Page 154 of The Play

“There’s a way we could get into the playoffs even if we lose,” Beck pointed out.

Deacon knew that was true. But if they lost this game in Miami, making the playoffs was a statistical improbability. They really needed to win.

Plus, Deacon—and he knew, the rest of the team—wanted to win not just because of the playoff implications, but because it would mean something if they could go down to Miami and beat this team that had only lost a handful of games this year. That was practically everyone’s unanimous pick to win the Super Bowl.

Deacon would’ve wanted to win this game even if it hadn’t meant anything else.

“Doesn’t matter,” Deacon said firmly. And he knew from the way Beck looked back that he understood.

“How’s Micah holding up?” he asked.

It wasn’t ever going to be easy for Micah to play his old team twice a year. Especially when he was still close with those guys.

“He’s solid,” Beck said, but the hesitation before his words made it clear—it was going to bother him. But if Beck said he was solid, then he was solid. Beck wouldn’t lie to him, even about Micah.

“His first time back in Miami, yeah?” Deacon asked.

Beck nodded.

And yep, it was definitely going to be hard that first time.

Hopefully, Micah still continued to play lights out, like he had all year, since he’d come to Charleston. Deacon hoped the pressure wouldn’t get to him, but he also wouldn’t blame Micah if it did.

Micah had become more than a player to him—a way to solidify the backfield and a means to that end—he’d become his good friend Beck’s husband, and then his own good friend, too.

“I know you’ll handle it, and support him,” Deacon said, “but if you need a hand, I’m here for you two. You know that, right?”

“We know it,” Beck said with a grave nod.

He’d taught Beckett to be a professional football player from the moment he’d set foot in Charleston for the first time. He’d trained him to not be so stupidly stubborn; to ask for help if he needed it. He and Jem both had done that. Hoped that maybe rookies’ transition today would be better than their own years before.

“Hey, man, feeling good?” Deacon asked as Micah approached. He’d been waylaid on his way to see Deacon and Beck by Scott Callaway, who’d embraced him fully for several long moments.

“Yeah, it’s actually good to be back here.” Micah smiled. “And I’m ready to kick their asses, too, if you were worried about that.”

“I wasn’t,” Deacon reassured him.

“We’ve got this.”

“You’ve covering Nicholson, yeah?” Deacon asked, and Micah nodded. “You got lots of practice doing that, I’d imagine.”

“And he’ll still keep me on my toes,” Micah said. But his eyes were gleaming with excitement and anticipation, like he actually couldn’t wait to go head-to-head with one of the NFL’s most exciting young receivers.

“I know a lot of Wade’s moves, too,” Beck chimed in, referring to Tristan’s boyfriend and the leading tight end for the Piranhas. “He thinks he doesn’t have tells, but he has tells.”

“Aw,” Micah said.

“Don’t tell me you’re feelin’ sorry for Wade now,” Beck teased.

“Hell no. I’m looking forward to comparing notes, after this game.” It was clear from the smiles and the looks they exchanged it would be a friendly sort of competition—but one that was going to end one way: with them both winning.

Probably in bed.

But Deacon definitely didn’t want to know anything about that.

“You guys see Jem?” Deacon asked.

“Yeah, and that boyfriend of his,” Beck said. “He seems great. And huge. I thought you were big, Deac.”

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