Page 72 of The Play

Deacon didn’t know either. Would Grant ever talk to him again? Would he release him as punishment for the brawl—even though the Condors needed him to continue winning? Or would he press him into the black leather seat in the back of the town car and kiss him again and maybe even more?

They reached the town car, idling in front of the Pirate’s Booty. Deacon pulled open the door and nearly climbed into the cavernous back, but then Micah hesitated, standing on the sidewalk. Clearly he had something else he wanted to say. So Deacon waited him out.

“He bought a football team for you. And you punched out two guys who might be related to Bigfoot. Don’t you two think you’ve done enough proving that you belong together?” Micah asked, his question sounding rhetorical.

Deacon sure hoped it was, because he didn’t have any kind of real answer.

He shrugged, and maybe it was a cop-out, but it was the best fucking thing he had, right now.

“That’s what I thought,” Micah said, sounding satisfied, and closed the door behind him.

Chapter 11

Grant kept waiting for his temper to die down.

It had begun simmering nearly twenty-four hours before, when Deacon had ignored his repeated texts. When he wouldn’t even give Grant a chance to talk. To tell him the truth before he found out in the worst possible way.

It had flared even hotter a few hours ago when Nicole had called, saying the whole email had leaked. Deacon knew now, for better or worse, but Grant didn’t feel any better about that. I wanted to tell you myself, damnit.

It went supernova when Carter had called him, in a panic, his stammered words announcing that Deacon was in a bar fight at the Pirate’s Booty, and it was all, to quote Carter, “because of you.”

He didn’t need to ask Deacon why he’d attacked those two guys to know why he’d done it.

He knew.

He’d hoped that when the other guys, drunk as hell, didn’t want to press charges and the cops had shrugged the whole thing off as a bar disagreement gone wrong, his temper would’ve calmed down. But it didn’t. Probably because Grant was sure that only happened because of who he was and the team Deacon played for.

Grant was so tired of cleaning up these messes.

Grant stood in front of the car parked outside the Pirate’s Booty, knowing Deacon was in the back seat, waiting for him, and he wished he was marginally less angry. But he wasn’t.

He thought he might be even angrier.

What the fuck had Deacon been thinking? Going after those guys?

Did he think he could go after every single person who decided to weigh in on the truth of Grant’s NFL ownership? And why would he, if he hadn’t even been interested in hearing about it first from Grant’s lips?

Because you pissed him off by rejecting him.

That one sounded remarkably like Darcy.

Grant sighed and opened the door.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the cavernous darkness.

Deacon was illuminated only by the subtle lighted trim on the opposite door, running down to the floor.

He was holding a rapidly melting bundle of ice against his jaw, and he didn’t say anything.

Grant didn’t say anything either.

Maybe they’d said it all—or actually, he’d never gotten that fucking chance.

Grant was so bitter about that.

Not that him informing Deacon about the email would’ve really changed anything.

It would still exist, out in the world.

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