Page 1 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)

ONE

GREYSON

Winning this game feels almost as good as having a woman underneath me. My teammates throw me onto their shoulders, chanting, "QB! QB!"

Even with management dismantling key components of our team, citing salary cap issues, we are triumphant.

I stand in the middle of the locker room with several green bottles spraying in my direction. This team. My team. We're AFC Conference Champions. One more game, and I'll have my second championship ring.

If you haven't been soaked in champagne, you haven't lived. It's the epitome of the taste of victory. The sting when it sneaks into your eyes. The little bubbles sitting on your skin. And the few drops that reach your mouth? The cherry on top.

When the celebration comes to an end, one of my offensive linemen says, "Hey, let's go to Hillenbrand's tonight. I arranged a VIP room for twenty."

"When did you make the reservation?" I ask with a raised eyebrow .

"Wednesday. I knew my quarterback would come through," Ockerman says with a big, goofy grin on his face. He grabs me in a bear hug, and I do mean a bear hug. He's big, burly, and the dude is covered in hair from head to toe, having never met a razor.

"Sounds good, but I'm enforcing a curfew. We deserve to party, but we need to keep our goal in plain sight." I prefer night games, but in this case, I'm happy we played the three-thirty game. This will be our only night to enjoy the win before getting back to it on Monday.

There's some towel flipping on the way to the showers. By the time I'm finished, most of the guys are gone. My phone rings, and my brother's name pops up on the screen. I press decline. Seconds later, he sends a text message.

J.D.: Answer your phone, MF.

Laughing, I call him back. "Hey, bro. Sorry, I was making plans with a teammate."

"Congrats. You played a hell of a game," he says excitedly.

"Thanks. It was fun."

"Greyson, you need to make quicker reads when you play Atlanta. Their defense is the best in the league, and you need to move your feet."

Of course, he can't stop with a positive remark. J.D. is the head coach of the Austin Armadillos and former league MVP.

It's hard living in the shadow of the perfect player, even though he never made it to a Super Bowl. He needs to remember that I'm the one playing now, not him.

"Can you please just be my brother instead of my coach? Just one damn day." I sigh as I place my personal items into my small duffel bag—a picture, my conference champions hat, and T-shirt—then grab an empty champagne bottle to display on my bookcase.

There's silence on the phone. Both of us thinking too much.

Wishing my mom was here to experience this with me.

Dad and my younger siblings were given field access, so I was able to hug them at least. My sister, Noelle, has a cheer competition tomorrow, so they had to catch a flight right after the game.

Luckily, we could have a low-key dinner at my house last night.

"Sorry, it's the coach in me," J.D. mumbles. "Of the last-place Austin Armadillos."

Thank God I don't play for him. That would be disastrous.

"No, I think it's the older-brother syndrome.

Do you remember the time in Pop Warner when you came off the sidelines, waving your arms, explaining the play?

I think I was nine, and you were twelve.

You weren't on my team or the coaching staff, and you ran out on the field.

The team wouldn't let me forget it." I chuckle, remembering that J.D. looked like an overzealous nut.

J.D. mutters, "Well, you didn't read the defense and nearly threw an interception, which is exactly why you need to run your reads quicker. I want you to win this. Cement your place in history."

"One thing I've never questioned is how much you want to win or want me to win." My voice catches in my throat. "I've got this."

"You've got this. You've done it once, and you can do it this time. Congrats again. "

Poking the bear, I ask, "Are you going to Noelle's competition since you're finished playing football?"

"All right, you beat me this year, but next year my QB will light it up. I can't wait to go head-to-head. But yes, I'll send you a video of her routine. Love ya."

"You, too. I'll call you Friday, but no football talk. I need to stay loose."

After hanging up, I drive thirty minutes to my house in Highlands Ranch.

I have an hour to chill before going to the club.

I make a turkey, cheese, lettuce, and tomato sandwich with Dijon mustard while watching game film, trying to dissect my play.

And fuck if I don't see exactly what J.D.

referenced. I scratch some notes down, then go upstairs to get ready.

I pull on some jeans my publicist sent over. I don't know why I can't just wear regular jeans, but she insists that I wear clothes from my sponsors. Then I thread my arms through a black sport coat over a white button-down.

Grabbing the keys to my Porsche from the counter, I slide into the four-car garage and settle into the gunmetal-gray sports car. I have a good life in Denver.

Thankfully, Hillenbrand's has a VIP entrance with security to keep the mob away. "Great game, Mr. O'Ryan," the valet attendant says as he takes my keys.

"Thanks. Call me Greyson, or the GOAT will do," I laugh in jest. But part of me wants to be remembered as the greatest of all time.

I follow the VIP host to the upper level, my head high as the clubbers realize QB1 is in the house. The club is packed on the main level, celebrating our win while others have no idea that a football game was played today.

Most of the offense is here, even some of the married ones who take every opportunity to party and have extramarital hookups.

Why get married if you're going to cheat? I'll just keep playing the field—discreetly.

Our private host has long black hair and a skimpy tuxedo comparable to a certain "bunny" outfit.

Her tits and ass hang out, and she has on four-inch heels, lengthening her already mile-long legs.

