Summary:
Carter Maxwell knows he’s a screwup. Four teams in three seasons tells the story, as much as he wishes it didn’t.
But finally, he’s landed in a good place, where he likes the team and the team actually likes him. Even the Condors' current rebuilding mode suits him. There’s a new owner. New coach. New players. New rules.
But one rule hasn’t changed: don’t 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 Carter’s 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 didn’t take into account just how persuasive Carter is—or just how desperately he desires to be persuaded. Or how, while spending time with Carter, they’ll somehow stumble into a fake relationship that begins to feel all too real.
It doesn’t matter that Carter’s never fallen in love or that he’s never been in a real relationship. It doesn’t matter that Ian’s risking his future as an agent.
He’s determined to score the impossible and reform the bad boy—only 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 he’d 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 hasn’t changed: don’t 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 college—and 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 they’d be forced into confronting the Condors’ most difficult challenge yet—but that they’d face it together, hand in hand, tackling their critics and proving once and for all that love doesn’t 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 didn’t mean that he could actually fucking control it.
They’d 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 didn’t matter that he’d 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, he’d wanted it so much more for Micah—and for the whole team.
Proving that they’d left that shit from last year behind once and for all.
But you didn’t,that voice inside him, with its nasty, sly tone, reminded him. You can’t ever leave it behind. You’re never leaving anything behind. You’re carrying it with you forever.
Fuck.
Carter’s fists clenched, and he tried to relax them by degrees, but they wouldn’t unclench.
He’d need to get up from this bench soon.
He could feel eyes on him. So many fucking eyes. Not just in the Condors’ stadium, but everywhere, the cameras trained on him.
No doubt all the media were saying their usual bullshit.
Carter Maxwell’s lost it again.
Carter Maxwell doesn’t have it. Maybe he never did.
Carter Maxwell’s 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 can’t even handle himself.
It wouldn’t bother him so much if it weren’t all true.
He felt a body drop down next to him, but Carter didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t trust himself if he did.
And wasn’t that the whole fucking problem?
He didn’t trust himself.
How was anyone else supposed to trust him—how were Riley and his teammates supposed to trust him if he couldn’t even believe enough to trust himself?
“You alright?”
Carter didn’t know who he’d expected the person to be.
But Grant Green—known as Mr. G to his team since he’d bought the Condors in the offseason—was the last person he’d 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 can’t, I’m gonna have to let you go or trade you again—Mr. G said, “You alright, Carter?”
His tone was deceptively casual. Like Carter hadn’t broken two tablets, destroyed countless pieces of equipment, and raged across the Condors’ sideline and the locker room during halftime. Like none of that had happened.
Carter opened one eye.
Mr. G’s expression was just as mild as his tone.
There wasn’t even a hint of judgment in his gaze. Concern, yes, but judgment, no. Like what he worried about first and foremost wasn’t the football team he’d spent nearly a billion dollars on, but Carter himself.
That, unfortunately, was not Carter’s experience with the NFL so far.
“You alive in there?” Mr. G asked again, this time with a hint of a smile turning his lips up.
“Uh, yeah, I…I’m okay,” Carter said cautiously.
He didn’t know if it was true.
Now or in the future.
The coping mechanisms—he wasn’t stupid enough to even call them that, because screwing your way across a city was hardly therapist approved—he’d been using forever weren’t working so well anymore.
He knew it.
But he didn’t know what else to do about it.
“You sure?” Mr. G asked.
Carter sighed. “No.” He leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees.
Mr. G patted him on the back. “You want to do something about it?” The question was offered again without judgment and without pressure. Like it was actually Carter’s choice. Like Mr. G would support him either way.
Carter didn’t know what to say. Of course he wanted to change. Of course he didn’t like being this way.
He didn’t enjoy it.
Okay, well, that was partially a lie. He might not enjoy the problem, but he’d sure enjoyed the Band-Aid he slapped across it—the sex. If he didn’t appreciate it, if he didn’t get what he did out of it, it wouldn’t 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 awful—and it made up Carter’s mind for him.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, I would like to do something about it.”
“I know you’ve talked to Mitchell a few times.”
