Page 56 of The Play

If he couldn’t do either of those things anymore, then what was the point?

“Deacon,” Coach warned.

“Just a few more drives, Coach. Please.” Normally, Deacon didn’t beg. He hadn’t even begged for Grant to listen, or to reconsider. Would it have made a difference if he had? Probably not. Grant had seemed conflicted, yet also so fucking certain. That spine of steel, refusing to bend, never mind break.

Coach though, he was a different story. He could probably see the fire in Deacon’s eyes, could see how desperately he wanted to go back in.

“Fine, one more drive,” Coach said, giving in, not exactly gracefully, because he was definitely rolling his eyes at Deacon’s insistence, but Deacon didn’t care. He’d gotten a reprieve. Not for the rest of the game, but something.

“Thanks, Coach,” Deacon said, patting him on the shoulder. He grabbed his helmet from the bench and headed to the field.

“You’re such a suck-up,” Beck teased him as he entered the huddle. “What did you say to Coach to get him to put you in?”

“I asked, nicely,” Deacon said.

Aware, as he was too often these days, of Nate’s semi-worshipful expression as he leaned in next to him.

“You? Nice?” Micah chuckled.

“Yeah, not this week.” Beck’s words made sense, but not his knowing tone.

Nobody except the two of them—and Darcy—knew what had happened on Monday morning. And none of them were blabbing about it.

As he took his spot on the line, a sudden fear cropped up in Deacon’s brain. What if everyone had figured that something was going on between them? Even for an unusually circumspect team that didn’t typically share their private business outside the facility, gossip traveled.

The last thing Deacon wanted was for Grant’s reputation to be compromised, even though he’d done everything he could to prevent it.

Almost everything, Deacon corrected.

He wouldn’t have kissed him, that first time.

Even as Deacon took his position on the line, he discovered he couldn’t regret it, even if that happened.

Switching his speculation off, Deacon scanned the formation the offense was beginning to get set into.

This quarterback wasn’t the most mobile in the NFL—he was no Riley, that was for sure—but he wasn’t a slouch either. He could run, if the defense let him, if Deacon let him.

One of Deacon’s jobs was to make sure he couldn’t.

Right now, from the offensive alignment, Deacon thought it might be happening. It would be an aggressive way to start off the drive—but then the Steelers were down three scores. There was no reason not to try something new. Based on the film he’d watched this week, long into every night, it looked similar to some of formations he’d seen the Steelers use for their run option package.

Deacon leaned back on his heels, considering.

Always, the defense needed to stop the play before it developed, but even better was when they could fool the offense into thinking they were going to do one thing and then do another.

This seemed like an ideal moment to try it. Especially if this was one of the last drives Deacon was going to get to play today. No matter what the score was, he wanted to make his mark.

He settled down into his stance, checking down the line to make sure the defense was properly lined up, and exchanged a nod with Nate, on the far side, when he was happy with what he saw.

The ref blew the whistle, then the quarterback called out the snap count. Deacon shifted his weight, getting ready to spring. A deep breath later, the center snapped the ball to the quarterback. He dropped back. One step. Then another. Deacon could feel his eyes on him, waiting to see what he’d do, so he could decide if he’d hand the ball off to the running back, or he’d take it himself.

Deacon darted to the center, leaning his whole body in, selling the charade as best he could, watching as the quarterback took off, tucking the ball under one arm.

It was only then that he set his cleat in the turf and pushed the other way, shoulder dipping low, almost to the ground, but he righted himself, with long practice and hard-won balance, and took off towards the quarterback, reaching his full speed after only a handful of strides.

A moment later it was all over, Deacon smothering him with his body behind the line of scrimmage, the tackle clean but decisive, making sure that the quarterback couldn’t escape.

He heard the whistle and popped up, reaching out a hand to the guy he’d just tackled.

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