Page 68 of The Play

When even Carter realized just how hard the world was going to come down on the pair of them—but mostly on Grant, who was supposed to be high up on a pedestal, respected and solid—it was bad.

“No,” Deacon said. He didn’t want to see Grant right now. Didn’t want to see the final, damning rejection on his face.

He’d already known they probably weren’t going to happen—Grant had made that clear enough the last time they’d talked; the last time they’d kissed—but that didn’t mean this didn’t hurt like hell.

He waved at Kieran, but when the man turned around, he was already holding a shot glass full of amber liquid. He set it in front of Deacon.

“No gin?” Deacon asked before he could stop himself.

Kieran shook his head. “Rum,” he said. “The strong stuff.”

Deacon raised an eyebrow but didn’t hesitate. He downed the shot in one gulp, feeling it burn all the way down.

“What do you want to do?” Landry asked, because of course he’d be the only one thoughtful enough to ask.

“Come on, let’s dance,” Deacon said, and there was another shot there, next to the first empty glass. Kieran tilted his head, grinning at him. He took it as quickly as the first.

When he headed towards the dance floor, he had all his friends and teammates with him, and for a few minutes, as one song slipped to the next, as he danced with Riley and Carter and even with the husbands, Deacon was relieved for one thing: he wasn’t thinking.

Not right now. His thoughts were dimmed by the booze and the music and the way he forced himself to focus on exactly what he was doing with his body.

Deacon didn’t know how much time had passed when Micah tapped him on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get a drink.”

He didn’t know why Micah had pulled him away but he had a bad feeling he was about to get husband #2’s best take at romantic advice.

Considering how epically Micah had fucked things up with Beck—and then how epically he’d fixed them—Deacon wasn’t sure if what he was about to hear was legit, but he also didn’t want to discount Micah. He was a good guy. The best guy, who’d learned the exact value of himself, and the friendship and loyalty of the teammates around him.

This time they didn’t bother with grabbing barstools, just leaned against the bar. Kieran brought them two more shots, and they clinked glasses before downing the rum.

“Damn,” Micah said, “that’s good.”

“Yeah,” Deacon said.

Between the booze and the dancing, his brain had almost stopped screaming.

Grant bought the Condors for you.

Grant bought the Condors for you.

Grant bought the Condors for you.

“I know I’m not much for advice,” Micah said.

“No shit,” Deacon said.

He and Micah weren’t as close as he and Beck were—there wasn’t anything wrong with the guy. Deacon liked him just fine, but he and Beck had known each other for a lot longer. He was still trying to get there with Micah. And admittedly, that process was accelerated because of how freaking married Beck and Micah were, but nothing changed overnight.

“You know,” Micah said, apparently not deterred at all by Deacon’s blunt retort, “I loved him, and I thought I couldn’t have him.”

“Yeah, but a lot of that was in your own head. This is . . .bigger than me. Bigger than him. Bigger than the whole team, now.”

Micah nodded. “I can see how you’d feel that way. But in the end, all that mattered was what I decided to do about it.”

“I tried that.” The words burst out of Deacon in a rush, helped along by rum and frustration. “I fought for him. I tried. He shut me down. And now? Now, it doesn’t fucking matter.”

Micah put a hand on Deacon’s arm. “Of course it fucking matters. Your feelings matter. You care about the guy? You want him? If he feels the same way, then you don’t stop, you don’t quit. It’s like third down, right? Sure, we could always get them off the field on the next set of downs—or we could do it right now.”

Deacon couldn’t believe Micah was turning his own football advice—his damn good football advice—into an admonition about his love life.

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