Page 51 of The Play

“Everyone’s just curious, right now,” Cheryl said. “Nobody is sure if you’re going to host a carnival or a football game.”

Grant had been letting Darcy handle Cheryl for the first ten minutes of this conversation, but he was done letting her cover for him. Done playing nice. “Cheryl,” he said, leaning forward, elbows resting on the hard surface of the table, “now that’s just not true, and you know it.”

She spluttered across the line, but Grant didn’t let her retrench.

“We’re selling tickets because we’re seven and four, and we’re playing for a playoff spot. That’s why,” he continued.

“It might be why,” Cheryl said guardedly.

“It’s why,” Grant retorted in a steel-edged voice.

“So, the constant stories about the happenings on your team don’t have anything to do with it? Signing Riley Flynn and making him your starting quarterback? Landry Banks running onto the field in the middle of a game to make sure he’s not hurt and then practically kissing him on the sideline? Your secondary getting married in Las Vegas? Your star receiver becoming a one-man party or a one-man wrecking ball, depending on his mood?”

Grant grimaced. It wasn’t like other teams didn’t have unusual occurrences. They did. But it did sure feel like the Condors had more than their fair share of them. It felt like he couldn’t go a single fucking week without having to put out a fire.

And those were only the fires the NFL knew about.

He could only imagine how Cheryl could’ve finished her list, if she’d heard about the kiss in the Pirate’s Booty bathroom—or the kiss he and Deacon had shared only a few dozen feet away, in his office.

Grant dragged his attention back to Cheryl.

Where it didn’t want to stay.

“And yet, Cheryl, we’re still winning. Isn’t that what the NFL prizes above all else? Winning?”

Cheryl sniffed, wordlessly.

“And we’re going to keep winning,” Darcy added, looking like she wanted to reach through the speaker in front of them and strangle Cheryl herself.

“We’ll see about that,” Cheryl said.

“What about the hard drives?” Grant pushed.

“It’s been less than a week since we got them, and you made it clear they’re only copies—”

“And yet,” Grant interrupted, “I didn’t expect you to need so much time to go through them. I’ve only owned this team for six months, Cheryl.”

“And I thought I’d just made it clear what a six months it’s been,” Cheryl reminded him, her smug tone obnoxious.

Deacon had looked at him incredulously when he’d told him he hoped they could be friends.

Maybe if he’d been listening in to his meetings with Cheryl since buying the Condors, he wouldn’t be so surprised at Grant’s insistence they keep things only platonic.

“You did,” Grant said steadily. Trying to keep his temper.

You gave up a chance for happiness for this. For Cheryl and her patronizing attitude and her admonitions and her restrictions.

But he’d given it up for more than this, too. He’d given it up for the way Riley and Landry looked at each other when they thought nobody else was looking. For how Beck and Micah played like one person on the field. For the happy, calm glow in Carter’s eyes. The giddiness in every single player’s face when the Condors won, against all the odds.

He’d done it for all those things, too.

When Grant figured those things in, it did feel worth it. Just barely.

“We’re almost done with your files. We’re just making one more pass,” Cheryl said.

“Why?” Darcy asked, because she clearly couldn’t help herself. “You haven’t found anything. We’re clean, and you know it. And I think it kinda kills you that we are.”

Grant looked over at her swiftly. She mouthed I’m sorry, but she didn’t exactly look sorry.

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