Page 6 of The Play

“So what about the change don’t you like?”

Grant stared at him in confusion.

“You said—well, you implied—it wasn’t going to be a good change.”

“You don’t give up, do you?” Grant huffed out. Frustrated, yet clearly affectionate. “I just thought I’d finish my degree, you know? Get my doctorate. Slave away for a few years in complete obscurity, first.”

“And you’re not going to?” Deacon didn’t like the frisson of unease that skittered through him. Or the way Grant’s eyes wouldn’t meet his right now.

“The investor wants me to leave school. Focus on the project. Get it off the ground now, while the market’s ripe.”

“Ah.” Deacon didn’t know what to say. You can’t leave, not now. Not like this. But he couldn’t say that. Even with Grant talking around it, it was clear this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

“The terms of the deal are very favorable. If things go well, I’d get to buy him out in a few years. Own the company outright.”

“And you can’t wait to do this?”

“Technology changes too fast.”

Deacon didn’t understand that at all. Only that every few years he got a new phone and it seemed to do more than it did before. Maybe he was just that big dumb football player.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Grant added hurriedly.

“But you’d be insane not to do it?” Deacon questioned.

And I’m insane for thinking about asking you to stay. To freaking tutor me in statistics. A class I’m now passing. Just because I want another lesson. Even another minute.

“Yeah,” Grant said, nodding.

“Then you should do it.” It was hard to get the words out of his mouth even as his brain yelled at him that this was always going to happen. He just hadn’t expected it would happen yet.

“Next year, you’ll be in the NFL, and I’ll own a company.” Grant smiled, but it looked forced.

It felt like a reminder to Deacon—maybe even a reminder to both of them—that this wasn’t going to happen.

He hadn’t needed one. He’d known the score. And yet, it still stung, deep down, in a place it didn’t feel like any other person had ever touched.

“Look at us, killing it,” Deacon said, attempting lightness. But failing.

Grant bowed his head towards the textbook, and Deacon nearly said something, something insane, like we can still be friends.

But were they even friends?

No. Grant was his statistics tutor, whom he paid to teach him. They weren’t friends.

“Guess we’re gonna have to do that experiment some other time,” Deacon said when Grant still didn’t say anything.

“Yeah,” Grant mumbled, and then he was flipping the page of the textbook, dragging them back to the reason they were here.

The only reason he’s here. And you’re here.

Deacon got the message.

And he got the message, three days later, when Grant emailed him, the date stamp saying two thirty-four in the morning, to tell him that he’d made his decision. He was leaving school and starting his company. A refund for the remainder of the semester would be in the mail to his address.

Deacon stared at the email for ages. Looking for something else. Hoping that he could read between the lines. But Grant had kept the email scrupulously polite and professional. Like they’d never flirted together. Like they’d never made that date.

When the check came in the mail a few days later, he tore open the envelope with trembling fingers, even though after that impersonal email, he’d only expected to see the check.

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