“You know Alec?” Alec Mitchell was one of the most renowned professional agents in the NFL. He managed a lot of very famous players—most of them queer, not particularly surprising since he was queer himself. And he’d famously turned around Chase Riley’s career—another 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. “Known 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.”
Carter felt that judgment—but as censure went it was astonishingly mild.
“As the owner aren’t you supposed to not want us to have decent representation who’ll milk you for every freaking dime?” Carter joked weakly.
Mr. G rolled his eyes. “I want you to have someone who’ll fight for you and be in your corner. Who’ll put you first. I do my best, but in the end, I gotta put the team first.”
“You gonna do that now?” Carter wanted to swallow the question back down but it escaped before he could.
“You mean, am I going to trade you or drop you?” Mr. G paused. “No. 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. I’m stubborn. I’m not going to do that.”
“Oh.” Carter didn’t 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.
“But seriously, call Alec back. Get some help, Carter.” Mr. G gave him another gentle slap on the back and then stood.
You need it, Carter heard Mr. G’s unspoken admonition, but for once, it didn’t 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.
He’d 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 Alec’s clients.
He and Alec weren’t 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.
“Thanks for coming here, Ian,” Alec said, shooting him a friendly smile. Alec was a friendly sort of person—until he wasn’t. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A wolf who devoured both anyone who stood in his way and anyone who deserved it.
He’d gone up against so many heavy hitters in the NFL and he’d 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 wanted—not power for power’s sake, but the power to help others.
“Of course,” 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 didn’t already know exactly what Ian wanted.
“I hear you’re interested in becoming an agent,” Alec said and Ian’s heart rate accelerated.
Was this it? He’d been trying forever, hoping that Alec might give him a chance—or a job—and teach him how to be him.
He’d hoped that this might be what this summons was about, but he hadn’t been sure.
“Yes,” Ian said, nodding emphatically.
“You didn’t go to law school,” Alec observed. He had. Ian knew everything about Alec Mitchell. His history. All the fights. All the wins.
“I took some law classes.” A lot of law classes, in fact.
“And certainly you know how to manage people,” 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 didn’t all stay sober, but it wasn’t because Ian wasn’t fully committed to helping them.
He was very good at his job, but that didn’t mean he wanted to keep doing it.
“You could say that,” Ian said, trying to match Alec’s casual tone, and not quite making it there. Nobody could blame him; he wanted this chance too fucking badly.
“That’s the biggest part of this job,” Alec observed, leaning back in his chair. “The managing.”
“I’ve heard that,” Ian said cautiously.
“I’ve got this new client,” Alec said. He stood, and began to pace behind his chair, worry creasing his face. “I’m not sure what to do with him.”
“What to do with him?” Ian didn’t understand and wasn’t going to pretend even to get a job he wanted very much.
Be honest with him, he’s 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 couldn’t 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. “He’s not got an addiction, per se, but I think he could use someone like you.”
Ian hesitated. He didn’t 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. “You want Ian Parker the sober companion,” he said.
“Yes, and no,” Alec said, smiling now. “I 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 we’d help each other. You help him, which will undoubtedly help me, and then I’ll help you. You want to be an agent? I’ll make that happen.”
“You’ll teach me? Hire me?”
“Yes,” Alec said firmly.
Ian considered this. “Why can’t you do this yourself?” he asked.
Was the situation so bad Alec couldn’t do it himself and that meant it was a fool’s errand for Ian too?
“He’s on the east coast, and my husband would kill me if I spent the next few months in South Carolina,” 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. He’d finally won a Super Bowl last season with the Los Angeles Riptide, after Alec had succeeded in convincing the Stars, Spencer’s old—and homophobic—team to trade him.
It was Alec’s masterful handling of that situation that had convinced Ian he wanted to be an agent. He’d 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 weren’t weapons at all.
“It’s Carter Maxwell, isn’t it?”
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, he’d done it because he’d realized if he was ever going to get what he wanted, being informed was the bare minimum requirement. He—and everyone else—had heard about Carter Maxwell’s problems, and also when he’d started trying to deal with them by signing with Alec two weeks ago.
Alec nodded.
“I thought I could handle the situation from here,” Alec said, “but if the last two weeks are any indication, that’s not realistic. I need someone on the ground. Living in his house. Monitoring him. Helping him walk the right path. You’re the perfect choice.”
