Page 10 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)

TEN

SUTTON

Standing in the bleachers a few rows up, I watch as J.D.

instructs Greyson, who takes it in stride and hurls the ball downfield to Marquis Redham.

One of the older wide receivers comes up, jawing at Greyson, no doubt unhappy that the ball has been going to the rookie seventy percent of the time by my calculations.

Greyson pats him on the shoulders and puts his helmet against Baker's. I have no idea what they're saying, but after a minute, our QB pats the back of Baker's helmet, and they both take their spots on the field.

Once again, the next throw goes to Marquis, but this time, Baker just runs back to his spot.

Greyson's leadership skills are on full display as he takes a shot downfield to Baker, and Baker catches it over his inside shoulder and runs it in for a touchdown. Greyson runs down the field and chest-bumps Baker, who's celebrating.

Being here on the field for practice is teaching me more than what J.D. and Greyson call X's and O's—it's showing me who wants to learn, who's excited for the season, and, unfortunately, who the bad apples may be. I take notes on each player's behavior and skills to make trades.

J.D. will decide who starts this weekend in our first preseason game against the Louisville Heavyweights, led by Logan Warren, another Super Bowl MVP.

When practice ends, Greyson and the second- and third-string quarterbacks huddle around the coach.

J.D. yells at Greyson. For what, I have no idea. As I walk down the steps, J.D.'s voice carries as if he's on a microphone. Greyson stands there, taking every razored word, staring at his cleats, not saying a word.

As I get closer, J.D. storms off, cursing and mumbling about authority. Dale slaps Greyson on the back, then walks away. I snag Greyson's elbow. "Hey, what was that all about?" I ask, low but insistent.

His gaze doesn't meet mine as he lets out a humorless laugh. "Nothing. Just my big brother reminding me that I don't follow directions. Guess it's easier to blame me than his play call."

I squeeze his arm, trying to ground him. Instead, the tension crackles between us, and I say without thinking, "Can I come over?" I clear my throat as his eyes move from the ground up my torso, landing on mine. "I have a few things I want to go over."

My stomach twists into a nervous knot as I fidget with the hem of my sleeve, avoiding his eyes. He tilts his head, studying me.

"Alone? Like, by yourself? Without J... the coach?" he asks, and suddenly I wish the ground would just swallow me up. The moment hangs between us like the ball toss when you're serving on match point.

"Sorry, it's a bad idea. Just meet me in my office."

"No, my house is fine. Noelle was supposed to oversee the furniture delivery. What time?"

"In a couple of hours. Do you want me to pick up dinner?"

"No, but careful, Boss, this is beginning to sound like a date." His bad mood vanishes, and an omnipotent smile slides across his face, punctuated by two half-hidden dimples.

I shake my head and say, "We'll call it a working dinner." Unable to look him in the eye, I stride off into the tunnel.

I'm tapping my foot, hoping the elevator doors open before he gets to me. No such luck. He leans over my shoulder and says, "See ya tonight." His voice is rough around the edges and so low that it forces my lids to close, and I take in the smell of his hard-fought practice in the Texas sun.

Dusk in Texas is prettier than any sunset I've ever seen. Maybe it's the vast, undeveloped land surrounding Greyson's house. The porch light illuminates the front walkway of his modern farmhouse. It's white brick with black-trimmed windows and doors, accented by cedar columns anchored in stone.

I ring the doorbell, unsure of why I invited myself over. The Armadillo quarterback answers the door, and I'm blown away. He's in a dress shirt, tight jeans, and cowboy boots, making my core ache .

"Hey, where's dinner?" he asks as he looks at my hands, which are filled with folders and a notepad.

My lips fold together as I look anywhere but at him. He's the flame, and I'm the moth. "Oh, sorry, you didn't say what you wanted. Can we get something delivered?"

"I don't want people knowing where I live." He stares me down before he moves to the side and gestures for me to come inside.

"Wow, your house has furniture. And what's that smell? Did you cook?"

"It's summer chili and cornbread." He takes in my surprise and continues, "You can put your work on the island. Do you want a beer or sangria?"

He cooks? This does feel like a date. What have I started?

Do I refuse? Hell no. "Sangria."

He grabs a glass from the black, soft-close cabinet, pouring it like he's wined and dined a few thousand women in his life—effortless. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up a few times, and they accentuate his muscles as his forearms flex. He hands me the glass and grabs his beer.

"Let's go out on the back porch and watch the rest of the sunset. The cornbread has a few more minutes."

The main living area is on the middle floor, and the porch is what I call a deck, half-covered to keep the Texas heat at bay. There's a sectional with orange cushions and a coffee table with coals that can be lit.

"Ladies first." We sit, his body angled toward me. "So, what did you want to discuss?"

I knew this question was coming, and I had prepared several answers on the thirty-minute drive over, but what do I do? "Umm. I, uh..."

"Sutton, don't be nervous. "

Every insecurity I've ever had prickles at my spine. "I'm not. I wanted to tell you that Logan Warren isn't playing in the preseason game this weekend. They're giving him a few extra weeks off."

His blue eyes glimmer with the reflection of the sunset. "That doesn't change anything for me or the team. Now tell me why you're here with your folders and portfolio."

"Because I wanted to talk to you about your interaction with your brother."

He laughs. "Right."

"I do."

"Whatever you say," he huffs, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

His fingers brush my hair away from my face, feather-light and deliberate, and every cell in my body seems to freeze and ignite at once.

I'm hyperaware of how close we're sitting.

The hot summer night is cooled by the large steel fans above, but I'm unable to deny the hot charge between us.

His laughter fades, replaced by something heavier, hungrier—and when he tips my chin up, the world narrows to the space between our mouths.

I know every reason we shouldn't do this; I keep a list in my phone.

General manager.

Quarterback.

His brother.

My dad.

The rules are written in bold, unbreakable letters.

But as he leans in, all those rules blur into the sunset.

His lips are soft, careful at first, as if he's making sure I won't bolt.

It's my first kiss since I kissed him in the nightclub.

Sliding my palms to his collar, I fist his shirt in my hands, pulling him into me.

The kiss becomes firmer as he grows more certain that I want this too.

His lips part, testing the waters, and I let him in.

The mix of my fruity, sweet sangria and his crisp, clean beer melds together as we explore our connection.

The cornbread timer beeps from the kitchen, and we finally part. Breathless and blown away, he traces my lips with a lingering thumb.

"We are so screwed," I mutter, and his grin tells me he's already decided it's worth it.

I'm worth it.