Page 27 of The Play

Deacon didn’t have to finish the sentence for Grant to know what he meant.

“You really think I’d be a good coach?” Deacon asked before Grant could unscramble his brain and come up with something innocuous to say.

“Of course you would. What do you think you’re doing with Nate, now?”

“I didn’t really think about it,” Deacon admitted with a shrug.

“That’s because you just do what needs done. Just step in and do it. That’s . . .” Grant was suddenly very aware that the two feet of distance had somehow shrunk to less than one. Mere inches. That was how far his hand was from Deacon’s.

That’s why I’m absolutely crazy about you.

If he turned, he’d practically be on top of the man.

It would be fucking glorious.

Grant cleared his throat. “That’s what makes you such a great player and what would make you such a good coach.”

“So you’ve never regretted convincing me to un-retire?” Deacon’s white teeth flashed in the gloom as he grinned.

I’m regretting it right now.

“Uh, um, well . . .” Grant hesitated. Just say no, you’ve never regretted it, even if it would be a lie.

“Come on, Grant, we’ve never lied to each other,” Deacon said.

No, and he didn’t want to start now.

“I’ve never really regretted it, but sometimes . . .I . . .uh . . .wish things could be different,” Grant said carefully trying to pick his words—even though that was hard, because not much of his blood was currently in his brain.

Back in college, he’d dreamed a thousand times what it would feel like if Deacon Harris ever gazed at him like that. Dark and intent.

Nothing like I ever imagined.

Because he was staring at him like that now.

“But they’re not,” Grant finished belatedly, breathlessly. “Different, that is.”

Take a step back, his brain screamed at him, but it was shockingly easy to just ignore that voice. So easy to instead move even closer. His hand landed on Deacon’s broad chest, felt the shudder that went through Deacon at his touch.

“I wish they were too,” Deacon said, his voice low and rough.

The line, so solid in Grant’s mind, wavered for a second.

What would it hurt, if they crossed it? If nobody but them knew? What could the commissioner’s office really do? Insist the team be sold again? They couldn’t do that. The bad publicity would only hurt the league more.

Sure, his personal life would get dragged through God only knew how many meetings and emails and memos, but he could tolerate that, couldn’t he?

Normally, the answer would be emphatically no and he wouldn’t have even considered it, but this was Deacon.

He’d never wanted anyone the way he wanted him—and Grant needed that to mean something. To mean it was okay to not just cross the line, but to forget that it existed entirely.

But Deacon flinched, suddenly, and took a step back.

It took Grant what felt like an eternity but what was in reality only a moment to realize why.

That noise he’d heard only a moment before, that he’d been sure was the ringing in his ears or the rushing of his blood somewhere other than his brain, was actually a voice.

Specifically Darcy’s voice.

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