Carter Maxwell.
He was infamous for being traded more times than seasons he’d been in the NFL.
Infamous for his temper. For his voracious and unapologetic sexual appetite.
And for his gorgeous face.
“Well, not perfect,” Alec added apologetically. “I guess the perfect choice would probably be someone who was asexual.”
Ian had been out for a number of years—and no doubt that was one of the things Alec had discovered when he’d done his research on Ian.
Because there was no question that Alec had done his research.
“Carter’s going to hit on me.” Ian said it matter-of-factly.
Alec raised a flawlessly groomed dark eyebrow. He always looked this way—in those immaculate tailored suits, presenting an irreproachable front. Ian had dressed carefully this morning with that in mind. He didn’t own suits, but he’d worn a fitted polo and a pair of slacks. He’d even cleaned and polished his best pair of loafers, and slipped into them this morning hoping they’d give him the confidence he couldn’t quite own yet.
“Carter hit on me,” Alec said.
Honestly, Ian couldn’t 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 didn’t stop some guys.
Ian wouldn’t 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.
“Noted,” Ian said. Like he was taking the job. Which…of course he was taking the job.
“You’d be perfect if you were straight, too—though I wouldn’t put it past Carter to turn a straight guy not-so-straight,” Alec said wryly, “but otherwise, you’re exactly the kind of person that I trust to handle Carter.”
“He needs to be handled?”
It was kind of a stupid question.
“You didn’t see the meltdown a few weeks ago? Against the Piranhas?”
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 he’d done with Chase Riley.
Apparently the answer to that question was: not quite as easily as he’d hoped.
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“He wants to be better. Came to me, because he thought I might be able to help him. I do think I can.” Alec hesitated. “But I need someone there to do a lot of that day-to-day work.”
“And that someone is going to be me.”
“You’re the best option I’ve got. Can you do it? Moira said you were between clients.”
He was, because he’d been hesitating to take another one. He didn’t particularly feel compelled to start the process over, so for the last few months, he’d been dithering, turning down perfectly good actresses and rock stars, who’d all heard great things about his work.
But he hadn’t been motivated to help them, and the one thing he’d discovered after five years as a sober companion was it wasn’t easy and he had to want to do it. Had to feel called to the work.
The only question was if he was willing—and wanting—to 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.
“I can do it,” Ian said.
“I thought you might be able to fit me in,” 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.
“Tell me everything,” Ian said.
Alec looked surprised.
“Do you think I ever go into a situation not knowing every detail? Or wanting to know every detail?” Ian challenged. “I can’t say I always get what I need, but you’re smart. You know Carter. You know what I need.”
“Currently, we have a list of behavioral guidelines that I’ve asked him to follow.” 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).
“And it’s not going well, with all these restrictions?” Ian questioned.
Alec’s sigh was heavy. Full of resignation.
“He told me last night when we talked that he thought they were more guidelines, not rules.”
“So he’s not following them.”
Alec shrugged. “Half-heartedly, maybe. He’s also going to therapy, with the hopes that he can learn some better coping mechanisms to control his temper.”
“That sounds like a good start,” Ian said. He already could guess who the therapist was, even though Alec hadn’t 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 weren’t important.
“It is a good start. But last night, he didn’t get in until after two a.m. And I’m pretty sure rule number one got blown to hell.”
“How do you know?” Ian wondered if Carter Maxwell was an oversharer too, and that was another thing he’d need to learn to deal with. Honestly, though, he wasn’t particularly worried about resisting Carter Maxwell’s advances. Sure, the guy was hot. Sure, the guy was built. But he’d been hit on by half of Hollywood, and Ian had exceptional self-control. He wasn’t controlled by his dick; he controlled it.
“How do I know?” Alec chuckled. “He told me. He had sex with not just one, but three people last night.”
Three people. Jesus.
“And,” Alec added, “he was very sorry, but he clearly did not regret it.”
“Oh. Well. I guess it’s good he’s not in a habit of hiding things?” That was a start. Ian had had a few clients over the years who’d believed the sober agreement they’d signed meant that as long as he didn’t find out about what they were doing, they were good.
But that was not the way it worked.
“He’s definitely transparent,” Alec admitted.
“Does he know you’re hiring me?”
