Page 59 of The Play

“Maybe not about Rex.”

The alarm bell was clanging now, right in his ear.

“What are you trying to get at, Marlene?” he asked, still pleasantly.

“I got an email from a source. Forwarded email. Originally from one of your old college buddies.” Marlene glanced over at Deacon, and the alarm was now at DEFCON five. “You bought this team for Deacon Harris? How long have you two been involved?”

“I—” Grant stopped abruptly. He needed to find Nicole. Extricate himself from this situation. He’d wondered if seeing Marlene pick her way through the locker room of half-naked guys was bad news, and it was, undeniably. He might not know what the fuck Marlene was talking about, but it was definitely nothing good.

Especially when he might not be aware of the email she was talking about, but the general gist of her theory was dead-on correct.

“I didn’t know owners could get involved with players,” Marlene continued.

“They can’t. We shouldn’t and I definitely haven’t,” Grant said, glancing around trying to find Nicole or Darcy or someone, trying to keep his eye movements subtle so Marlene wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t realize just how close she’d come to hitting the nail on the head.

Where the fuck had she gotten this information?

And where the fuck was Nic? And Darcy?

“That’s not what it sounded like to me,” Marlene said.

That was the thing about her. She was too much like him—probably why they liked each other in a friendlier manner than was usual for reporter and subject.

She was friendly and incredibly easy to talk to, to confide in, right up until she went in for the kill, aiming directly for the artery with her blade.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grant said bluntly. He nearly added, I get a lot of emails, doesn’t mean they’re all full of facts. But he shut his mouth at the last moment, clamping it tight. Not wanting to give away a word more than he needed to.

He needed to get her out of here, before one of the other sports beat reporters got wind of what she was saying.

Marlene sighed, tucking a strand of dark brown hair liberally streaked with silver behind an ear. “I came here, directly, to talk to you, and I didn’t go through your PR rep or dig around myself first, as a courtesy to you.”

He knew exactly what she was implying. Grant should repay her own courtesy by loosening his lips and telling her something.

But he couldn’t tell her anything, other than cluelessness, because the other alternative was even worse. It was the truth.

Yes, I bought this team, spent nearly a billion dollars doing it, so I could save a boy I liked.

He’d never be able to hold his head up in a board meeting again.

Nevermind at the next annual NFL owners meeting.

If he even made it that far, once the commissioner’s office got wind of this.

“I’d tell you, Marlene, if I knew what the fuck you were talking about.” It was time to lie through his teeth, and at least, Grant conceded, he’d learned to do it well, out of necessity.

“You know it’s not going to be just me talking to you about this,” Marlene warned.

“This source said he sent the email to other journalists?” God, this was a living nightmare. What the fuck was Grant going to do about it?

He finally caught a flash of red hair, Nicole walking towards them.

“I’m sorry I don’t know you,” Nicole said, inserting herself in the conversation gracefully but also forcefully.

She’d probably seen the panic written in Grant’s eyes.

Which meant that there was no way Marlene hadn’t seen it too.

“Marlene Griffiths. And you’re Nicole Edwards. You run PR for the Condors.”

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