Page 155 of The Play

“He does something artsy, yeah?” Micah asked.

“He carves gnomes,” Beck retorted. “Can you believe?”

“That guy? Seriously? Built like a freight truck?”

Beck nodded earnestly.

“I like him,” Deacon announced. Because the husbands could get going down a path and any rational conversation was gone. It was like the two of them vibrated on this whole other frequency, and nobody else could hope to understand, nevermind intervene.

“Oh, we like him, too,” Beck reassured. “Just . . .why is that guy not tackling for a living? Or moonlighting as Captain America?”

“The Hulk.” Micah frowned. “No, Thor. The guy looks like Thor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Beck exclaimed. “That’s Landry. You know that.”

“Two people we know can be Thor,” Micah argued.

Deacon started laughing, because it was impossible to help it, not anymore.

“You alright?” Beck asked, turning to Deacon.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good, just . . .” Deacon broke off into more laughter. “You two. I’m gonna miss this. So I’m just . . .enjoying it while I can.”

“Don’t worry,” Micah said with an impudent grin, “I fully intend to argue with my husband in front of you, plenty of times, after this.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Deacon said with a last chuckle.

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Beck was grinning.

“Where’s Mr. G?” Micah asked. “Thought I might see him down here.”

“Nah, he wouldn’t come down here.”

“He wouldn’t . . .then why is he—”

But Micah smacked a hand over his husband’s mouth. “Enough of that,” he said. “Come on, West. If you have a dream of matching me for defended passes today, you’d better get warmed up.”

They wandered off, and Deacon was still guffawing a bit as he finished up his own stretches.

Stood up and then understood exactly what Beck had been trying to say.

Grant was standing there, awkwardly, with hands shoved in his pockets.

“Lookin’ good,” he said.

Deacon didn’t want him to think he was unhappy he was here—sure, it was not normal for a team owner to come down to the field before a game, to mingle with his players, but then nothing about their situation was precisely normal.

“I know I said I wouldn’t be coming down here, but I made it all the way to the suite—and I just . . .” Grant shrugged helplessly. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what this is.”

“Don’t say it’s my last game. Not you, too,” Deacon warned. “I’ve had a whole parade of people walking by me trying to put a good face on. I’ve made my peace with it, but I’m certainly not going to go down today, not without a fight.”

Grant took a few steps closer. Put a hand on his shoulder pad and tilted his head up towards Deacon’s. “You wouldn’t be the man I love if you did. I just came down to wish you good luck.”

“You did that, last night. Twice, in fact.” Deacon grinned, remembering how good it had been between them. How good the sex always was between them.

“Well, this is more of a G-rated good luck,” Grant said.

“How about stretching it to PG?”

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