Summary:
Carter Maxwell knows heâs a screwup. Four teams in three seasons tells the story, as much as he wishes it didnât.
But finally, heâs landed in a good place, where he likes the team and the team actually likes him. Even the Condors' current rebuilding mode suits him. Thereâs a new owner. New coach. New players. New rules.
But one rule hasnât changed: donât seduce your agent-appointed c*ckblocker.
Ian Parker agrees to live with Carter and keep him on the straight and narrow for one simple reason: Alec, the agent in charge of cleaning up Carterâs reputation, has promised him something Ian wants very, very badly.
Even more badly than Carter naked above him and below him and next to him.
A chance for Ian to become an agent.
But Ian didnât take into account just how persuasive Carter isâor just how desperately he desires to be persuaded. Or how, while spending time with Carter, theyâll somehow stumble into a fake relationship that begins to feel all too real.
It doesnât matter that Carterâs never fallen in love or that heâs never been in a real relationship. It doesnât matter that Ianâs risking his future as an agent.
Heâs determined to score the impossible and reform the bad boyâonly after encouraging Carter to misbehave one last time. But this time, only with him.
Last year, defensive end Deacon Harris witnessed the very worst of the Charleston Condors. After everything he and the team went through, he promised himself heâd walk away from football. But before he can retire, the team is sold to the last person he ever expected to see again.
Deacon stays because the Condors are going into major rebuilding mode. New owner. New coach. New players. New rules.
But one rule hasnât changed: donât fall in love with the owner of your football team.
Grant might be brilliant and a billionaire, but Deacon only remembers Grant as his tutor in collegeâand as the one who got away.
In all his dreams about reconnecting, he never imagined that Grant would end up as his boss. Both his downfall, and also his salvation.
Or that theyâd be forced into confronting the Condorsâ most difficult challenge yetâbut that theyâd face it together, hand in hand, tackling their critics and proving once and for all that love doesnât take sides.
The Score #3
Chapter 1
Carter Maxwell was out of control.
The tsunami of rage rising inside him was familiar enough he could recognize it easily, but recognizing meant jack shit, because feelingit didnât mean that he could actually fucking control it.
Theyâd lost.
The scoreboard felt permanently etched into his eyelids. Even when he closed his eyes, like he was doing right now, he could still see it.
The Condors had lost to the Piranhas by two touchdowns.
It didnât matter that heâd scored one of the few touchdowns the Condors had managed over the course of the game.
Carter had wanted this game for himself; yeah, of course he had, but the truth was, heâd wanted it so much more for Micahâand for the whole team.
Proving that theyâd left that shit from last year behind once and for all.
But you didnât,that voice inside him, with its nasty, sly tone, reminded him. You canât ever leave it behind. Youâre never leaving anything behind. Youâre carrying it with you forever.
Fuck.
Carterâs fists clenched, and he tried to relax them by degrees, but they wouldnât unclench.
Heâd need to get up from this bench soon.
He could feel eyes on him. So many fucking eyes. Not just in the Condorsâ stadium, but everywhere, the cameras trained on him.
No doubt all the media were saying their usual bullshit.
Carter Maxwellâs lost it again.
Carter Maxwell doesnât have it. Maybe he never did.
Carter Maxwellâs gonna find himself on a new team next year.
You know how many teams Carter Maxwell has been on? The most in the NFL in his short tenure.
Nobody wants him.
Nobody can handle him.
He canât even handle himself.
It wouldnât bother him so much if it werenât all true.
He felt a body drop down next to him, but Carter didnât open his eyes. Didnât trust himself if he did.
And wasnât that the whole fucking problem?
He didnât trust himself.
How was anyone else supposed to trust himâhow were Riley and his teammates supposed to trust him if he couldnât even believe enough to trust himself?
âYou alright?â
Carter didnât know who heâd expected the person to be.
But Grant Greenâknown as Mr. G to his team since heâd bought the Condors in the offseasonâwas the last person heâd expected to come sit down next to him.
Carter braced himself. This was not going to be good. He could already feel it.
But instead of starting in on the inevitable lecture of hold your temper, control your rage, if you canât, Iâm gonna have to let you go or trade you againâMr. G said, âYou alright, Carter?â
His tone was deceptively casual. Like Carter hadnât broken two tablets, destroyed countless pieces of equipment, and raged across the Condorsâ sideline and the locker room during halftime. Like none of that had happened.
Carter opened one eye.
Mr. Gâs expression was just as mild as his tone.
There wasnât even a hint of judgment in his gaze. Concern, yes, but judgment, no. Like what he worried about first and foremost wasnât the football team heâd spent nearly a billion dollars on, but Carter himself.
That, unfortunately, was not Carterâs experience with the NFL so far.
âYou alive in there?â Mr. G asked again, this time with a hint of a smile turning his lips up.
âUh, yeah, IâŠIâm okay,â Carter said cautiously.
He didnât know if it was true.
Now or in the future.
The coping mechanismsâhe wasnât stupid enough to even call them that, because screwing your way across a city was hardly therapist approvedâheâd been using forever werenât working so well anymore.
He knew it.
But he didnât know what else to do about it.
âYou sure?â Mr. G asked.
Carter sighed. âNo.â He leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees.
Mr. G patted him on the back. âYou want to do something about it?â The question was offered again without judgment and without pressure. Like it was actually Carterâs choice. Like Mr. G would support him either way.