“I told him I was working on an altered plan.” Alec paused. “We’ll fly out tomorrow, together. Meet with the Condors’ owner and the head coach. When I say you’re going wherever Carter goes, I mean, you’re going wherever Carter goes. We’re not taking any more chances.”
“I can do that.” 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.
“We’ll fly on my private jet. I’ll have my assistant forward the itinerary,” Alec said.
Was it any surprise Ian wanted to be him? The man had a freaking private jet, and he’d gotten it by being freaking awesome.
“How long should I prepare to be there for?”
Alec shrugged one shoulder. “Two months. At least. Maybe more. Maybe through the whole season.”
“He needs that much help?”
“Listen, 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 don’t trust him not to backslide right back to where he was.”
“Right.” Ian got it. Once, he’d 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.
“I know this goes without saying but…” Alec inhaled sharply, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. “You can’t have sex with him. You absolutely cannot have sex with him.”
Ian stared at the man in front of him.
“I know,” he said slowly. “I don’t sleep with my other clients, either. Ever.”
“No offense, but your other clients aren’t Carter Maxwell. The man’s slippery as hell. Charming as all get-out. Friendly and sweet, like the most adorable puppy dog you’ve ever seen, and so you let down your guard. Begin to trust him. And then he cranks the sexual magnetism up to eleven, and it’s…well, nobody could blame you for being tempted. The man could tempt a saint. A whole bunch of saints, in fact.”
Ian raised an eyebrow.
“Not me, obviously,” Alec said. He flushed. “I’m very happily married, which you know. I just…I’ve heard stories. A lot of stories.”
“Believe me,” Ian said, emphasizing each and every word, “me wanting to sleep with Carter Maxwell is not going to be a problem.”
Alec did not look reassured, but what else could he do? He’d 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 he’d been gunning for, since he’d known he wanted to be an agent.
“I sure fucking hope not,” Alec said.
The Play #4
Chapter 1
Thirteen years ago
Everyone on campus knew who Deacon Harris was.
In one of those ’80s Brat Pack movies, he’d have been called “The Big Man on Campus.”
Grant wouldn’t 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 didn’t track how many espresso shots you’d 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 everything—if he could just get it to freaking work—but, even he, despite his head-down attitude, knew who Deacon Harris was.
“Hey. You must be Grant,” 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.
“Hi,” Grant said cautiously. He nearly said, And you must be Deacon, but clearly the guy was used to being identified without introduction.
“You can do this?” 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.
He’d triple checked his email when the first message had come in from someone claiming they were Deacon Harris.
At first, he’d been convinced it was a friend playing a prank on him. Surely Deacon Harris—Deacon Harris!—did 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 Deacon’s email, as Grant had spent the last three years of college supplementing his meager income and scholarships with tutoring.
Grant tapped the paper. “Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. He’d learned early on that it pissed all the other students off to learn that he’d been taking the classes they were struggling in when he’d 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.
Grant—who was as far from a football fan as you could possibly get and didn’t even have crushes—had nearly run into a tree the first time he’d passed the guy on the quad.
He’d 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.
“So how does this work?” Deacon asked, leaning forward, setting his big beefy arms on the table. It wobbled, and Grant’s breath quickened. The guy’s muscles had muscles—a situation not helping his nerves.
Grant, who couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched a sports event of any kind, had taken to tuning into games, just because he’d 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.
“How does it work?” Grant hated how his voice shook a little.
“Yeah.” Deacon quirked up an eyebrow.
Possibly the most frustrating facet of Deacon Harris was he didn’t seem to comprehend the complete distraction and utter destruction he left in his wake.
He probably didn’t even know how Grant’s heart stuttered at that look he was giving him.
“Did you bring your text?” Grant asked.
“I got a text?”
Normally this cluelessness would’ve made Grant internally crazy. Externally, he tried to brush it off. Just another student who doesn’t 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. “Yes, your textbook,” 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.
“We get textbooks?” Deacon seemed even more clueless than he’d been a minute ago, and Grant told himself that was not making him a little crazy.
Except it was.
“This is a school, you’re supposed to learn. From textbooks. You know. Those overpriced books you buy that you need to study so you can pass your classes.”
