Page 5 of The Play

“Sure,” Deacon said. “We’ll do it after the season. I’ll bring the pull-ups, you bring the brains, okay?”

“It’s a date,” Grant said and then clammed right up, like he’d realized what he’d just said. “Chapter thirteen,” he said, clearing his throat, flipping the textbook open.

They were halfway through the first lesson when Deacon remembered what had happened this weekend—not that they’d had a game, and won, thank you very much—but that Grant had had a big meeting with an investor who knew one of his grad school professors. He’d tried to downplay it last Thursday, but it had been clear to Deacon he’d been nervous.

Here he’d forgotten about it completely, too caught up in his excitement over his quiz grade and his almost-certainly-pointless flirting.

What kind of friend would he be if he didn’t even bother to ask?

“How was your meeting, by the way?” Deacon tried to be casual about it, but the eagerness in his voice probably gave him away.

“Oh, uh, it went great. Really great, in fact.” Grant paused. “He wants to invest.”

“Yeah? That’s great.”

“And perfect timing, I’m finally getting the tests to run the way I want them to, so . . .yeah, I think . . .” He trailed off. Like he didn’t want to even voice his conclusion out loud.

“You think?” Deacon prompted.

“It might actually happen?” Grant phrased it as a question not as a statement.

“You mean, in a few years I might be telling people I knew Grant Green when he was just a lowly tutor in grad school?”

Grant rolled his eyes. “I doubt it. If anyone’s gonna be famous—”

Deacon didn’t let him finish his sentence. “Don’t,” he warned.

He hated it when people assumed he’d end up not only being drafted high in the NFL but that his NFL career—yet to actually begin—would be hugely successful.

So many great college players never made the transition.

While Deacon certainly didn’t intend to be one of them and actually was working hard at making sure he was ready for NFL-caliber competition, there were no guarantees.

“I know you’re paranoid,” Grant said affectionately. Like he found Deacon’s superstition charming.

“I’m a realist,” Deacon said. “Still, I’m fucking thrilled for you, man. That’s great. Seems like everything’s falling into place for you.”

“Yeah,” Grant said, not sounding as enthused as Deacon had expected.

“You’re not happy about it?”

Grant hesitated. Deacon had learned some of his expressions over the last few months and he saw so many emotions cross over his face. Some he could identify. Some he couldn’t.

“Yeah, of course, it’s great,” Grant said. “Just . . .change, you know?”

Deacon couldn’t say exactly what change he didn’t like, but it was clear there was something he wasn’t thrilled with.

“Maybe it’ll be a good change,” Deacon said, trying for optimism.

“Guess we’ll see,” Grant said. “Okay, standard deviation. Does it make sense? Do we need to go through a few more examples? Practical work? I can set you a few problems. Would that help?”

Deacon shook his head. “Nope, makes sense. I think I’ve got it.”

“Okay, let’s move on to a slightly more complicated version.”

Grant usually kept them moving, though he was conscientious about making sure Deacon understood exactly what they were talking about. Sometimes Deacon could get him to relax and flirt a little more, but today was apparently not one of those days. Instead, Grant seemed to be on a mission.

Ten minutes later, Deacon tried again.

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