Page 159 of The Play

He braced himself and making one more superhuman push, at the whistle, went after the guy. Went after the ball.

Nate held him up, stopping him in place, and their eyes met over the guy’s head.

Do it, Nate’s gaze said.

And Deacon did it, went for the ball. Pried it out of the guy’s hands, until it bounced and landed practically in Beck’s lap.

Beck had come up, to help on the run defense, and he scooped the ball up, and Deacon watched with wonder as he ran down the sideline, Micah joining him at one point, throwing a block against Wade Lewis, that meant that Beck could go the whole way, all the way to the Condors’ end zone.

“Holy shit,” Nate exclaimed, as they joined the celebration in the end zone. “Holy fucking shit! We did it!”

But Deacon couldn’t speak.

So many times people had asked him this week if he was okay.

He’d been okay every single one of those times.

He wasn’t okay now.

Swallowing hard, he looked around at the guys celebrating around him and thought, yes, we did this. And we’re gonna keep on doing it. Long after I’m not on the field anymore, this legacy Grant and I created, it’s not going anywhere. Not anymore.

There were still thirty seconds left on the clock, but it didn’t matter. They were up eight points.

Pax came out again, and there was that same respect in his eyes as he took a knee.

“Great game,” Pax said, as he stood up, clapping him on the back. “Great fucking career, man.”

“Thanks. You guys are gonna kill it in the playoffs,” Deacon said. He was still having trouble speaking. But he made the effort, because he respected the hell out of the Piranhas’ quarterback, and he knew the feeling was mutual, now.

“I see you didn’t need the luck.”

He turned around, and Grant was standing there, looking so much less awkward now.

We needed this win. We needed to believe that we were more than what they said, and this was the proof we were looking for.

“I needed it,” Deacon said, and he didn’t hesitate. Just pulled Grant into his arms, game sweat and all. Felt Grant embrace him back, just as fiercely. “I’m always gonna need it from you.”

“And,” Grant said softly, into his ear for only him to hear, “I’m always going to say it.”

Epilogue

Grant leaned in and straightened Deacon’s tie.

“You look great,” he said, still fussing with the rust and red striped fabric.

It was easier than looking in Deacon’s eyes and seeing the emotion so close to the surface.

Would he cry today?

Would they both cry today?

It seemed very likely.

“If I do, it’s only ’cause of you,” Deacon said, voice gruff and low.

And okay, sue him. He’d gifted Deacon a fully tailored suit for this occasion—and he wore it well, the dark gray material draped flawlessly over his broad shoulders.

Deacon had played his last game a month prior, and though he’d already been decided, Grant had encouraged him to wait and give himself some time to really be sure retirement was what he wanted.

---