Deacon burst out laughing. “Oh my God,” he said, chuckling so hard and for so long one of those big calloused hands—hands that had starred in way too many of Grant’s fantasies—gravitated to his pectoral muscle, gripping it as he lost it. “Your face. You actually thought . . .I didn’t know . . .what a textbook was.”
Normally, Grant’s back might’ve gone up at Deacon’s words. He might’ve believed Deacon was laughing at him. But then Deacon flashed him a conspiratorial smile, and instead, Deacon was laughing with him.
’Cause yeah, Grant couldn’t deny he was laughing, too.
“Well, you looked at me like I was crazy,” Grant said.
“Well, you looked at me like I was crazy,” Deacon said. “Maybe I’m failing statistics, but I’m not some big dumb football player.”
Grant wouldn’t admit, even under torture, that yes, he’d thought exactly that.
“Yeah, I got the textbook, it’s back at my place,” Deacon said. He crossed his arms over his chest, and damn him, if that didn’t make him look even more impressive.
“Is this you inviting me back to your place?” Grant didn’t know what gave him the courage. He wasn’t that kind of guy—even if Deacon Harris did have that kind of reputation; everyone said he didn’t care what sex you were, as long as you were hot and funny and charming, he’d be happy to grace your bed for a short, but memorable time—but 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 didn’t want his soul analyzed, though he wouldn’t be averse to having his underwear invaded. Still, he knew the score. He just wanted to take Deacon’s money and use it to buy himself coffee and egg and cheese sandwiches for the rest of the semester.
That’s 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. He’d seen enough of them, assertive, confident girls and laughing, charming guys, tucked under his big arm, as they strolled through the quad.
“You are not what I expected,” Deacon finally said.
“What, you expected some kind of mousy guy afraid of his own shadow? A guy drowning in pocket protectors? Unable to make even basic conversation?” Grant retorted.
Okay, he was sort-of that guy. Minus the pocket protectors, anyway.
“Kinda like you expected a big dumb football player who relies on brute force but doesn’t have a hope in hell of passing statistics,” Deacon said, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
Grant didn’t know what was loosening his tongue. Perhaps it was a temporary insanity brought on by the tantalizing and yet ultimately hopeless possibility of Deacon’s nearness.
“Fair,” Grant acknowledged.
“Why don’t we do this?” Deacon suggested, waving in the space between them. “We’ll leave our expectations at the door. Both of us.”
“Works for me.” Grant told himself he was also leaving any pipe dreams of Deacon being interested in his underwear behind, too.
“Good. I’ll bring the textbook next time.”
Grant’s fingers were trembling as he pulled out his tablet, glanced at his calendar. “I usually do Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays,” he said, “but I don’t think—”
“I can’t do Fridays,” Deacon agreed. “We’re often traveling on Fridays, for games.”
“Right,” 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. “I could do Thursday, instead, if you wanted.”
“Yeah?” Deacon’s face lit up. “Oh, man, that would be a lifesaver, if you could.”
“Sounds good. We can do Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays for the rest of the semester.”
Somehow that sounded like way too much one-on-one time with Deacon, and also not nearly enough.
“You sure?”
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.
“I’m sure,” 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 wouldn’t derail the easy friendliness they’d found in the last ten minutes.
But it didn’t. Deacon just nodded. “I’ll bring you a check tomorrow,” he said. As easy as that. He didn’t even try to negotiate the rate, which was something Grant was sadly used to by now.
“Let’s talk about this,” 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.
“Ugh, do we have to?” Even looking like he was being marched to the gallows, Deacon’s eyes still twinkled, unexpectedly bright despite their depths.
“Yes.”
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.
“Gonna be tough on me, huh?” Deacon teased. “I like that.”
Grant certainly intended to be—though Deacon flirting with him wasn’t going to make anything easy. “Yes.”
“Alright, then. Where did I go wrong?”
So many of Grant’s 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 didn’t 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.
“We’re gonna work on some of your basics,” he said, pulling out a blank sheet of paper from the stack next to his elbow.
“That sounds . . .” Deacon winced. “Not very interesting?”
“It’s not, but it’s gonna mean these go away,” Grant said, pointing to the big red F.
“Then basic away,” Deacon said, waving at him.
Deacon hadn’t had very many expectations of his statistics tutor. Lie, his brain supplied: you had zero expectations of your statistics tutor.
