Page 37 of The Play

“What?” Deacon’s eyes went wide, and he looked downright shocked. “They said that? Who’s Cheryl?”

“Cheryl Smith. She’s my liaison with the commissioner’s office.” Grant tried to keep his voice steady.

“She didn’t like that Micah and Beck got married—”

Grant interrupted him, before Deacon could get a full head of steam going on his angry rant. “No,” he corrected. “No, she didn’t mind that. She minded how they did it.”

“Oh.”

Deacon’s fists unclenched and then clenched again, slowly.

It was easier to look at them than to look at Deacon’s face. Especially as he let both of their hopes down as softly as he could. “That’s why we can’t do this. They’ve got us under a microscope. Do we want to be the Riptide? The Piranhas, someday? Yeah, we do. But they’ve got established ownership. They didn’t drag the NFL through the mud, first.”

“You shouldn’t be paying for that.” Deacon still sounded outraged.

“No,” Grant agreed.

But he was. He’d known it was part of the deal when he’d bought the Condors.

At the time, he’d believed it was a fair-ish trade-off.

He wasn’t so sure, anymore, but it was too late to turn back now.

He chanced a look upwards. Deacon was still too close, his dark eyes intent on Grant’s. “You knew all this when you bought the team. When you convinced me to come back,” Deacon said. They might’ve sounded a little like questions, but Grant knew the truth.

He nodded.

“God,” Deacon said, and his voice was rough, wrenched from his throat. “I . . .I . . .”

Grant didn’t know what he was trying to say. Knew what he wanted Deacon to be trying to say, even though he didn’t think he could stand here and hear it.

That he’d hoped that maybe once this season was over, and Deacon was an ex-player, they could do something about this. But it could never happen.

Maybe it was that Grant was always beating his head against the shoulds or the can’ts. Maybe it was the finality of it that broke his brain. Or maybe it was actually the sanest thing he’d done since March. Depending on his point of view.

He kissed Deacon.

Reached up and just took. Pressed their lips together, curled his fingers around Deacon’s neck, and for a brief, entirely delirious, moment kissed him.

He’d just got done saying all the reasons why they couldn’t do this, and then he’d gone and done it anyway.

Grant wanted to laugh hysterically, even as the heat of the kiss blasted through him.

He’d always wanted to know what Deacon tasted like. And now he knew. Like coffee and sugar and evergreen.

Like a gin and tonic.

But before either of them could do more than just feel it, for a moment and then another, Grant broke away.

He was breathing hard, but it wasn’t just him, Grant far too aware of how hard Deacon’s chest was rising and falling, like he’d just finished running sprints.

Grant met his eyes. He’d kissed him, after all, so he could take responsibility for it.

“I . . .” But what to say? Sorry, I just needed to know what that felt like, once?

“I get it,” Deacon said, and he sounded just as resigned as Grant felt. He tipped his forehead against Grant’s. “Maybe it’ll be better now.”

If the kiss had been bad, maybe it would’ve been.

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