Page 65 of The Play

Besides, Landry texted again, less than thirty seconds later, Riley says to tell you that Nate’s coming, he invited him. And maybe he can lick your wounds?

A third text showed up right underneath the second, before he could even figure out how to respond. I don’t know what Riley’s talking about, cause that’s not gonna help you. But maybe I’m wrong?

Deacon chuckled darkly and pulled out the jeans. When he was dressed, he responded back to Landry. You’re not wrong. I’m not into him that way, but tell Riley I appreciate the effort.

Landry texted back a few minutes later. Tell him yourself, when you come to the Pirate’s Booty tonight.

Deacon sighed, and just sent a thumbs-up.

He’d mostly decided to go. He’d put on jeans, hadn’t he?

But he was still hesitating.

All he really wanted to do was go back up the stairs, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over his head. Pretend this week hadn’t happened.

Pretend Grant’s taste wasn’t still in his mouth.

It was funny, because that particular iteration of his pity party was what decided him. He knew what would happen if he let himself do that. If he gave in to this insidious desire to do nothing. To wallow.

No matter how much he loved Grant, he refused to lose himself if he couldn’t have him.

He’d lived without him before, for twelve years. He could live without him again.

The Pirate’s Booty was full and buzzing by the time Deacon showed up, the bright cheerful sounds of the Bee Gees filling the bar as he walked up to it.

Kieran shot him a look, wordlessly promising to be with him in a moment, and Deacon took a seat. He didn’t feel like dancing—even though after a glance down the shiny hardwood surface, he guessed the rest of the team had already moved from the bar to the dance floor. If they wanted to see him so fucking bad, they could come visit him here, Deacon decided.

“Hey.”

Deacon glanced over and saw Nate standing there. “You came,” he added, with a bit of a lopsided grin. “Didn’t think you would.”

“Why not?” Deacon asked, not unkindly, but directly. Because Nate had seemed to be particularly oblivious to the undercurrents going on between him and Grant. But maybe he was just ignoring it.

Nate shot him a look. “You’ve been pissed off all week. Just didn’t think you’d want to show.”

“Fair,” Deacon said.

Kieran appeared in front of them, then, setting two napkins on the bar. “Whatever you think I should have,” Deacon said, hoping that he wouldn’t pour him another gin and tonic, even though he’d actually liked the last one.

But he’d never be able to drink another one, not without the taste of Grant mingling right along with the gin.

“You too?” Kieran asked Nate, and he nodded.

“So why did you come, anyway?” Nate asked. Sounding particularly hopeful.

God, Deacon was going to have to let him down—and easily, so that they could stay friends and teammates—because letting him have hope was worse than telling him the truth. It would feel like Grant kissing him, and letting Deacon kiss him back, and then Grant brushing him off.

Deacon knew how that felt: like absolute shit.

“Because I wanted nothing more than to stay at home,” Deacon said.

For a moment, Nate looked very confused, and then his expression settled into something like understanding. “Ah, I get it,” he said. “’Cause it would be real easy to just keep staying at home.”

“Exactly,” Deacon said.

Kieran set a bottle of beer in front of Nate, and goddamnit, another one of those clear fizzy drinks in front of Deacon.

He knew if he took a sip, it would taste like evergreen and Grant.

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