Page 20 of The Play

The last thing he wanted to do was disgust Grant, of all people.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Deacon gazed out onto the field, feeling the breeze from the industrial-sized fans so much closer to them than they’d been when he’d been down below.

“I found this spot my second day,” Grant offered, finally.

Deacon looked over at him.

He looked just as put-together as he had this morning, but there were stress lines next to his eyes.

It occurred to Deacon that maybe he wasn’t the only one who was completely exhausted.

“I’ve been coming up here for at least two years,” Deacon said.

Grant nodded, and Deacon realized he didn’t even need to explain. Grant had probably already correctly guessed why.

“Some days, it feels like I can’t fix problems fast enough,” Grant said with a little sigh.

“But you have,” Deacon said. Hating that Grant felt, even for a second, that what he’d done wasn’t good enough. This year was already a hundred times better than last year. Just beginning the season, walking onto the practice field, without that human garbage can Tom Taylor was an improvement.

If that had been all Grant fixed, it would still be huge.

But Grant had done so much more than that. He’d listened to every one of Deacon’s suggestions, and as far as he could tell, he’d genuinely attempted to implement most of them.

“Appreciate you feel that way.” Grant’s expression twisted into a wry smile. “Doesn’t mean I feel that way.”

“What would Darcy say?” Deacon teased, because he’d quickly learned that while it was typically easy for him to grab Grant’s attention, Darcy was an excellent substitute.

Without being told, with only observation over the last few months, Deacon had figured out that the person who kept Grant together and organized and sane was Darcy.

And he also knew, without being told, that Darcy didn’t let Grant beat himself up, either. Even when he deserved it.

“Darcy would say I’m being overdramatic. In fact, I believe those were her exact words, ten minutes ago.” The corner of Grant’s lips quirked upwards.

“It’s Darcy, so you should probably listen to her,” Deacon said.

Grant was quiet for another long moment. For so long Deacon was afraid he’d lost him in thought. But then he spoke up again. “You’re still not that dumb football player, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Deacon said, grinning. “You want to talk about it? I promise not to tattle to Darcy that you’re being overly dramatic.”

“Just wait til she hears whose side you’re really on,” Grant said.

“I’m gonna assume you won’t tell her,” Deacon said. “But the offer still stands.”

Grant hooked his chin over the safety bar. “Season ticket sales are down. I didn’t even realize. And not because I have fifty million things, a hundred details, to look at every day, but because the marketing and sales department deliberately didn’t tell me.”

“Ouch,” Deacon said.

“The numbers aren’t so much a surprise. I assumed they’d be down. The commissioner’s office told me to expect the same. They aren’t even down as much as I worried they might be.” Grant’s sigh was much heavier this time. “It’s that they chose not to tell me.”

Deacon didn’t know what to say. He knew Grant realized why that was. The old owners wouldn’t have wanted to hear the bad news, and they wouldn’t have reacted well even if they did.

But Grant was cut from a different kind of cloth entirely. He never wanted to be shielded from the worst of a situation. He wanted to know the whole truth, no matter how painful it was.

It was one of the many reasons Deacon liked and respected him.

And wanted to pull those ridiculous khaki shorts down by his freaking teeth.

“I just don’t know how else to convince them that I mean it. That I want to know. The good, the bad, even the ugly. I can’t get them to trust me. It’s been months, and half the staff still creeps around like Taylor’s gonna pop out of the nearest doorway.”

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