Carter didnât know what to say. Of course he wanted to change. Of course he didnât like being this way.
He didnât enjoy it.
Okay, well, that was partially a lie. He might not enjoy the problem, but heâd sure enjoyed the Band-Aid he slapped across itâthe sex. If he didnât appreciate it, if he didnât get what he did out of it, it wouldnât work as well as it did.
Carter froze.
Maybe that was why it was no longer quite as effective as it had been.
Was he getting tired of sex?
God, that sounded fucking awfulâand it made up Carterâs mind for him.
âYeah,â he admitted. âYeah, I would like to do something about it.â
âI know youâve talked to Mitchell a few times.â
âYou know Alec?â Alec Mitchell was one of the most renowned professional agents in the NFL. He managed a lot of very famous playersâmost of them queer, not particularly surprising since he was queer himself. And heâd famously turned around Chase Rileyâs careerâanother wide receiver with temper problems. Had helped him get control of himself.
At the time when that had happened, Carter had been a rookie, and full of disdain for someone who wanted to be controlled and boring versus a constant party.
But now he could see the appeal.
Mr. G nodded. âKnown Alec for a while. He said you two went back and forth a few times a month or two ago, but it never went anywhere.â
Carter felt that judgmentâbut as censure went it was astonishingly mild.
âAs the owner arenât you supposed to not want us to have decent representation whoâll milk you for every freaking dime?â Carter joked weakly.
Mr. G rolled his eyes. âI want you to have someone whoâll fight for you and be in your corner. Whoâll put you first. I do my best, but in the end, I gotta put the team first.â
âYou gonna do that now?â Carter wanted to swallow the question back down but it escaped before he could.
âYou mean, am I going to trade you or drop you?â Mr. G paused. âNo. This team is better with you on it than off it. And it seems to me like those other teams gave up on you way too quick. Iâm stubborn. Iâm not going to do that.â
âOh.â Carter didnât quite know what to say to that. He knew he was good. But so many times his positives had been outweighed by all his negatives.
âBut seriously, call Alec back. Get some help, Carter.â Mr. G gave him another gentle slap on the back and then stood.
You need it, Carter heard Mr. Gâs unspoken admonition, but for once, it didnât sting even though he knew it was the truth.
Maybe because he was finally going to do something about it.
Two weeks later
Ian Parker sat across from Alec Mitchell, managing to keep his expression neutral as Alec settled into his chair, even though what he wanted, more than anything else in the fucking world, was to be Alec Mitchell.
Heâd known him for several years now, because his mom, who was a therapist frequently working with NFL players and other athletes, had taken on a few of Alecâs clients.
He and Alec werenât friends. Barely acquaintances. But Ian had still tried his best over the last six months to convince Alec just how serious he was about following in his footsteps and becoming an agent himself.
âThanks for coming here, Ian,â Alec said, shooting him a friendly smile. Alec was a friendly sort of personâuntil he wasnât. He was a wolf in sheepâs clothing. A wolf who devoured both anyone who stood in his way and anyone who deserved it.
Heâd gone up against so many heavy hitters in the NFL and heâd won every single fight.
It was the power Alec wore easily, like one of his famous three-piece suits, flawlessly tailored to his long, lanky body, and the comfortable, easy way he wielded it.
That was what Ian wantedânot power for powerâs sake, but the power to help others.
âOf course,â Ian said. He did not say anytime Alec beckoned he was going to come running. Considering how smart and dialed in Alec was, and how many times Ian had subtly and not-so-subtly hinted at his future career aspirations, there was no way he didnât already know exactly what Ian wanted.
âI hear youâre interested in becoming an agent,â Alec said and Ianâs heart rate accelerated.
Was this it? Heâd been trying forever, hoping that Alec might give him a chanceâor a jobâand teach him how to be him.
Heâd hoped that this might be what this summons was about, but he hadnât been sure.
âYes,â Ian said, nodding emphatically.
âYou didnât go to law school,â Alec observed. He had. Ian knew everything about Alec Mitchell. His history. All the fights. All the wins.
âI took some law classes.â A lot of law classes, in fact.
âAnd certainly you know how to manage people,â Alec said mildly.
An understatement. For the last five years Ian had been working as a sober companion. In the glittery shitstorm that was Los Angeles, he never had to look very far to find his next client. They didnât all stay sober, but it wasnât because Ian wasnât fully committed to helping them.
He was very good at his job, but that didnât mean he wanted to keep doing it.
âYou could say that,â Ian said, trying to match Alecâs casual tone, and not quite making it there. Nobody could blame him; he wanted this chance too fucking badly.
âThatâs the biggest part of this job,â Alec observed, leaning back in his chair. âThe managing.â
âIâve heard that,â Ian said cautiously.
âIâve got this new client,â Alec said. He stood, and began to pace behind his chair, worry creasing his face. âIâm not sure what to do with him.â
âWhat to do with him?â Ian didnât understand and wasnât going to pretend even to get a job he wanted very much.
Be honest with him, heâs too smart to not spot prevarication a million miles away, his mother had told him a hundred times. And while his mother drove him crazy half the time, he couldnât argue with her assessment of Alec Mitchell.
He was way too sharp for Ian to bother pretending anything.
Alec sighed. Rested his elbows against the back of his chair. âHeâs not got an addiction, per se, but I think he could use someone like you.â
Ian hesitated. He didnât want to be hired as a sober companion; he wanted Alec to hire him to be an agent, to teach him how to be an agent. âYou want Ian Parker the sober companion,â he said.
