Page 67 of The Play

“What? He’d be getting down on his knees to thank Mr. G for what he did for this team.”

“Carter.” It was Deacon’s turn to warn the guy—except that unlike Ian, who seemed to want to shut Carter’s mouth, he needed Carter to start fucking talking.

“Mr. G bought the Condors for you. There’s proof and everything. He’s crazy about you. He bought you a football team. Your own football team.”

“What? What are you talking about?” Deacon heard the dim roar of panic in his ears.

“There’s some leaked email. From one of Mr. G’s college buddies.” Carter waved his phone. “He emailed him and said something like, it’s a hell of a lot better gesture than some flowers or a box of chocolates. More expensive, too. There’s . . .uh . . .some other stuff too.”

Deacon curled his fingers around his glass. Lifted it to his lips. Drained it dry. And somehow his throat was still parched.

“What other stuff?”

“Oh, uh, um . . .” Carter hesitated then, and the bottom fell out of Deacon’s stomach. What could be worse than this?

The whole fucking world knowing that Grant had feelings for him? And assuming they were already involved? Even worse.

Deacon knew how much Grant craved respect.

This email would make it so much harder to be taken seriously. But even worse, it would mean Grant would never come to him and want to be with him just because he had the same feelings as Deacon.

No, if something happened now, it was because everyone already fucking knew anyway.

“Sex stuff,” Ian supplied, finally. “Uh, some pretty off-color comments about your friendship in college. And . . .”

“How much Grant wanted to get on his knees for you, back then.” Carter had apparently recovered his composure now.

Deacon closed his eyes and wished this would all go away, a shimmering mirage that he was dreaming.

A nightmare that wouldn’t let him out of its clutches.

But when he opened them again, Carter was still staring at him. Gin and lime and Grant were still sour on his tongue. And ABBA was still singing over the speakers about wanting a man after midnight.

He was still in this bar.

“Shit,” Deacon said, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“You heard then?” Deacon looked over and Riley and Landry were standing there. Beck and Micah too. There was a range of emotions in their expressions: shock, definitely, and anger, and something else, something else that really grated.

Sympathy.

They all had an inkling of what this would mean—or what it wouldn’t mean.

“Deac,” Riley said, reaching out and tugging him off the stool and into a quick hug. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have found out this way.”

It hit Deacon like a fist to the face why Grant had texted him three times in the last twenty-four hours, all variations of a message that they needed to talk.

He knew. And he wanted to at least give you a heads-up, before the news broke.

Deacon didn’t think it was possible to feel even shittier, but he did.

“Yeah,” he agreed, swallowing hard as Riley let him go.

“Are you gonna go see him?” Carter asked.

“Carter,” Riley warned.

“No, no, I wasn’t meaning to get on his knees, for, um, either reason. I promise. Just to . . .I don’t know, talk to him. Or that knee thing, if you want to. Nobody’s gonna judge.” Carter made a face. “Okay, we won’t judge.”

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