Page 58 of The Play

The empathy in Beck’s eyes burned.

Deacon swallowed hard.

This was the way it needed to be.

Maybe after this season was over, he’d go to Christmas Falls, like Jem, and lick his wounds, too.

Of course, with the halting, hesitant way Jem had talked about his old friend, back there in the small town he’d grown up in, maybe that wouldn’t help much, either.

“Hey, look, another field goal,” Beck said brightly. “You gonna get Coach to put you back in?”

Deacon glanced up at the scoreboard. It now read 34 to 7, with the third quarter nearly over.

“No,” he said. “No, I’m good.”

But even with a win under their belts, Deacon didn’t think that was true at all.

Chapter 9

Grant often stayed away from the locker room after the game.

It wasn’t like he didn’t have some inkling what a half-dressed Deacon Harris might look like, but while there was a part of him that desperately wanted to see it in the flesh, for himself, he didn’t want it to be like this.

No, you want it to be just the two of you, alone. And you want to be the one pulling off his clothes.

He did.

He always had.

But Nicole told him in no uncertain terms that she wanted him to mingle in the locker room, post-game. “Either you do it, and make nice with the media, say all the platitudes you want,” she said, “or else I’m going to put you up on the podium, later. We need you to be front and center, to continue to combat the Rex rumors.”

Grant did not want to get up on the podium. He wasn’t ever going to be a Jerry Jones, coaching the team from the owner’s suite, or through his quotes to the media. So he relented, and agreed with Nicole’s request to make himself available in the locker room after the game.

It was easier, too, after such a big win.

He mingled with the players and staff, slapping some on the back, offering congratulations and praise, and made sure to stay far away from where Deacon was holding court with several reporters surrounding him.

Except once, when he glanced over and Deacon was looking at him, too, and their gazes met.

It was like every other time, heat blooming inside him—heat and joy and what had to be love, because why else did it feel so painful when Deacon looked away?

“Mr. Green,” a voice called from behind him, and he turned, surprised but pleased to see Marlene Griffiths, one of the reporters who often covered business for one of the biggest newspapers in the nation.

“Good to see you, Marlene,” he said, shaking her outstretched hand. “And you know I’ve told you to call me Grant.” She was older than him, by at least a half dozen years, and it was always awkward when she referred to him so formally.

“Grant, then,” she said, smiling.

“Imagine seeing you here; this isn’t your normal beat,” Grant said. There was a tiny warning bell dinging in his head, persistently, but he told himself that the only reason she was here was because of the Rex story that seemed to linger, no matter how he and Nic tried to dispel it.

She kept telling him the more they downplayed, the quicker it would fade, but if Marlene was here, clearly trying to dig up some kind of quote—or even worse, some kind of dirt—then maybe it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. He liked Marlene and his pleasure at seeing her was genuine, but he couldn’t help but be afraid of what her appearance promised.

“No, it’s not.” Marlene lowered her voice. “I’m hearing some interesting talk.”

“About me? Or about Rex?” Grant kept his smile plastered on his face. Didn’t let his concern show. But he was undeniably concerned.

“Rex James is a problem, of course, but I heard you dealt with that fairly cleanly—volunteering to send your drives straight off to the commissioner’s office. That was ballsy of you,” she said.

“It wasn’t, particularly. We don’t have anything to hide.” Grant kept the casual, unbothered facade up, but that alarm bell was dinging louder, now.

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