Page 24 of The Play

Probably half of Nate’s improvement could be placed squarely on the shoulders of the man next to him. Without making any kind of deal about it, Deacon had taken Nate under his wing and coached him personally, spending time before and after practice with him.

From his favorite bird’s-eye view of the practice field, Grant had watched just the two of them out there, Deacon patiently teaching Nate every one of Jem’s moves.

“I’ve seen you, you know,” Grant said, a little recklessly. His tongue was so much looser than it normally was. Probably that was because of the gin and tonics he’d drunk during the game and then the handful of beers he’d already shared with Deacon at this party.

Or maybe he felt drunk because Deacon was standing half a step too close, and he was letting him.

Deacon raised an eyebrow. “You’ve seen me, huh?”

Oh, fuck it. “I’ve watched you.”

“Have you?” Deacon’s gaze grew impossibly darker.

Grant nodded, because he was clearly a little drunk and a lot insane. “You’ve been teaching Nate. Out on the field. Before practice. After practice.”

“So, what you’re really saying is you’ve been keeping an eye on me.” Deacon’s voice dropped and suddenly he was another half-step closer and his shoulder was resting right against Grant’s. It felt so warm and solid. He’d feel that way everywhere. Grant swallowed hard, the knowledge resting rigid and hot right under his breastbone, making it tough to even take a breath.

Seriously, what even was a crush at thirty-three?

So much more than just a crush, that was for goddamn sure.

“Both eyes, actually,” Grant confessed.

“I can feel it, you know, when you watch me,” Deacon said.

Grant’s throat was so dry it made perfect sense to drain the rest of his beer. Somehow, that didn’t help.

“Want another one?” Deacon asked conscientiously. Like he was Grant’s date and they were here at this party together. Which they weren’t, of course. It was just . . .coincidence that they’d gravitated to this corner together. Total coincidence.

“Sure, why not.” Grant felt something rush through him that was a lot nervier, so much hotter, than mere recklessness.

What were they doing?

Probably nothing still. They hadn’t crossed any lines. But their toes were currently resting on the edge, so solid and black in his mind.

That was okay, though.

This was all okay.

It might be the beer talking, or maybe it was his crush.

A moment later, Deacon was back, handing Grant a bottle, his own fingers lingering on it even as Grant took it. Their pinkies brushed, and it felt as explicit as a kiss.

“You feel it?” Grant asked. Definitely tipsy. There was no denying it. And he couldn’t even blame the booze.

“When you watch me? Yeah, it’s like this . . .I don’t know . . .prickling at the back of my neck.”

“That could be anyone watching you,” Grant said.

Except they both knew that wasn’t true.

“Yeah, no,” Deacon said wryly. “It’s just you.”

That was the clearest Deacon had ever been about it.

At first, when they’d met last spring, Grant had been sure it was just him feeling this way. But the more time they spent together, the clearer it became that whatever this was, it was mutual.

Friends didn’t look at other friends that way. Or call their bosses Grant in that tender-rough way of his, not when the rest of the players and staff all scrupulously called him Mr. G.

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