Page 137 of The Play

“Don’t tell me you still don’t know,” Deacon said. He glanced over at Micah and Beck, who had both managed to keep their mouths shut.

“No, we do not know,” Carter said emphatically, disappointment radiating out from him.

“You gonna tell him, Micah?” Deacon asked, glancing over at the man, who was sitting quietly next to Beck.

“It was the night you punched that guy,” Micah said. “Mr. G told me to take you to his car. Was insistent on it, in fact.”

“You said you only talked,” Carter argued.

“Oh, we talked,” Deacon said.

“And more?” Carter added hopefully.

Deacon raised an eyebrow.

Riley nodded. “That’s enough, Carter,” he said. But Carter was smiling now and looking very pleased with himself.

“Yes!” he said, punching the air with a fist. “That means I win the pot.”

“What,” Deacon said, before anyone else could respond.

“I think Riley bet on after the season. Landry was right after the last game. Beck—remind me when you said? I can’t remember,” Carter said, pulling out his phone, the printed interview pages forgotten and fluttering to the floor.

“You bet on us getting together,” Deacon stated bluntly, standing up and striding over to where Carter was very absorbed in whatever was on his phone’s screen. Deacon plucked it out of his hands before Carter could react.

And yep, sure enough, there it was.

A list—practically of the entire fucking team, quite a few staff members, and even Darcy—Grant was going to shit a brick when he saw this—of everyone who’d bet on them.

“Fuck,” Deacon muttered.

“Hey, it was all in good fun,” Beck said.

Carter looked worried. No, he looked terrified.

Good.

Deacon tossed him the phone, which he caught, easily, because this was Carter and he was one of the best people in the world at catching things.

“Are you gonna—” Carter stopped short, right in the middle of his question.

No doubt Riley was behind him, gesturing frantically for him to shut the fuck up.

“It’s cool,” Deacon said. “You won the pot?”

Carter nodded.

“I’d better see that you donate it to charity,” Deacon said firmly.

“Oh, definitely,” Carter said, nodding emphatically. “Or maybe after we win next week, you can bring Mr. G to the Pirate’s Booty, and I’ll buy both of you a drink.”

It wasn’t like Deacon hadn’t considered it. After all, Grant had gone to the Pirate’s Booty once, at Carter’s invitation.

But Carter exhorting him to come was not the same as Grant coming with Deacon.

Technically, they could now. Everyone—except the handful with their heads currently buried in the sand—knew they were together now.

“We gotta win first,” Deacon reminded him. “We’re not taking anything for granted. Not this week. Not the next two weeks. ’Cause I’m assuming you wanna be on the field during Wild Card Weekend and not chilling on the couch trying to get in Ian’s pants.”

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