âYes, and no,â Alec said, smiling now. âI want you to be his companion, yes. I want you to help him curb some of his worst tendencies, which are to indulge in booze and sex and parties, all to avoid and poorly attempt to control his temper. But I know you want more than that. So I thought weâd help each other. You help him, which will undoubtedly help me, and then Iâll help you. You want to be an agent? Iâll make that happen.â
âYouâll teach me? Hire me?â
âYes,â Alec said firmly.
Ian considered this. âWhy canât you do this yourself?â he asked.
Was the situation so bad Alec couldnât do it himself and that meant it was a foolâs errand for Ian too?
âHeâs on the east coast, and my husband would kill me if I spent the next few months in South Carolina,â Alec said wryly.
Alec was married to a player himself: Spencer Evans, who was one of the best defensive ends of the last few decades. Heâd finally won a Super Bowl last season with the Los Angeles Riptide, after Alec had succeeded in convincing the Stars, Spencerâs oldâand homophobicâteam to trade him.
It was Alecâs masterful handling of that situation that had convinced Ian he wanted to be an agent. Heâd been interested before that, but after, Ian was one hundred percent convinced not only that he could be a great agent, but that he wanted to be a great agent just like Alec was.
Someone who fought for the people who belonged to him, with every weapon he could find. Even weapons that werenât weapons at all.
âItâs Carter Maxwell, isnât it?â
Ian kept a very close eye on what not only Alec was doing, but the NFL in general. At first it had been easy, because his mother was a therapist to a number of players. And then, heâd done it because heâd realized if he was ever going to get what he wanted, being informed was the bare minimum requirement. Heâand everyone elseâhad heard about Carter Maxwellâs problems, and also when heâd started trying to deal with them by signing with Alec two weeks ago.
Alec nodded.
âI thought I could handle the situation from here,â Alec said, âbut if the last two weeks are any indication, thatâs not realistic. I need someone on the ground. Living in his house. Monitoring him. Helping him walk the right path. Youâre the perfect choice.â
Carter Maxwell.
He was infamous for being traded more times than seasons heâd been in the NFL.
Infamous for his temper. For his voracious and unapologetic sexual appetite.
And for his gorgeous face.
âWell, not perfect,â Alec added apologetically. âI guess the perfect choice would probably be someone who was asexual.â
Ian had been out for a number of yearsâand no doubt that was one of the things Alec had discovered when heâd done his research on Ian.
Because there was no question that Alec had done his research.
âCarterâs going to hit on me.â Ian said it matter-of-factly.
Alec raised a flawlessly groomed dark eyebrow. He always looked this wayâin those immaculate tailored suits, presenting an irreproachable front. Ian had dressed carefully this morning with that in mind. He didnât own suits, but heâd worn a fitted polo and a pair of slacks. Heâd even cleaned and polished his best pair of loafers, and slipped into them this morning hoping theyâd give him the confidence he couldnât quite own yet.
âCarter hit on me,â Alec said.
Honestly, Ian couldnât really blame the guy. Alec was easily forty, but he was still attractive, with his chiseled bone structure, otherworldly light blue eyes, and the dark hair, swept back from that gorgeous face.
Of course, he was famously married, too.
But that didnât stop some guys.
Ian wouldnât have ever done it, because he wanted Alec to hire him, not fuck him.
But that would hardly stop Carter Maxwell.
From what Ian had heard, nothing stopped Carter Maxwell.
Not even the threat of Spencer Evans, one of the greatest defensive players in the NFL, pounding his face in for daring to hit on his husband.
âNoted,â Ian said. Like he was taking the job. WhichâŠof course he was taking the job.
âYouâd be perfect if you were straight, tooâthough I wouldnât put it past Carter to turn a straight guy not-so-straight,â Alec said wryly, âbut otherwise, youâre exactly the kind of person that I trust to handle Carter.â
âHe needs to be handled?â
It was kind of a stupid question.
âYou didnât see the meltdown a few weeks ago? Against the Piranhas?â
Oh right. Yes, Ian had seen it, and he recalled the details. It had been major news. Or not so much major news as just another day at the office for Carter. But the sports media had covered it relentlessly, and then, a few days after, when Carter had dropped his agent and hired Alec instead.
The media had breathlessly wondered if Alec was going to be able to rein Carter in the way heâd done with Chase Riley.
Apparently the answer to that question was: not quite as easily as heâd hoped.
âYeah, I saw it.â
âHe wants to be better. Came to me, because he thought I might be able to help him. I do think I can.â Alec hesitated. âBut I need someone there to do a lot of that day-to-day work.â
âAnd that someone is going to be me.â
âYouâre the best option Iâve got. Can you do it? Moira said you were between clients.â
He was, because heâd been hesitating to take another one. He didnât particularly feel compelled to start the process over, so for the last few months, heâd been dithering, turning down perfectly good actresses and rock stars, whoâd all heard great things about his work.
But he hadnât been motivated to help them, and the one thing heâd discovered after five years as a sober companion was it wasnât easy and he had to want to do it. Had to feel called to the work.
The only question was if he was willingâand wantingâto help Carter the way he clearly needed help. Obviously Ian was interested first and foremost because of the deal Alec had offered, but he knew there needed to be more.
âI can do it,â Ian said.
âI thought you might be able to fit me in,â Alec said, his smile turning warmer, more genuine. He morphed from the shark negotiating for every single inch into the man underneath, glad that Ian was joining the team.