Hillenbrand's is classy, though. My teammates are calling dibs.

I prefer to work a little for the women in my company.

My first year or two in the league, I loved that women were ready and willing, but now I like a little chase.

Our tight end, Rick, is in his rookie season, twenty-three years old and about to play in the biggest game of his life. He's huge—six-foot-six and about two hundred sixty pounds—and he can fly down the field. He calls me over with a wave.

"Hey, after this bottle, do you want to go down to the lower level and use our charms?"

"Sure."

As we finish our fourth bottle of Dom Pérignon, the guys attract girls like flies. They invite one up, and then her entourage comes, too.

"Let's go. I'm tired of cleat chasers."

We use the elevator with security, and as we're getting off, a woman whose body is completely covered garners my attention.

Well, not completely. Her legs are toned, and she's so damn feminine.

Blonde hair, but not fake blonde. It's sandy, with a colored streak framing each side of her face.

I can't tell the color because of the lighting. Maybe pink or red.

She's talking to her friend when they both look up and smile, but to my surprise, neither of them flirts with us. They duck their heads and move through the crowd, sinfully swaying their hips as they make their way to the dance floor.

"Has that ever happened to you? A woman five feet away not hitting on you?" Rick asks as he runs his hand through his hair.

Shaking my head, I respond, "Not in a long time. Did you see her perfect, pouty lips?" Maybe they're part of the I-don't-care-about-football crowd.

We weave through slashing bodies to reach what we call the lookout point—the area where you survey the landscape.

The ratio of women to men is at least two to one.

It makes me wonder if every guy ends up in the soft arms of a woman or if there are some guys who, no matter what they do, go home lonely.

Rick gestures with a double head nod that it's time to dance. He has someone in his sights.

The music thumps wildly as the lights flash, and we swim in a sea of women. How are there so many beautiful women yet not one who makes me want to give up the single life?

A redhead twists and whips her hair around, slapping me in the chest. She doesn't notice, but it stings as if I've been flogged.

She's wearing a miniskirt, and when I say mini, I mean one knuckle deep, and I would be in.

Her top looks like a bra or the top of a bikini, and her flesh is covered with glistening beads of sweat.

I have a feeling she'd be a spark plug in bed.

When the music transitions to another song, she pulls the ends of her hair with both hands, twirling around, making sure I get a good look.

But my eyes are drawn to the woman whose breasts aren't exposed.

Why? I have no idea. I nod to the girls I've been dancing with and cross the floor as the square tiles light up beneath me.

Her back is to me, so I touch her arm. When she turns, I'm struck by the entirety of her. The wind is nearly knocked out of me. Her eyes widen as she looks up at me, and a jaunty smile appears.

I ask, "Do you want to dance?" But it's so loud she would need to be an expert lip-reader to hear me. So I reach for her hand, and when we touch, emotion floods my body. WTF?

She curls her fingers into mine, and I pull her closer. Our bodies move, letting air flow between us. I could watch her all day. The way she moves is like a ballerina in Swan Lake . My mom took us to the ballet once a year, wanting us to be well-rounded and to appreciate the arts as much as sports.

It's sweltering hot in here, so I roll up my sleeves to my elbows, then take her hand once again. I spin her so her back lands against my chest. And fuck if this isn't the best dance I've ever had. My hands slide down her silky dress, reaching her hips.

As we sway our hips, my erection builds, pressing into her back.

I bend my knees so it hits the swell of her cheeks.

She hooks her arm around my neck, stretching her torso.

The dress rises a few inches, and my hands wander to her bare legs.

My fingers skim the smooth, taut flesh. Her chest rises, and her breath hitches.

I move her hair to one side, dipping my head into the perfect pocket. My lips trace the column of her neck. She relaxes into me with her eyes closed. It's like we're in the soft focus of a camera. She's all I can see, with a haze erasing everything else. It's just us.

Needing to taste her lips, I turn her around to face me. Lust sparkles in her eyes as I tug at the material sticking to her skin. "I'm Greyson," I say into her ear.

Then her lips graze my ear as she says, "Sutton."

"Sutton, I'm kissing you now."

She rises onto her toes, and with a simple nod, I take her lips with mine.

This woman in the champagne-colored dress, which shows only her long legs, returns my kiss with sweet but sensual strokes.

One hand is on my neck and the other on my forearm, making small movements.

It may sound cliché, but I feel a connection to this confident, classy woman.

I don't know how long we kiss before Rick interrupts, "Hey, man, Devon needs us. He sent an SOS to my phone."

"Take care of it."

He stares at me, waiting for me to snap out of it.

SOS means Save Our Sac. A few years ago, we came up with a code word for when we needed all hands on deck to stop one of us from landing in jail.

These women don't lead with I have a boyfriend , and we never know until one shows up out of control, wanting to prove he's a tough guy.

I lower my lips to hers, and in the space where we touch and our heartbeats merge—a promise pulses between us. "I'll be right back."

I breathe a heavy sigh. Having to leave this beautiful woman because a woman is cheating on her man ticks me off. It's exactly why I don't do relationships. Who wants a girl who wants to be with someone else?