Page 15 of The Play

Deacon wasn’t even sure he could’ve done it, and he was far more familiar with the situation.

For a few weeks, almost a month, after Deacon had agreed to come back, there’d been silence.

But then Deacon had begun to get emails. Stiff and impersonal at first, but as he’d gotten more, and texts, then phone calls, they’d gotten downright friendly.

They’d begun to talk daily, Grant keeping him apprised of the changes he was making. Deacon sat in on the interviews Grant conducted for the new head coach, the assistant coaches. Grant regularly asked him what he could change, if he could have free rein, and Deacon found himself being more honest than he’d imagined himself being.

Bring back free food, he’d texted one morning. It made us feel like crap to have to buy dinner. Nickel and diming the shit out of us.

God forbid you millionaires feel nickel and dimed, Grant had texted back. Like he wasn’t a freaking billionaire! But then, a day later, there’d been an email in his inbox, outlining the new dining options at the practice facility. All free.

There’d been a hundred other suggestions, some minor and some huge. Grant didn’t take all of them, but he had an undeniable skill for picking out the things that really mattered.

In the end, they’d become friends.

The friends that Deacon had always kind of wanted to be, back in college, but they hadn’t ever been, because he hadn’t known how to bridge the gap between them. The football star and the tech genius weren’t supposed to be close. They had nothing in common.

But they had this in common now.

Not just the Condors, but their mutual desire to save the team.

But all through the spring and summer, they’d done it all over text. Some phone calls, too, and when Deacon had participated in the coaching interviews, he’d been on video, but the camera had faced the interviewee, not Grant—and it had seemed completely ridiculous to make a request that Grant be more than just a disembodied voice, coming over the computer.

Now, though, Deacon was back in Charleston and it was the first day of camp, and there was no way to avoid seeing Grant again.

Maybe it won’t be the same. Maybe you’ll just feel friendly towards him, ’cause you do now. Undeniably.

Deacon finished tying his shoes and exited the locker room in the practice facility, heading out onto the field. It had a vaulted roof, with fans blowing air around, but the upper walls were all open.

Some NFL teams held their camps at separate facilities, but not the Condors, though Deacon wouldn’t have minded avoiding the muggy, hot Charleston summer that kept blowing into the building.

His temples were already damp, and he’d risked the new coach’s wrath by his regular method of chopping his practice jersey in half, trying to give himself some much-needed additional air circulation.

“Hey.”

He turned, and Grant was standing there.

He’d thought he was ready. He’d thought it would be no big deal to see him again, now that they were friends.

It was a huge fucking deal, if the way his heart rate accelerated was any indication.

Grant was in khaki shorts and a polo shirt, buttons open at the neck, likely in deference to the heat, and while back in college the guy looked like he hadn’t known what the inside of a weight room looked like, he clearly did now.

He wasn’t big, nothing like Deacon. But there was no avoiding the way his polo shirt clung damply to his pecs and his chest and his stomach. Or the muscular curves of his legs, dusted with light brown hair.

You are not supposed to lust after your team’s owner.

Deacon knew it was true, but he’d left should do behind ages ago and was now smack-dab in the middle of worst-case scenario.

“Hey,” Deacon said.

Grant smiled at him, walked over, stopped by Deacon, but not close enough.

Stop it. He’s plenty close enough. Professional distance is a thing.

“First day of practice,” Grant said. “You ready?”

“It’s gonna be a hot one. I don’t think any of us are really ready,” Deacon said, shrugging.

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