âTell me everything,â Ian said.
Alec looked surprised.
âDo you think I ever go into a situation not knowing every detail? Or wanting to know every detail?â Ian challenged. âI canât say I always get what I need, but youâre smart. You know Carter. You know what I need.â
âCurrently, we have a list of behavioral guidelines that Iâve asked him to follow.â Alec slid a piece of paper across the desk.
Ian looked down at the list.
None of the bullet pointed items were a surprise.
No sex.
No more than 4 people invited to current residence.
No clubs.
No social media.
Curfew: 12 a.m. (unless as part of a team-sanctioned or sponsored event).
âAnd itâs not going well, with all these restrictions?â Ian questioned.
Alecâs sigh was heavy. Full of resignation.
âHe told me last night when we talked that he thought they were more guidelines, not rules.â
âSo heâs not following them.â
Alec shrugged. âHalf-heartedly, maybe. Heâs also going to therapy, with the hopes that he can learn some better coping mechanisms to control his temper.â
âThat sounds like a good start,â Ian said. He already could guess who the therapist was, even though Alec hadnât necessarily specified.
She would do a good job with Carter. Moira Rogers was a consummate professional and had learned how to reach deep down in these emotionally stunted players and figure out how to help them get in touch with all the things professional athletics had told them werenât important.
âIt is a good start. But last night, he didnât get in until after two a.m. And Iâm pretty sure rule number one got blown to hell.â
âHow do you know?â Ian wondered if Carter Maxwell was an oversharer too, and that was another thing heâd need to learn to deal with. Honestly, though, he wasnât particularly worried about resisting Carter Maxwellâs advances. Sure, the guy was hot. Sure, the guy was built. But heâd been hit on by half of Hollywood, and Ian had exceptional self-control. He wasnât controlled by his dick; he controlled it.
âHow do I know?â Alec chuckled. âHe told me. He had sex with not just one, but three people last night.â
Three people. Jesus.
âAnd,â Alec added, âhe was very sorry, but he clearly did not regret it.â
âOh. Well. I guess itâs good heâs not in a habit of hiding things?â That was a start. Ian had had a few clients over the years whoâd believed the sober agreement theyâd signed meant that as long as he didnât find out about what they were doing, they were good.
But that was not the way it worked.
âHeâs definitely transparent,â Alec admitted.
âDoes he know youâre hiring me?â
âI told him I was working on an altered plan.â Alec paused. âWeâll fly out tomorrow, together. Meet with the Condorsâ owner and the head coach. When I say youâre going wherever Carter goes, I mean, youâre going wherever Carter goes. Weâre not taking any more chances.â
âI can do that.â He often had similar arrangements with his sober clients, though the idea was when they were in recovery, they returned to their regular lives carefully, and not all at once. Unlike Carter, who, halfway through the season, had no choice but to continue to play football.
Ian had a feeling that to be successful at this particular task, he was going to have to throw out a lot of his standard practices and adapt on the fly. This was not going to be easy. In fact, he already had a feeling Carter was going to be his hardest client to date.
âWeâll fly on my private jet. Iâll have my assistant forward the itinerary,â Alec said.
Was it any surprise Ian wanted to be him? The man had a freaking private jet, and heâd gotten it by being freaking awesome.
âHow long should I prepare to be there for?â
Alec shrugged one shoulder. âTwo months. At least. Maybe more. Maybe through the whole season.â
âHe needs that much help?â
âListen, I know a lot of this might seem like an overreaction. Believe me, I wish it was. But he needs hands-on help. And after he figures his shit out, I donât trust him not to backslide right back to where he was.â
âRight.â Ian got it. Once, heâd spent eight months with a very famous actress. She still sent him a Christmas card every year. And even more importantly, she was still sober.
Major change took time.
âI know this goes without saying butâŠâ Alec inhaled sharply, like he couldnât quite believe what he was saying. âYou canât have sex with him. You absolutely cannot have sex with him.â
Ian stared at the man in front of him.
âI know,â he said slowly. âI donât sleep with my other clients, either. Ever.â
âNo offense, but your other clients arenât Carter Maxwell. The manâs slippery as hell. Charming as all get-out. Friendly and sweet, like the most adorable puppy dog youâve ever seen, and so you let down your guard. Begin to trust him. And then he cranks the sexual magnetism up to eleven, and itâsâŠwell, nobody could blame you for being tempted. The man could tempt a saint. A whole bunch of saints, in fact.â
Ian raised an eyebrow.
âNot me, obviously,â Alec said. He flushed. âIâm very happily married, which you know. I justâŠIâve heard stories. A lot of stories.â
âBelieve me,â Ian said, emphasizing each and every word, âme wanting to sleep with Carter Maxwell is not going to be a problem.â
Alec did not look reassured, but what else could he do? Heâd warned Ian, and Ian knew his own limits and his own self-control, both of which were substantial. Plus, he had no intention of fucking this up, because this was the chance heâd been gunning for, since heâd known he wanted to be an agent.
âI sure fucking hope not,â Alec said.
The Play #4
Chapter 1
Thirteen years ago
Everyone on campus knew who Deacon Harris was.
In one of those â80s Brat Pack movies, heâd have been called âThe Big Man on Campus.â
Grant wouldnât have counted himself as one of the crowd in basically anything else. He had no freaking clue on just about anything else of universal importance: like what coffee shop didnât track how many espresso shots youâd consumed during an all-nighter, or which writing professor would take it easy(ier) on non-arts majors, or what must-attend party was happening this weekend.
