Page 55 of The Play

After taking the snap, Deacon watched as Riley took off, sprinting the remaining fifteen yards, nearly untouched, to the end zone. Landry was right behind him as he crossed the line, and after he turned, he lifted his boyfriend up high, towards the lights, Riley laughing as he threw his head back in delight.

Deacon wasn’t ever going to have that.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand Grant’s concerns. He did. Technically, Grant was his boss—though after this season was over, that was up for debate. If he stayed with the team and just worked as a consultant, for no salary, why did it matter if technically Grant was still his boss? But Grant had never let him suggest it. Had just unilaterally informed him that this thing between them wasn’t happening.

Well, newsflash to Grant Green: it was already happening. They’d kissed twice. The first time because Grant had kissed him.

Grant telling him it wasn’t happening didn’t change anything because he was already invested—more than that, he was already head over fucking heels for the guy.

“You ready to go?” Nate asked as he stood.

“Yeah,” Deacon said, hauling himself to his feet.

“Wait,” Beck said, turning towards him. “I don’t know if you’re going back in, Deac.”

“It’s only 31 to 7, third quarter,” Deacon argued. “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like it’s a million to zero.”

Micah shot him a look. Micah Rose, for God’s sake.

When the kid had gotten here, he’d been a mess. A recovering mess, sure, but a mess nonetheless.

Yet he was the one giving Deacon that look—the equivalent of a stiff arm to the facemask; one that said he would make Deacon sit if he wouldn’t do it himself.

“Let me talk to Coach Rufus,” Deacon said, shouldering Micah and Beck out of the way.

Coach was standing apart, eyes glued to a tablet.

“Deac,” he said, without even looking up.

“You can’t bench me.”

“We’re up three scores,” Coach said bluntly.

“And?”

“And you’ve done plenty, Harris.”

“You playin’ Nate and Micah and Beck? Eric?”

Coach finally looked up. “Yeah, I am. They need the practice. The snaps. They’re still learning.”

“But what am I? Washed-up? Done? Finished?”

Coach sighed. “You know that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you did your time, today. Take a load off. Grab a headset.”

Deacon shook his head emphatically. He couldn’t not play for a quarter and a half. If he just sat there and thought . . .no. He couldn’t. The only way he’d survived this week was by working his body and his mind as hard as possible, so there wasn’t a moment of downtime, not even a minute of time to feel like shit, when he fell into bed.

But if he sat here, and just sat, he’d go down the rabbit hole.

It wouldn’t matter if he had a headset. Wouldn’t matter if he helped Nate and Beck and Micah, coached them through the remains of the game.

He’d still turn himself outside in, trying to contain his anger.

Trying to contain his sadness.

Because he and Grant weren’t ever going to be friends. He knew that was impossible. They’d always been so much more than that—and so much less, too.

And now they were going to be nothing, because Deacon couldn’t hang around him, be in Grant’s life, and not fight for him. Not want him with a fierceness that was nearly impossible to deny.

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