Page 97 of The Play

“Not just of the Condors, but the way you handled yourself through it.” The man’s glance over at him was full of the kind of worshipful praise that always made him nervous. He never knew how to acknowledge it properly, or what to say in response.

“I only did the right thing,” Deacon said gruffly.

“Well, there’s many of us who appreciate someone who does,” he said wryly. “And pleased too, of course, when Mr. Green bought the Condors. He knows what’s right from what’s wrong.”

Ironically, they were probably doing something many people, including the NFL, would consider wrong. Deacon pushed the thought away as the concierge stepped around the regular elevator bank, and tucked back in the corner was an unmarked elevator, clearly Grant’s.

“Yes, he’s a good man.” The best man. Deacon’s heart clenched, glad someone besides him appreciated Grant as he should be appreciated.

“Here you are, Mr. Harris. If you need anything, anything at all, please let me know,” the concierge said, gesturing at the elevator with one hand while the other pressed a black card against a discreet panel set into the wall.

The doors opened immediately. “Thanks,” Deacon said shortly as he stepped in.

It was a short, smooth ride up to the penthouse, depositing him back in the foyer.

This time, with no Grant enticing him to the bedroom, Deacon took a second to look around.

There was the Picasso, of course, hung in the prime spot, the lighting making the bright colors glow.

The rest of the lights were dimmed as Deacon ventured farther into Grant’s home.

Well, his home here. He had a number of other homes. A brownstone in New York. A lakeside house in Seattle. Another apartment in Palo Alto. He’d mentioned that his mother lived in Paris, in an apartment he’d bought there.

Deacon had plenty of money—more money than he could ever spend in his lifetime probably—but he couldn’t even imagine what it was like to have so much you bought a Picasso and hung it in your Charleston penthouse like it was nothing.

There was no kitchen table, but two places had been set at the long kitchen island with expensive looking china and crystal, and there were a number of unlit candles scattered around the kitchen and living room.

Clearly someone had gone to some trouble to make the normally austere place look romantic, and Deacon’s heart clenched again.

He settled himself down on one of the living room chairs, sighing at how comfortable it was. Usually these modern-looking pieces poked you in a hundred painful ways or were flat and hard as a board. But it was like the bed, like Grant had picked out furniture that was both aesthetically pleasing as well as comfortable for a big guy like Deacon.

How long has he wanted this?

He’d insisted that he hadn’t bought the Condors for Deacon, the way that email had claimed, but the deeper they got into this, the more Deacon wondered how true that really was.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, texted Grant that he’d made it here, and instead of waiting around for Grant to respond—after all, he was trying to finish up his work for the day—he considered what Beck had said to him at practice yesterday.

About Jem, and how he’d been distancing himself.

Should he call Jem? No—he wouldn’t call. He’d text. A text was nice and casual, even if what he was saying wasn’t.

For a long minute, he debated what to say. How to tell his best friend about what had happened, without making it seem like it was a big deal.

Okay, it was a big deal.

But Jem would make it a big deal, no matter what, so Deacon didn’t need to bring the praise hands or heart-eyes emojis.

Hey, he started with.

Jem replied almost immediately. Nothing from you for at least a week, and that’s all I get? Hey?

Shit, he had been ignoring Jem. Not on purpose. Well, okay, a little on purpose. Jem was trying to find a new life and wasn’t particularly happy with it. Deacon could only imagine how tough that was. And how much tougher it would be with constant reminders of what he’d lost.

Deacon didn’t blame Jem for going back to his hometown of Christmas Falls. He’d known his best friend was slowly losing his mind every moment he spent on the sidelines, not playing.

But maybe he’d put too much space between them. It had made sense to Deacon at the time, but now he felt a pulse of regret.

Sorry, he typed back. Didn’t mean to ghost you.

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