Grant went to class, went to the library, worked long into the night in his tiny shithole of an apartment on the code for the new security system his mentor kept saying could revolutionize everythingâif he could just get it to freaking workâbut, even he, despite his head-down attitude, knew who Deacon Harris was.
âHey. You must be Grant,â Deacon said, flinging himself into a chair in the tiny study room Grant had reserved for his tutoring, three afternoons a week. The chair creaked ominously under his big frame.
âHi,â Grant said cautiously. He nearly said, And you must be Deacon, but clearly the guy was used to being identified without introduction.
âYou can do this?â Deacon asked, pulling a wrinkled paper from his back pocket.
Grant reached over and took it, unfolding it, realizing it was actually two pages: a syllabus for one of the introductory statistics classes, and a quiz, with a big F circled in red pen.
Heâd triple checked his email when the first message had come in from someone claiming they were Deacon Harris.
At first, heâd been convinced it was a friend playing a prank on him. Surely Deacon HarrisâDeacon Harris!âdid not want Grant to tutor him in statistics. Surely Deacon Harris did not even know Grant Green existed.
But after a few email exchanges, it had become clear this was no prank. Deacon needed tutoring help to pass his statistics class, and Grant had come highly recommended.
The recommendation had come as less of a surprise than Deaconâs email, as Grant had spent the last three years of college supplementing his meager income and scholarships with tutoring.
Grant tapped the paper. âYeah, shouldnât be a problem,â he said. Heâd learned early on that it pissed all the other students off to learn that heâd been taking the classes they were struggling in when heâd been a teenager. A young teenager.
Deacon pushed his hair back. He wore it thick and long, just touching his collar, and his eyes were equally dark. Intense, like he could see right to your soul and right down into your underwear, Grant had heard one girl sigh happily as Deacon had walked by.
Grantâwho was as far from a football fan as you could possibly get and didnât even have crushesâhad nearly run into a tree the first time heâd passed the guy on the quad.
Heâd given himself a pep talk this morning, but now, faced with the guy, nerves bloomed. His palms and under his arms were both uncomfortably damp. He resisted the urge to tuck a finger under his collar and yank it away from his sweaty neck.
âSo how does this work?â Deacon asked, leaning forward, setting his big beefy arms on the table. It wobbled, and Grantâs breath quickened. The guyâs muscles had musclesâa situation not helping his nerves.
Grant, who couldnât remember the last time heâd watched a sports event of any kind, had taken to tuning into games, just because heâd discovered the guy in front of him liked to wear his jerseys cropped, better to display the absolutely mouth-watering abs currently covered by his T-shirt.
âHow does it work?â Grant hated how his voice shook a little.
âYeah.â Deacon quirked up an eyebrow.
Possibly the most frustrating facet of Deacon Harris was he didnât seem to comprehend the complete distraction and utter destruction he left in his wake.
He probably didnât even know how Grantâs heart stuttered at that look he was giving him.
âDid you bring your text?â Grant asked.
âI got a text?â
Normally this cluelessness wouldâve made Grant internally crazy. Externally, he tried to brush it off. Just another student who doesnât give a shit about learning. Only partying. And in this case, tackling other big, muscley dudes on a muddy field.
But today, Grant rolled his eyes. âYes, your textbook,â Grant said.
Maybe Deacon Harris in the flesh had short-circuited his brain.
Or maybe he was just fundamentally disappointed that Deacon Harris had turned out to just be a pretty face and a droolworthy set of abs.
âWe get textbooks?â Deacon seemed even more clueless than heâd been a minute ago, and Grant told himself that was not making him a little crazy.
Except it was.
âThis is a school, youâre supposed to learn. From textbooks. You know. Those overpriced books you buy that you need to study so you can pass your classes.â
Deacon burst out laughing. âOh my God,â he said, chuckling so hard and for so long one of those big calloused handsâhands that had starred in way too many of Grantâs fantasiesâgravitated to his pectoral muscle, gripping it as he lost it. âYour face. You actually thought . . .I didnât know . . .what a textbook was.â
Normally, Grantâs back mightâve gone up at Deaconâs words. He mightâve believed Deacon was laughing at him. But then Deacon flashed him a conspiratorial smile, and instead, Deacon was laughing with him.
âCause yeah, Grant couldnât deny he was laughing, too.
âWell, you looked at me like I was crazy,â Grant said.
âWell, you looked at me like I was crazy,â Deacon said. âMaybe Iâm failing statistics, but Iâm not some big dumb football player.â
Grant wouldnât admit, even under torture, that yes, heâd thought exactly that.
âYeah, I got the textbook, itâs back at my place,â Deacon said. He crossed his arms over his chest, and damn him, if that didnât make him look even more impressive.
âIs this you inviting me back to your place?â Grant didnât know what gave him the courage. He wasnât that kind of guyâeven if Deacon Harris did have that kind of reputation; everyone said he didnât care what sex you were, as long as you were hot and funny and charming, heâd be happy to grace your bed for a short, but memorable timeâbut Deacon made him wish, even for a few seconds, that he was.
Deacon stared at him, like he was finally really lookingat Grant.
Grant nearly squirmed under that intense gaze. He didnât want his soul analyzed, though he wouldnât be averse to having his underwear invaded. Still, he knew the score. He just wanted to take Deaconâs money and use it to buy himself coffee and egg and cheese sandwiches for the rest of the semester.
