Grant, much as he might deny it, had given a shit.

What else was this, right now, other than more proof?

He put his money where his mouth is.

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