Page 134 of The Play

“Couple of days. As soon as Nicole can arrange it. Soon as possible, as far as I’m concerned.” Grant let out a heavy breath. “I don’t want to be responsible for another loss.”

“You weren’t responsible for this one,” Deacon said.

Grant didn’t look convinced, so Deacon kept going. “We were dialed in. Focused. Not like last week. It was a different thing, entirely.”

“Same result.”

“Sure, yeah, but you can’t put this one on you. Just like I told Micah in the locker room after the game—and Riley, too. Football is a game of inches. We just came up an inch short, today.”

Grant frowned. “You seem remarkably calm about it.”

“What, you thought you’d have to talk me off a cliff?”

“No, not exactly. Just . . .sure you’d be pissed.”

“Oh,” Deacon said. “I’m pissed. But I’m not bringing the fight to you. I’m bringing the fight to practice. And to our last two games. We win those? We’re right in the thick of it.”

The waiter arrived with their drinks, and Deacon picked up his beer. “And even if we don’t make the playoffs,” he said, tipping his bottle lightly against Grant’s wine glass, “I think we had a hell of a run. More than anyone else could’ve predicted, anyway. No matter what happens, this year hasn’t been a failure.”

Grant’s gaze was warm on his. “Best year of my life.”

It had been full of highs and lows. It felt like they’d been on a near-constant rollercoaster ride since Grant had bought the team, but Deacon realized that he wouldn’t trade it for anything, either.

Chapter 20

“It’s a damn good article,” Jem said, his voice echoing over the truck’s speakers as Deacon pulled out of his townhouse’s garage.

“The reporter seemed pretty reasonable, all things considered,” Deacon said. They’d only done the interview a few days ago, but he knew both Grant and Nicole had wanted to get it out into the world as soon as possible—and Marlene, the reporter Grant knew, had seemed equally as eager.

Probably because she knew what a sensation it would cause.

“You mean, all things considered AKA Grant made sure that nobody asked a question he wasn’t prepared to answer.”

Deacon chuckled. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Were photographers camped out in your flower beds again this morning?”

“Yes. Fuckers.” Deacon knew how grumpy he sounded. “I called Grant’s security company and they promised to send someone to roust them out, but God only knows what they’ll get in the interim. I pulled all the blinds in the house, so they couldn’t take pictures of the inside—”

“What the hell are they even going to get from your empty house?” Jem sounded mystified.

“God only knows. Grant worried the interview might make more waves at first, but the hope is now that it’s all in the open, eventually the speculation will calm down.”

“Well, all they gotta do is see the inside of your house to know you’ve got nothing to hide and there’s nothing for them to even write about.” Jem laughed. “I know the inside of your place, Deac, and it’s like you barely even live there. Even during season.”

It was true.

Maybe why Grant had yet to see it. It was just easier—and definitely more secure—to spend the evenings and the nights at Grant’s penthouse.

Not that Grant’s penthouse was really all that personal either. But it still looked like he lived in it. Multi-million dollar art and all.

“So, how do you feel about it?” Jem asked, when Deacon didn’t take his bait.

How did he feel about the interview?

“I feel . . .okay. It’s fine. Just . . .a lot.” Deacon didn’t know what else to say. Was it a hell of a lot more than he’d ever wanted out there, in public, before? It was. But then he’d never felt about anyone before the way he felt about Grant.

He’d been willing enough to sit down with Marlene, the journalist Grant had handpicked, and cautiously reveal his feelings to the public. To talk about how they’d known each other in college, how Grant had been his statistics tutor, and yes, they’d liked each other back then, but how the “timing had been wrong,” Grant had added with a quick grin in Deacon’s direction.

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