Thatâs not all you want from him.
But those late-night fantasies, they were just that: fantasies. Because Grant knew he was not the kind of guy Deacon gravitated towards. Heâd seen enough of them, assertive, confident girls and laughing, charming guys, tucked under his big arm, as they strolled through the quad.
âYou are not what I expected,â Deacon finally said.
âWhat, you expected some kind of mousy guy afraid of his own shadow? A guy drowning in pocket protectors? Unable to make even basic conversation?â Grant retorted.
Okay, he was sort-of that guy. Minus the pocket protectors, anyway.
âKinda like you expected a big dumb football player who relies on brute force but doesnât have a hope in hell of passing statistics,â Deacon said, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
Grant didnât know what was loosening his tongue. Perhaps it was a temporary insanity brought on by the tantalizing and yet ultimately hopeless possibility of Deaconâs nearness.
âFair,â Grant acknowledged.
âWhy donât we do this?â Deacon suggested, waving in the space between them. âWeâll leave our expectations at the door. Both of us.â
âWorks for me.â Grant told himself he was also leaving any pipe dreams of Deacon being interested in his underwear behind, too.
âGood. Iâll bring the textbook next time.â
Grantâs fingers were trembling as he pulled out his tablet, glanced at his calendar. âI usually do Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays,â he said, âbut I donât thinkââ
âI canât do Fridays,â Deacon agreed. âWeâre often traveling on Fridays, for games.â
âRight,â Grant said. Normally, he never made exceptions. He tutored Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, period. But he already knew he was going to break his rules for Deacon. âI could do Thursday, instead, if you wanted.â
âYeah?â Deaconâs face lit up. âOh, man, that would be a lifesaver, if you could.â
âSounds good. We can do Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays for the rest of the semester.â
Somehow that sounded like way too much one-on-one time with Deacon, and also not nearly enough.
âYou sure?â
Deacon had the nerve to look grateful, with none of the easy, ready smug acceptance of a man who believed people rearranging their schedule to suit him was only what he deserved.
Ugh. There was a part of Grant who wished that Deacon Harris really had been that big dumb football player with an ego the size of the field he played on.
âIâm sure,â Grant said. He outlined how much each week would cost, hoping even though he knew it was stupid to worry that the explicit topic of money wouldnât derail the easy friendliness theyâd found in the last ten minutes.
But it didnât. Deacon just nodded. âIâll bring you a check tomorrow,â he said. As easy as that. He didnât even try to negotiate the rate, which was something Grant was sadly used to by now.
âLetâs talk about this,â Grant said, changing the subject as smoothly as he could, pointing to the test paper in front of him, with the big circled F at the top.
âUgh, do we have to?â Even looking like he was being marched to the gallows, Deaconâs eyes still twinkled, unexpectedly bright despite their depths.
âYes.â
As much as Grant liked looking at him, he was here for a purpose. If Deacon did fail to pass statistics, it would jeopardize his future on the football field. Not just his collegiate career, but the future NFL career everyone kept talking about in big capital letters, punctuated with too many exclamation points.
âGonna be tough on me, huh?â Deacon teased. âI like that.â
Grant certainly intended to beâthough Deacon flirting with him wasnât going to make anything easy. âYes.â
âAlright, then. Where did I go wrong?â
So many of Grantâs tutoring clients needed their hands held, but even more than that, they needed their egos stroked. They might need help, but they never wanted their faces rubbed in that particular fact. But Deacon didnât seem to be needing the gentle treatment, if his blunt, straightforward words were to be believed.
Grant glanced down, scanning the quiz. The problems were readily apparent even though he barely took a minute to identify them.
âWeâre gonna work on some of your basics,â he said, pulling out a blank sheet of paper from the stack next to his elbow.
âThat sounds . . .â Deacon winced. âNot very interesting?â
âItâs not, but itâs gonna mean these go away,â Grant said, pointing to the big red F.
âThen basic away,â Deacon said, waving at him.
Deacon hadnât had very many expectations of his statistics tutor. Lie, his brain supplied: you had zero expectations of your statistics tutor.
The frustration that heâd needed a statistics tutor at all had sucked up most of his brain power whenever heâd considered the situation.
But he hadnât expected Grant Green.
The cliche Grant had dished back at himâWhat, you expected some kind of mousy guy afraid of his own shadow? A guy drowning in pocket protectors? Unable to make even basic conversation?âhad been exactly what heâd predicted when booking his first tutor.
But Grant wasnât really like that.
He might be quieter, and more apt to blush than to flirt back whenever Deacon couldnât help himself, but he could also be unexpectedly and slyly funny and was such an excellent tutor that Deacon kept going to his tutoring appointments, even though each one became progressively more and more difficult.
Not because he didnât understand statistics.
Nope.
The problem was not statistics.
It was the crush Deacon didnât want to have on his tutor.
Would he have ever looked at this guy normally?
He could at least be honest with himself and say no, probably not. Grant had shaggy brown hair, desperately in need of a trim, always falling into his eyes, hiding a pair of shockingly clear green eyes. He was at least five inches shorter than Deacon, maybe an unassuming five foot ten, and looked like heâd never been to a weight room, though his trim build had begun to star in every single one of Deaconâs dreams.
Heâd claim he didnât know why, but that would be a lie.
