Page 52 of The Play

“Ms. Jackson, I’m not sure what you’re trying to insinuate,” Cheryl said.

“We’re just ready to have all our files back under our own roof,” Grant added smoothly.

“And they will be soon,” Cheryl promised.

But as far as Grant was concerned, her promises didn’t carry much weight. She kept saying, over and over again, that these pleasant chats might occur less frequently, but then something always happened to change her mind.

Grant hadn’t held it against his players, because their happiness and safety was the most important, but he would be really fucking glad when he didn’t have to talk to the commissioner’s office multiple times a week.

“We need to leave for Pittsburgh,” Darcy said tightly. “Mr. Green’s plane is waiting for him.”

“Of course. Good luck this weekend, against the Steelers.” Cheryl’s sniff at the end of her sentence made it clear what she thought of their chances.

Grant thought their chances were pretty damn good, as long as Deacon continued to play like a man possessed.

“God, she’s the worst,” Darcy said, after she’d disconnected the call. “I’m sorry I lost my temper, but she was being so . . .goddamned pretentious. Like she’s the freaking commissioner. Like we asked for this. Like we aren’t the victims here, it’s Rex.”

“I know,” Grant said. He put a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “It’s alright. You just said what I was already thinking.”

“Yes, but pushing back on her doesn’t seem to fix anything.” Darcy sounded as frustrated as he felt.

“No, it doesn’t.” It doesn’t fix my broken heart, either. Or the fact that I had to break it myself.

Because that was what this had to be, right?

Only a broken heart could feel this wretched.

Grant had felt horrible twelve years ago, when he’d left school and stopped tutoring Deacon—but this was so much worse.

Like all he wanted to do was huddle in the corner with his hands over his head, blocking out the world, so he’d just stop feeling all the imaginary rocks thrown at his head.

He’d be feeling very sorry for himself, except for the fact that he knew who was throwing the rocks.

Himself.

“Are you ready to go?” Darcy asked, changing the subject.

At first, she’d tried to talk to him about Deacon. But he’d refused to engage with her about it. Refused to discuss it, in any way or form. Changed the subject whenever she brought it up.

The worst of it was that she hadn’t even looked angry when he’d shut her down, only sympathetic, and the sad look in her eyes had burned him, deep down.

“Yes,” Grant said, nodding.

“Good.”

Less than five minutes later, they were in the car heading to the airport, where Grant’s jet was indeed waiting.

The rest of the team had headed to Pittsburgh yesterday, on the team plane. But he’d had too much to do to travel with them, so he’d made the executive decision to stay in Charleston and get another twelve or so hours of work done.

And, that annoying inner voice teased him with, because you were afraid if you went to Pittsburgh yesterday, you’d find a reason to be alone with Deacon. It would be so easy, and then you’d . . .

Not kiss him again, that was for damn sure.

But he’d have wanted to.

Darcy settled on the seat opposite him. In her normal spot when they traveled together. “Are we going to talk about it?” she asked after the flight attendant, Benjamin, brought them their normal flight beverages—gin and tonic for Grant and a limoncello spritz for Darcy.

“Talk about what?” He might pretend he didn’t know what Darcy was asking about it, but he knew better. “How you lost your shit with Cheryl, earlier?”

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