Page 25 of The Play

Grant was most definitely not stupid, and whatever he was stuck in the middle of, Deacon was right there with him.

But just like Grant, Deacon hadn’t done anything about it. Hadn’t once stepped out of line. Surely because he also understood that crossing the line would be risking everything they’d spent the last six months building.

“It’s alright,” Deacon continued, “’cause I watch you, too, you know?”

Grant nearly choked on his beer.

Deacon patted him on the back as he tried to clear his throat, his big, warm hand stroking him for at least twenty seconds longer than strictly necessary.

“You okay?” he asked.

Nodding wordlessly, Grant searched for the brakes. They needed to find them, or else who knew what was going to happen tonight.

What had gotten into Deacon?

What’s gotten into you?

Because Deacon hadn’t been the only one pushing. He’d done it too, and he couldn’t even blame the alcohol he’d drunk.

“I told Jem about me retiring,” Deacon said. Clearly he also agreed it was a good idea to change the subject.

“Yeah, how he’d take it?”

“Well, you know. He knew. He didn’t like it, but then I think he’s sort of . . .” Deacon took a deep breath. “Lost. But he’ll find himself. He’s got a solid head on his shoulders and a lot of people who care about him.”

“Yourself included,” Grant said.

At first, when he’d bought the team, he’d been a little embarrassingly jealous of Deacon’s best friend.

Jem Knight was carelessly handsome, very charming, and undeniably close to Deacon. And queer.

How many of those stories have you heard? Two best friends, discovering more than friendship, after so many years of keeping it platonic?

But as Grant had gotten to know Jem, he’d realized there truly was nothing there. Nothing to be jealous of. Though frankly, even if there was, it wouldn’t have changed anything.

Deacon Harris was Off Limits.

Even though he knew Deacon wasn’t going to be playing next year and there were no contracts to negotiate, Grant still signed his game checks. Grant was still the owner of this team, and his boss. With the scrutiny of the commissioner’s office, Grant couldn’t risk it.

Couldn’t risk damaging Deacon’s reputation. Now. Or in the future.

No matter how much he wanted to.

“Yeah, it’s weird not having him here, but Nate’s a good backup. You’re right, I’ve been putting in the work with him. And it’s showing.”

“Have you thought about what you’ll do next year?”

He and Deacon had discussed it a handful of times. Always like this, in situations when they weren’t quite as careful as they could be.

And always, Grant wondered, if Deacon might say, I don’t know what I’m doing but it’s nothing to do with the Condors, so I can finally do something about this. In his imagination—his clearly overactive imagination—Deacon would lean forward and kiss him then. The way he’d dreamt of for too many years.

But of course, Deacon didn’t say that. Or do that.

“Not sure yet, but something here. Whatever you want me to do. Whatever you need.”

Grant pursed his lips together. His unkissed lips. He shouldn’t be unhappy about this proclamation. Deacon had only made it at least a dozen times, and clearly, from his behavior over the last six months, meant it.

What about me? What if I’m the thing that you need to do? Before I explode from all this sexual tension?

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