Maybe he wouldnât have looked twice at the guy if he walked by him, but heâd gotten to know him. And he was so smart. Funny and clever and charming, in a completely understated way that had won Deacon over.
Even more, he really gave a shit about Deaconâs grade in statistics, and not just because of the money Deacon had given him.
Deacon didnât think heâd ever met Grantâs awkwardly-earnest-but-undeniably-charming equal.
âLook at that!â Grant crowed with obvious pleasure as Deacon set his latest test on the desk. âA B+! Thatâs awesome, Deac.â
Deacon was used to people using his nickname. People who didnât even know him called him Deac. Being on the football team and relatively well-known around campus meant that lots of students believed they could claim him as a friend.
But it felt like nobody ever called him Deac in that intimate, proud way that Grant did. Like he not only felt entitled to use the nickname, but also that he intended to earn that privilege one day at a time.
Heâs not your friend. Heâs your freaking tutor. Get it together, Harris.
But getting it together wasnât going to be happening any time soon. Deaconâs heart rate accelerated just from taking a seat opposite the guy.
If Grant had been like any other guyâor girlâaround campus, heâd have made his move ages ago, not worrying about acceptance or rejection. But Grant wasnât like anyone else. He was fucking brilliant. He was so ridiculously smart Deacon might normally be intimidated by the size of the brain across from him, but Grant never let him feel that way. Never rubbed it in that even though Deacon was struggling to pass statistics, Grant had aced the class years ago.
What had stopped him from asking him out? Partly that, for sure. Because even though he was not the big dumb football player he knew Grant had assumed up front, he was nowhere near Grantâs league.
Even though they spent most of their time focused on Deaconâs tutoring, Grant had opened up a little about his graduate work and his internet security project, and from the excited, impassioned way Grant had discussed it, it was readily obvious that the guy was going places. Major places.
Itâs not like you arenât either, Deacon reminded himself. Think of how many NFL scouts were at the last game.
Yes, he would undoubtedly get drafted, high in the first or second rounds. Heâd head to the NFL and Grant would go on to reinvent the whole concept of online security. Their orbits were going to collide, briefly, now, and then that would be the end of it.
That was that, and Deacon just had to accept it.
But two months into their tutoring arrangement, with two to go, Deacon didnât want to accept it, the way he once had.
âLetâs go to chapter thirteen. Thatâs what the syllabus says youâre starting this week. Standard deviations.â
âDid you know youâre even more brutal a taskmaster than some of my football coaches?â Deacon teased him.
âMaybe next time weâll meet at the practice field and Iâll make you . . .â Grant hesitated. Like he wasnât sure what kind of physical task would prove to be difficult enough.
Deacon chuckled. âYouâd make me run stairs? Do sprints? A hundred pull-ups?â
It wasnât easy to make Grant flush. He had a quiet composure that Deacon really admired. But of course that made Deacon even more determined to mess him up, just a little.
âA hundred?â Grant asked, with wide eyes. âYou can do a hundred pull-ups?â
âTwo hundred, baby,â Deacon said, flexing with a grin.
Yep, there it was. That faint reddish glow on Grantâs cheeks. And he kept looking everywhere except at Deacon. Specifically anywhere that wasnât Deaconâs arms.
Okay, yes, he was showing off a little.
Could anyone blame him when faced with this guy?
âAh, well, uh, thereâs some good studies relating physical exertion to mental capacity,â Grant stammered out.
Deacon leaned forward. Caught Grantâs eye. Maybe nothing would ever come of this. Heâd told himself a hundred timesâmaybe even a thousandâthat was true. And most of the time, he was okay with that. Alright, not okay, but resigned to it. He wasnât even sure Grant was interested, though any one of his friends would have told him he was being stupid. He was Deacon Harris. He didnât usually have to work to get anyone, which was probably why he didnât really find any of those relationships worth continuing past a few nights.
âMaybe worth testing out some of them?â Deacon suggested.
âWith your pull-ups?â Grant dished right back, all stammer gone, and a knowing gleam in his green eyes.
âSure,â Deacon said. âWeâll do it after the season. Iâll bring the pull-ups, you bring the brains, okay?â
âItâs a date,â Grant said and then clammed right up, like heâd realized what heâd just said. âChapter thirteen,â he said, clearing his throat, flipping the textbook open.
They were halfway through the first lesson when Deacon remembered what had happened this weekendânot that theyâd had a game, and won, thank you very muchâbut that Grant had had a big meeting with an investor who knew one of his grad school professors. Heâd tried to downplay it last Thursday, but it had been clear to Deacon heâd been nervous.
Here heâd forgotten about it completely, too caught up in his excitement over his quiz grade and his almost-certainly-pointless flirting.
What kind of friend would he be if he didnât even bother to ask?
âHow was your meeting, by the way?â Deacon tried to be casual about it, but the eagerness in his voice probably gave him away.
âOh, uh, it went great. Really great, in fact.â Grant paused. âHe wants to invest.â
âYeah? Thatâs great.â
âAnd perfect timing, Iâm finally getting the tests to run the way I want them to, so . . .yeah, I think . . .â He trailed off. Like he didnât want to even voice his conclusion out loud.
âYou think?â Deacon prompted.
âIt might actually happen?â Grant phrased it as a question not as a statement.
âYou mean, in a few years I might be telling people I knew Grant Green when he was just a lowly tutor in grad school?â
Grant rolled his eyes. âI doubt it. If anyoneâs gonna be famousââ
Deacon didnât let him finish his sentence. âDonât,â he warned.