The frustration that he’d needed a statistics tutor at all had sucked up most of his brain power whenever he’d considered the situation.
But he hadn’t expected Grant Green.
The cliche Grant had dished back at him—What, you expected some kind of mousy guy afraid of his own shadow? A guy drowning in pocket protectors? Unable to make even basic conversation?—had been exactly what he’d predicted when booking his first tutor.
But Grant wasn’t really like that.
He might be quieter, and more apt to blush than to flirt back whenever Deacon couldn’t 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 didn’t understand statistics.
Nope.
The problem was not statistics.
It was the crush Deacon didn’t 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 he’d never been to a weight room, though his trim build had begun to star in every single one of Deacon’s dreams.
He’d claim he didn’t know why, but that would be a lie.
Maybe he wouldn’t have looked twice at the guy if he walked by him, but he’d 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 Deacon’s grade in statistics, and not just because of the money Deacon had given him.
Deacon didn’t think he’d ever met Grant’s awkwardly-earnest-but-undeniably-charming equal.
“Look at that!” Grant crowed with obvious pleasure as Deacon set his latest test on the desk. “A B+! That’s awesome, Deac.”
Deacon was used to people using his nickname. People who didn’t 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.
He’s not your friend. He’s your freaking tutor. Get it together, Harris.
But getting it together wasn’t going to be happening any time soon. Deacon’s heart rate accelerated just from taking a seat opposite the guy.
If Grant had been like any other guy—or girl—around campus, he’d have made his move ages ago, not worrying about acceptance or rejection. But Grant wasn’t 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 Grant’s league.
Even though they spent most of their time focused on Deacon’s 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.
It’s not like you aren’t 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. He’d 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 didn’t want to accept it, the way he once had.
“Let’s go to chapter thirteen. That’s what the syllabus says you’re starting this week. Standard deviations.”
“Did you know you’re even more brutal a taskmaster than some of my football coaches?” Deacon teased him.
“Maybe next time we’ll meet at the practice field and I’ll make you . . .” Grant hesitated. Like he wasn’t sure what kind of physical task would prove to be difficult enough.
Deacon chuckled. “You’d make me run stairs? Do sprints? A hundred pull-ups?”
It wasn’t 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.
“A hundred?” Grant asked, with wide eyes. “You can do a hundred pull-ups?”
“Two hundred, baby,” Deacon said, flexing with a grin.
Yep, there it was. That faint reddish glow on Grant’s cheeks. And he kept looking everywhere except at Deacon. Specifically anywhere that wasn’t Deacon’s arms.
Okay, yes, he was showing off a little.
Could anyone blame him when faced with this guy?
“Ah, well, uh, there’s some good studies relating physical exertion to mental capacity,” Grant stammered out.
Deacon leaned forward. Caught Grant’s eye. Maybe nothing would ever come of this. He’d told himself a hundred times—maybe even a thousand—that was true. And most of the time, he was okay with that. Alright, not okay, but resigned to it. He wasn’t even sure Grant was interested, though any one of his friends would have told him he was being stupid. He was Deacon Harris. He didn’t usually have to work to get anyone, which was probably why he didn’t really find any of those relationships worth continuing past a few nights.
“Maybe worth testing out some of them?” Deacon suggested.
“With your pull-ups?” Grant dished right back, all stammer gone, and a knowing gleam in his green eyes.
“Sure,” Deacon said. “We’ll do it after the season. I’ll bring the pull-ups, you bring the brains, okay?”
“It’s a date,” Grant said and then clammed right up, like he’d realized what he’d just said. “Chapter thirteen,” he said, clearing his throat, flipping the textbook open.
They were halfway through the first lesson when Deacon remembered what had happened this weekend—not that they’d had a game, and won, thank you very much—but that Grant had had a big meeting with an investor who knew one of his grad school professors. He’d tried to downplay it last Thursday, but it had been clear to Deacon he’d been nervous.
Here he’d 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 didn’t even bother to ask?
“How was your meeting, by the way?” Deacon tried to be casual about it, but the eagerness in his voice probably gave him away.
“Oh, uh, it went great. Really great, in fact.” Grant paused. “He wants to invest.”
“Yeah? That’s great.”
