Page 1 of The Play

Chapter 1

Thirteen years ago

Everyone on campus knew who Deacon Harris was.

In one of those ’80s Brat Pack movies, he’d have been called “The Big Man on Campus.”

Grant wouldn’t have counted himself as one of the crowd in basically anything else. He had no freaking clue on just about anything else of universal importance: like what coffee shop didn’t track how many espresso shots you’d consumed during an all-nighter, or which writing professor would take it easy(ier) on non-arts majors, or what must-attend party was happening this weekend.

Grant went to class, went to the library, worked long into the night in his tiny shithole of an apartment on the code for the new security system his mentor kept saying could revolutionize everything—if he could just get it to freaking work—but, even he, despite his head-down attitude, knew who Deacon Harris was.

“Hey. You must be Grant,” Deacon said, flinging himself into a chair in the tiny study room Grant had reserved for his tutoring, three afternoons a week. The chair creaked ominously under his big frame.

“Hi,” Grant said cautiously. He nearly said, And you must be Deacon, but clearly the guy was used to being identified without introduction.

“You can do this?” Deacon asked, pulling a wrinkled paper from his back pocket.

Grant reached over and took it, unfolding it, realizing it was actually two pages: a syllabus for one of the introductory statistics classes, and a quiz, with a big F circled in red pen.

He’d triple checked his email when the first message had come in from someone claiming they were Deacon Harris.

At first, he’d been convinced it was a friend playing a prank on him. Surely Deacon Harris—Deacon Harris!—did not want Grant to tutor him in statistics. Surely Deacon Harris did not even know Grant Green existed.

But after a few email exchanges, it had become clear this was no prank. Deacon needed tutoring help to pass his statistics class, and Grant had come highly recommended.

The recommendation had come as less of a surprise than Deacon’s email, as Grant had spent the last three years of college supplementing his meager income and scholarships with tutoring.

Grant tapped the paper. “Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. He’d learned early on that it pissed all the other students off to learn that he’d been taking the classes they were struggling in when he’d been a teenager. A young teenager.

Deacon pushed his hair back. He wore it thick and long, just touching his collar, and his eyes were equally dark. Intense, like he could see right to your soul and right down into your underwear, Grant had heard one girl sigh happily as Deacon had walked by.

Grant—who was as far from a football fan as you could possibly get and didn’t even have crushes—had nearly run into a tree the first time he’d passed the guy on the quad.

He’d given himself a pep talk this morning, but now, faced with the guy, nerves bloomed. His palms and under his arms were both uncomfortably damp. He resisted the urge to tuck a finger under his collar and yank it away from his sweaty neck.

“So how does this work?” Deacon asked, leaning forward, setting his big beefy arms on the table. It wobbled, and Grant’s breath quickened. The guy’s muscles had muscles—a situation not helping his nerves.

Grant, who couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched a sports event of any kind, had taken to tuning into games, just because he’d discovered the guy in front of him liked to wear his jerseys cropped, better to display the absolutely mouth-watering abs currently covered by his T-shirt.

“How does it work?” Grant hated how his voice shook a little.

“Yeah.” Deacon quirked up an eyebrow.

Possibly the most frustrating facet of Deacon Harris was he didn’t seem to comprehend the complete distraction and utter destruction he left in his wake.

He probably didn’t even know how Grant’s heart stuttered at that look he was giving him.

“Did you bring your text?” Grant asked.

“I got a text?”

Normally this cluelessness would’ve made Grant internally crazy. Externally, he tried to brush it off. Just another student who doesn’t give a shit about learning. Only partying. And in this case, tackling other big, muscley dudes on a muddy field.

But today, Grant rolled his eyes. “Yes, your textbook,” Grant said.

Maybe Deacon Harris in the flesh had short-circuited his brain.

Or maybe he was just fundamentally disappointed that Deacon Harris had turned out to just be a pretty face and a droolworthy set of abs.

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