He hated it when people assumed heâd end up not only being drafted high in the NFL but that his NFL careerâyet to actually beginâwould be hugely successful.
So many great college players never made the transition.
While Deacon certainly didnât intend to be one of them and actually was working hard at making sure he was ready for NFL-caliber competition, there were no guarantees.
âI know youâre paranoid,â Grant said affectionately. Like he found Deaconâs superstition charming.
âIâm a realist,â Deacon said. âStill, Iâm fucking thrilled for you, man. Thatâs great. Seems like everythingâs falling into place for you.â
âYeah,â Grant said, not sounding as enthused as Deacon had expected.
âYouâre not happy about it?â
Grant hesitated. Deacon had learned some of his expressions over the last few months and he saw so many emotions cross over his face. Some he could identify. Some he couldnât.
âYeah, of course, itâs great,â Grant said. âJust . . .change, you know?â
Deacon couldnât say exactly what change he didnât like, but it was clear there was something he wasnât thrilled with.
âMaybe itâll be a good change,â Deacon said, trying for optimism.
âGuess weâll see,â Grant said. âOkay, standard deviation. Does it make sense? Do we need to go through a few more examples? Practical work? I can set you a few problems. Would that help?â
Deacon shook his head. âNope, makes sense. I think Iâve got it.â
âOkay, letâs move on to a slightly more complicated version.â
Grant usually kept them moving, though he was conscientious about making sure Deacon understood exactly what they were talking about. Sometimes Deacon could get him to relax and flirt a little more, but today was apparently not one of those days. Instead, Grant seemed to be on a mission.
Ten minutes later, Deacon tried again.
âSo what about the change donât you like?â
Grant stared at him in confusion.
âYou saidâwell, you impliedâit wasnât going to be a good change.â
âYou donât give up, do you?â Grant huffed out. Frustrated, yet clearly affectionate. âI just thought Iâd finish my degree, you know? Get my doctorate. Slave away for a few years in complete obscurity, first.â
âAnd youâre not going to?â Deacon didnât like the frisson of unease that skittered through him. Or the way Grantâs eyes wouldnât meet his right now.
âThe investor wants me to leave school. Focus on the project. Get it off the ground now, while the marketâs ripe.â
âAh.â Deacon didnât know what to say. You canât leave, not now. Not like this. But he couldnât say that. Even with Grant talking around it, it was clear this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
âThe terms of the deal are very favorable. If things go well, Iâd get to buy him out in a few years. Own the company outright.â
âAnd you canât wait to do this?â
âTechnology changes too fast.â
Deacon didnât understand that at all. Only that every few years he got a new phone and it seemed to do more than it did before. Maybe he was just that big dumb football player.
âI havenât decided yet,â Grant added hurriedly.
âBut youâd be insane not to do it?â Deacon questioned.
And Iâm insane for thinking about asking you to stay. To freaking tutor me in statistics. A class Iâm now passing. Just because I want another lesson. Even another minute.
âYeah,â Grant said, nodding.
âThen you should do it.â It was hard to get the words out of his mouth even as his brain yelled at him that this was always going to happen. He just hadnât expected it would happen yet.
âNext year, youâll be in the NFL, and Iâll own a company.â Grant smiled, but it looked forced.
It felt like a reminder to Deaconâmaybe even a reminder to both of themâthat this wasnât going to happen.
He hadnât needed one. Heâd known the score. And yet, it still stung, deep down, in a place it didnât feel like any other person had ever touched.
âLook at us, killing it,â Deacon said, attempting lightness. But failing.
Grant bowed his head towards the textbook, and Deacon nearly said something, something insane, like we can still be friends.
But were they even friends?
No. Grant was his statistics tutor, whom he paid to teach him. They werenât friends.
âGuess weâre gonna have to do that experiment some other time,â Deacon said when Grant still didnât say anything.
âYeah,â Grant mumbled, and then he was flipping the page of the textbook, dragging them back to the reason they were here.
The only reason heâs here. And youâre here.
Deacon got the message.
And he got the message, three days later, when Grant emailed him, the date stamp saying two thirty-four in the morning, to tell him that heâd made his decision. He was leaving school and starting his company. A refund for the remainder of the semester would be in the mail to his address.
Deacon stared at the email for ages. Looking for something else. Hoping that he could read between the lines. But Grant had kept the email scrupulously polite and professional. Like theyâd never flirted together. Like theyâd never made that date.
When the check came in the mail a few days later, he tore open the envelope with trembling fingers, even though after that impersonal email, heâd only expected to see the check.
The check was in there, blue ink on a white background. And a Post-it note, bright yellow, stuck to it.
Good luck in the NFL, it read.
Grant hadnât signed it, but the man whoâd written it felt like the real Grant. Not the stranger whoâd tried to distance himself in that email.
He shouldnât have, but he saved the note anyway, carefully folded in his wallet.
Every time he was afraidâthe night before the Combine, at the Draft, when he first went to Charleston, and for so many moments in the years after thatâheâd pull it out, brush those bold blue letters with his fingertips.
Remember that Grant had believed in him, even though heâd had no reason to.
Saturday Series Spotlight
Charleston Condors
A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just as weird in Raleigh.
Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasnât a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. Sheâs published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.
The Score #3
The Play #4
Charleston Condors
Rainbow Clause
Los Angeles Riptide Series
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