Page 8 of The Play

But on cue, like he could sense Grant’s presence behind him, he turned, and it was like being back there, in that library on campus, with its old-book smell and the scent of undergraduate desperation.

Deacon’s eyes were just as dark. His hair pushed back from his face, even though he was wearing it shorter than he had, back then. There were a few days of scruff across his perennially tan cheeks, the remnants of a goatee and a mustache buried in them.

He looked good.

Scratch that.

He looked freaking phenomenal.

Like every fantasy Grant shouldn’t have been indulging in, over these last ten years, but had anyway.

“You must be Grant.” Deacon’s eyes were just as deeply brown as they’d been before, filled with amusement.

Not anger.

There’d been a time when only Deacon had been recognizable. That was no longer the case.

But it was cute how Deacon kept playing along.

Deacon held out his hand and Grant hesitated. Marley, his old business coach, was screeching in his ear to be the professional she knew he was, and to take it.

It was just a handshake.

But he and Deacon had never touched.

He’d have remembered it. Probably obsessed over it, along with every single thing about Deacon Harris, for the last ten years. And he didn’t want it to be like this, an impersonal handshake.

But he still knew that was all it could be.

He’s one of your players now. He belongs to you. Not like you always hoped, but this is better.

Grant took his hand, and they shook briskly, impersonally, for a second. He got the brief impression of a big, strong hand, calloused and capable. And then it was gone.

Deacon gave a cute little shrug—when he was practically the opposite of cute or little. “I practiced that line, you know? I didn’t know what to say to you, so might as well say what I did, back then.”

“Is that what you said?” Grant said, taking a seat. Doing a good job, he told himself, pretending that he didn’t remember every single word they’d said to each other.

Deacon nodded. Like he didn’t feel an ounce of shame about remembering, even though it had been over ten years.

Ugh.

The bartender approached. “Can I get you anything, sir?” he asked.

Grant looked over at the glass in front of Deacon, filled with some golden brown liquid. Probably whiskey. Or bourbon.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Grant said. Here, at Martinez’s compound, there was no need to specify a brand of gin.

Grant remembered very clearly when he’d begun going to different kinds of bars, high-end places, for business meetings and a few dates that hadn’t ever gone anywhere, and he’d learned there was no longer a need to specify he didn’t want to drink well gin.

You’re practically back there, he reminded himself.

He watched as the bartender went through the act of making the drink. Watched as Deacon took a sip of his own.

“I’ll say,” Deacon said quietly, after the bartender deposited a glass in front of Grant and then disappeared, “I was very surprised to hear it was you, buying the team.”

Grant had been both shocked at his own insistence, and not very much, at all.

Probably because he alone knew how much he’d thought about Deacon Harris in the last ten plus years. While of course, Deacon had no clue how thoroughly and how long he’d occupied Grant’s thoughts.

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