Page 131 of The Play

“What would that mean?” Deacon asked. Not because the answer would determine his own, but because he was curious.

“You’d work with me and obviously with the rest of the scouting department, to help me fill this team with the kind of guys we want.”

Deacon knew he wasn’t just talking about talent or skill—though that was obviously part of it. “So kind of what I helped you do, during the off-season.”

“Yes,” Grant said with a nod.

“You were right about Riley,” Deacon pointed out. Maybe it was a bad idea to counter a job offer with evidence he wasn’t as good as Grant wanted him to be. But he had been wrong about Riley, and Grant had been dead-on.

“There’s no guarantees in this business. Or in any business,” Grant said. “It was a hunch and it paid off. You told me Rex was bad news, last summer, and I didn’t listen to you, then. Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t be in this position.”

“Yeah, and maybe I wouldn’t be doing this,” Deacon retorted and leaned over, kissing him. It was a lot of different kinds of kisses, all in one.

It was a thank you. It was an I love you. It was an I’d do anything in my power to help you.

When Deacon pulled back, Grant’s breath was short and choppy. For a moment, he almost gave into the nearly irresistible desire to say fuck dinner, and let’s go home.

But Grant had let Deacon take him to the shrimp shack last week.

It was time to let him do the same.

Besides, this would be as good of a time as any to talk about what this was going to look like. Him being Grant’s scout. And them talking to the public about their relationship.

The car came to a stop, and the driver called over the intercom that they had arrived.

“You still want to go to dinner?” Grant asked, biting his lower lip and nearly destroying all of Deacon’s good intentions.

But he held firm.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Alright then,” Grant said, and the door opened.

When they emerged from the car, into the night air, Deacon recognized where they were immediately. Maybe he should’ve been surprised, but he wasn’t, really.

Grant had brought him to a restaurant that even Deacon had heard of—an impressive feat in and of itself. A place owned by one of the city’s most popular up-and-coming chefs, where reservations were highly sought after. In fact, Carter had complained the other day that he’d tried to get Ian and him in, and they’d just laughed.

It was also a place where you went to be seen.

They would not be keeping things under cover here.

Grant glanced over at him. “This okay?” he asked casually—even though they both knew what he was asking.

“You said you’d decided,” Deacon said quietly.

“Yes, but I hadn’t been sure if we’d have dinner here, or somewhere else.” Grant shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I thought the game would end and I’d still be conflicted, but then Darcy asked me if I still wanted the reservation or she’d take it—and I knew I wanted it. Wanted this.” He reached for Deacon’s hand this time and gripped it hard.

“I was already decided. Ages ago.” Years ago, Deacon didn’t add, but he probably didn’t have to, because he was almost sure Grant knew he’d been his, forever.

“Yeah?” Grant flushed, and maybe he didn’t.

Deacon used his free hand to open the door for Grant and then let it rest on his back right above the waist as they walked up to the hostess stand.

He’d wanted to do this forever, and now that Grant was telling him he could, he wasn’t going to waste a second of it.

“Oh, Mr. Green,” the hostess said, clearly delighted by his appearance. “And Mr. Harris! You played great today, sir. So sorry about the loss.”

“Hey, it happens,” Deacon said. “Sometimes Josh Allen is gonna Josh Allen. And other times, we’re gonna stop him.” He shrugged. “I feel good about our chances regardless.”

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