Page 23 of The Play

“That turkey is terrifying,” Deacon confided to Grant, his head dipping close.

Closer than he might, normally.

Grant knew why they scrupulously preserved the line between them. Knew why it had to stay bold and uncrossed.

But it was harder to remember why on nights like tonight, right after such a great team win, when the Condors were riding high—not only on their way to a playoff berth, but nearly done resurrecting a reputation the prior owners had thrown away with both hands.

It was also harder to remember when Deacon was like this, standing close, even larger than life, dark hair still a little damp from his post-game shower, scruff dusting his jaw, eyes glued to Grant’s face, hypnotically appealing in their singular focus.

“I don’t know, I think it’s kind of festive,” Grant argued. He’d put Darcy in charge of decorations for the team Thanksgiving party, held right after the game against the Cowboys, and she might’ve gotten a little carried away.

Grant tore his gaze away from Deacon for just a moment to look over at the gigantic papier-mâché turkey, and okay, she’d gotten a lot carried away.

Grant had gone into their partnership turning this team around hoping for the best.

He’d never imagined that every day would be better than the last—or harder, too.

Or that his crush would reach such an unmanageable size.

Or that his crush was almost certainly mind-bogglingly mutual.

If he’d known then, back in March, what he knew now, would he still have pushed Deacon so hard to join him?

The answer was instant and undeniable: yes.

What they’d done here, together, was special.

“Are you gonna let Darcy decorate for Christmas, too?” Deacon asked, finally, after taking a long drink of beer.

Grant could barely tear his eyes away from Deacon’s throat as he swallowed. It was strong and tanned a deep olive, from a long summer and fall spent outside.

The thing was, a crush at twenty-one was one thing. A crush at thirty-three was a different thing entirely.

“Spoiler alert: me being the boss and her being the assistant is just a ruse. Really, she’s in charge. So, the answer is almost definitely yes, because I think she secretly enjoyed decorating.”

“If that turkey is any indication, yeah she did,” Deacon agreed.

“Honestly, I can’t believe we’re actually second in the division and if the playoffs started today, we’d make it as a wild card team,” Grant said, laughing incredulously. That fact had been bubbling inside him since the last quarter of the game, and it was inevitable that the bubble would burst and it would just explode out of him at some point.

Probably inevitable that it would choose this moment and this person to explode in front of.

The commissioner’s office had been very blunt. At best, they could probably expect to win a handful of games. Until they got out from underneath that ridiculous contract the prior owners had awarded to Taylor, there was no money to pay players, and without players, wins were going to be hard to come by.

But from the beginning, the Condors had fought. So much harder than Grant had ever predicted. Then, he’d taken that risk on Riley Flynn, which had paid off in spades.

Deacon nudged his shoulder. “Maybe it’s ’cause you’re really fucking good at this,” he said, sounding unbearably proud.

Like this idiot didn’t have anything to do with their record.

“I don’t know, maybe you’re really fucking good at this,” Grant retorted.

Deacon grinned.

“That’s the rumor,” Deacon said.

He was really good. The best, probably. Nobody else could have gathered together the tattered remnants of their defense after the Rex scandal had rocked the team and then Jem’s injury had left them reeling.

But they’d played well today, and Nate, Jem’s backup, was coming along. Grant wasn’t as good at evaluating talent as he wanted to be, but even he could tell.

---