“And perfect timing, I’m finally getting the tests to run the way I want them to, so . . .yeah, I think . . .” He trailed off. Like he didn’t want to even voice his conclusion out loud.
“You think?” Deacon prompted.
“It might actually happen?” Grant phrased it as a question not as a statement.
“You mean, in a few years I might be telling people I knew Grant Green when he was just a lowly tutor in grad school?”
Grant rolled his eyes. “I doubt it. If anyone’s gonna be famous—”
Deacon didn’t let him finish his sentence. “Don’t,” he warned.
He hated it when people assumed he’d end up not only being drafted high in the NFL but that his NFL career—yet to actually begin—would be hugely successful.
So many great college players never made the transition.
While Deacon certainly didn’t 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.
“I know you’re paranoid,” Grant said affectionately. Like he found Deacon’s superstition charming.
“I’m a realist,” Deacon said. “Still, I’m fucking thrilled for you, man. That’s great. Seems like everything’s falling into place for you.”
“Yeah,” Grant said, not sounding as enthused as Deacon had expected.
“You’re not happy about it?”
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 couldn’t.
“Yeah, of course, it’s great,” Grant said. “Just . . .change, you know?”
Deacon couldn’t say exactly what change he didn’t like, but it was clear there was something he wasn’t thrilled with.
“Maybe it’ll be a good change,” Deacon said, trying for optimism.
“Guess we’ll see,” Grant said. “Okay, 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?”
Deacon shook his head. “Nope, makes sense. I think I’ve got it.”
“Okay, let’s move on to a slightly more complicated version.”
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.
“So what about the change don’t you like?”
Grant stared at him in confusion.
“You said—well, you implied—it wasn’t going to be a good change.”
“You don’t give up, do you?” Grant huffed out. Frustrated, yet clearly affectionate. “I just thought I’d finish my degree, you know? Get my doctorate. Slave away for a few years in complete obscurity, first.”
“And you’re not going to?” Deacon didn’t like the frisson of unease that skittered through him. Or the way Grant’s eyes wouldn’t meet his right now.
“The investor wants me to leave school. Focus on the project. Get it off the ground now, while the market’s ripe.”
“Ah.” Deacon didn’t know what to say. You can’t leave, not now. Not like this. But he couldn’t say that. Even with Grant talking around it, it was clear this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
“The terms of the deal are very favorable. If things go well, I’d get to buy him out in a few years. Own the company outright.”
“And you can’t wait to do this?”
“Technology changes too fast.”
Deacon didn’t 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.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Grant added hurriedly.
“But you’d be insane not to do it?” Deacon questioned.
And I’m insane for thinking about asking you to stay. To freaking tutor me in statistics. A class I’m now passing. Just because I want another lesson. Even another minute.
“Yeah,” Grant said, nodding.
“Then you should do it.” 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 hadn’t expected it would happen yet.
“Next year, you’ll be in the NFL, and I’ll own a company.” Grant smiled, but it looked forced.
It felt like a reminder to Deacon—maybe even a reminder to both of them—that this wasn’t going to happen.
He hadn’t needed one. He’d known the score. And yet, it still stung, deep down, in a place it didn’t feel like any other person had ever touched.
“Look at us, killing it,” 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 weren’t friends.
“Guess we’re gonna have to do that experiment some other time,” Deacon said when Grant still didn’t say anything.
“Yeah,” Grant mumbled, and then he was flipping the page of the textbook, dragging them back to the reason they were here.
The only reason he’s here. And you’re 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 he’d 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 they’d never flirted together. Like they’d 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, he’d 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 hadn’t signed it, but the man who’d written it felt like the real Grant. Not the stranger who’d tried to distance himself in that email.
He shouldn’t have, but he saved the note anyway, carefully folded in his wallet.
Every time he was afraid—the night before the Combine, at the Draft, when he first went to Charleston, and for so many moments in the years after that—he’d pull it out, brush those bold blue letters with his fingertips.
Remember that Grant had believed in him, even though he’d had no reason to.
Saturday Series Spotlight
Charleston Condors
Kitchen Gods
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, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.
The Score #3
The Play #4
Charleston Condors
Rainbow Clause
Los Angeles Riptide Series
No comments:
Post a Comment