Page 87 of The Play

“I want to know what you’re going to do to combat the rumors,” Cheryl said.

“You want to know?” Grant enquired innocently.

He was one hundred percent sure she’d come here just to gloat. Maybe to dance on his grave a little.

But Grant Green never gave up without a fight—and now that he had someone he loved very much, someone he’d fight for tooth and nail—he wasn’t going to roll over and play dead, no matter how much she hoped he would.

“The NFL, of course,” Cheryl trilled. Tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “We’re just very concerned. So many rumors. Inappropriate rumors.”

“You’re really concerned about rumors?”

“I’m assuming you saw the email,” Cheryl said. Then laughed delicately. “Of course you did. It was sent to you, after all.”

“And you’d have seen that I didn’t reply to it.”

“Not electronically, anyway.”

“Mr. Green is too polite to say it, but we are very busy dealing with the fallout of this rumor, as well as all of his other many professional obligations,” Darcy said. “Are you here to help? Or to just tell us how very concerned you are?”

“The commissioner wanted me to come here in person,” Cheryl insisted. “So you understood just how very seriously we’re taking these rumors.”

“There’s no evidence we’ve done anything wrong. I’ve opened up my business and let the NFL review all my correspondence,” Grant said, “and the only thing that anyone found was an email sent to me, that I did not even reply to. I’m unsure why you aren’t here offering your support to help us combat these malicious rumors.”

“We’re only concerned because of the truly inappropriate nature of the rumors,” Cheryl said, making what he supposed was intended to be an apologetic expression, but nothing about her tone said she meant it.

“Are you asking me if it’s true?” Grant said.

Because of course she was.

She’d probably found that email on his hard drive and been absolutely fucking delighted.

“Even the cursory digging we did proves you both attended the same college, during the same time period. Your attendance overlapped by two years. Are you trying to deny you didn’t know Deacon Harris back then?”

“I did. And you know exactly how I knew him. I was his tutor. He was having trouble passing statistics. That was the extent of it then, and as for now, the NFL themselves asked Deacon to talk to me when I stepped forward to buy the team. As a final check, they wanted him to verify my intentions. He did. We’ve become partners, and friends, you could say, as we guide this team back into the light.” Grant leaned forward. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

“I . . .” Cheryl stammered. Looked taken aback. Maybe she hadn’t expected him to come clean about it.

Of course, he hadn’t told the whole truth—but then, he hadn’t lied, either.

“We have a few questions of our own,” Grant said casually as he stood. Carefully divested himself of his flawlessly tailored navy jacket. He wandered over by the window. Caught sight, for a split second, of a big man with dark hair, who might be Deacon.

But he forced himself to turn away before he could really absorb the sight of him.

He couldn’t afford to let himself get distracted.

Not when he was about to go in for the kill, and Grant wasn’t convinced he could keep the joy of him buried deeply enough that Cheryl wouldn’t catch even a glimpse of it.

“What questions?” Cheryl asked.

“How did the media get ahold of this email?” Grant pinned her with his gaze. “I certainly didn’t allow any of my personal data to be released without my express approval.”

“Leaks happen,” Cheryl said with a wave.

“Oh, do they?” Darcy’s voice was dangerous. “Funny how nothing else was leaked. Just this email.”

“I could sue you,” Grant said.

Cheryl’s jaw dropped open. It would be ballsy to sue the organization that licensed the Condors and essentially permitted him to continue owning his nearly billion-dollar investment. It would be making an enemy of them, irrevocably, and the media would never stop hounding them, if he did it.

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