Page 17 of The Play

“You got it,” Deacon said.

Grant watched as Deacon jogged towards the practice field.

The artificial breeze from the huge fans above them ruffled his dark hair, and Grant wasn’t proud, but his gaze was drawn to those big broad shoulders, to the narrow waist, the slope of Deacon’s tanned back muscles leading into his shorts. The way those shorts clung to his ass and thighs.

Jesus, the man was a walking fantasy.

Grant’s walking fantasy.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Grant glanced over, fully aware he’d just been caught by his assistant. Not just his assistant. His best friend. The person who kept him and all the shit he had to do relatively straight and him relatively sane.

Darcy Walker.

She’d been one of his very first hires at InTech, and while she was capable of doing so much more—and he’d pushed her to do more, to become a program manager or even a CEO in her own right—she’d insisted she liked the challenge of working directly for him.

Darcy was the first person he’d told he wanted to buy the Condors. She’d looked at him like he was absolutely nuts, and then because she was Darcy, she’d pulled out her tablet and her stylus and had begun to make a list.

Darcy loved a list—and Grant loved her for it.

“I’m just . . .uh . . .checking in with the team, before the first practice,” Grant said.

Darcy shot him a knowing look. “You’re the owner of this team, not dead,” she reminded him quietly.

“If you say again that even a dead person would find Deacon Harris attractive, I will fire you,” Grant joked weakly.

She looked unimpressed. Though frankly, that was Darcy’s normal expression, too. Nothing scared her, which was one of most reassuring parts of having Darcy at his side. He might be tough, but she was even tougher.

“Empty threats,” Darcy said calmly.

They both knew it. He couldn’t live without her. If she ever did decide to leave him and do something easier than keeping Grant organized, like running a small to medium-sized country, he’d be lost.

He’d probably have to hire a whole platoon to replace her.

“I was just checking in with Deacon. That’s allowed.”

Darcy rolled her eyes. “Checking out Deacon, maybe.”

Grant huffed under his breath. “Come on. I’m sure we’ve got paperwork to do.”

“Enough to keep a billion-dollar company and a football team running,” Darcy said cheerfully.

“All I’m saying,” Darcy said, when they got in the elevator to take it to the top floor, where Grant’s office was, “is that he’s a very good-looking man, and nobody would blame you for looking.”

The only problem with Darcy was that she was just way too smart. Way too observant.

She’d picked up on Grant’s crush—could you even call it a crush at thirty-three?—in approximately one-point-four seconds. He hadn’t even had to be in the same room as Deacon. He’d gotten an email response, and only his face as he’d read words that Deacon had personally typed to him had been enough.

He was officially pathetic.

“No,” Grant said, though he wasn’t sure that was actually true, “but they’d sure as hell blame me for touching him.”

Darcy glanced over at him. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face and her glasses had bright blue rims today. “It’s not really any of their business.”

“It is when the last owners ran this team into the ground and made the NFL look bad,” Grant argued. “You think I enjoy those status meetings I have with the commissioner’s office every week?”

Darcy knew he hated them. Hated that every move the Condors made had to be done under the observation of the commissioner and his minions. He didn’t really blame them for keeping a close eye, because NFL franchises were worth too much money to destroy, the way the prior owners had tried to do, but it still annoyed him that he had to answer for every little thing.

---