Page 11 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)

ELEVEN

GREYSON

Sutton is unlike anyone I've met before—confident in her new role as general manager despite knowing little about football just weeks ago.

Still, I notice her flickering smile, the hesitation behind her confidence.

I want to keep kissing her, but I hold back, wondering if it's because she's my boss—or if someone else made her doubt she deserves happiness.

"I'd better get the cornbread out of the oven before it burns," I say, standing up.

As I walk through the open French door, I look over my shoulder and see her fingers trailing over her lips.

My pulse races, and I can't stop the happiness blooming in my chest. It's the first time I've been truly happy since we won the conference championship, the night I met her at the nightclub.

After I take the cast-iron skillet from the oven and cut the cornbread into pie-shaped pieces, I stack them on a plate and then spoon the summer soup into a bowl. "Want a refill?"

"One more, but I have to drive home, and honestly, I'm not used to drinking much."

"Do you want to eat on the porch or inside?" I ask .

"Outside." She grabs her bowl and glass, and I follow behind her with mine and the cornbread.

The sun has fallen beneath the horizon, and only a dusting of purple fades to black, so I turn on the twinkle lights that Noelle insisted on putting up. In her words, it gives the area ambience.

Sutton blows on the soup before taking a tentative bite. Then she sinks her teeth into the cornbread, and a little groan of happiness slips from her mouth. "Is it legal for cornbread to be this good?" she asks, holding up a piece.

"I learned from the best—my mom. It's her recipe. She believed anything short of a stick of butter per slice was a crime against humanity."

"Sounds like my kind of woman, even though for most of my life, I've had to steer clear of comfort foods. And this chili is incredible."

"Growing up, Mom would feed the neighborhood and send them home with leftovers, whether they wanted them or not," I say, then clear my throat, chasing my feelings with a gulp of beer.

Sutton nudges me with her knee. "Your vegetable chili game is so strong."

Heartache thuds against my ribs as I stare into my bowl, and my eyes water. My head falls back against the frame of the couch. It still hurts, even though it's been sixteen years.

We're silent for a few minutes, and Sutton places her bowl on the outdoor coffee table. "Did I say something wrong? You got quiet." Her voice is tender and soft, like her lips. Her tone reminds me of how my mom would talk to me gently about any problems I was having.

I brush a crumb off my jeans. "She passed away."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I just assumed your parents were divorced. You don't have to talk about it."

"She died after giving birth to Witt, my youngest brother.

" I shrug, trying to be casual, like I'm over it, but that is far from the truth.

The words keep tumbling out, all rough and sore.

"Dad always said Noelle and I have her spirit.

But every time I make her chili and cornbread, it feels like she's here for a minute, you know? "

She lays her hand just above my knee. "I can't imagine how much that hurts or how many pounds of cornbread it takes to even begin to fill that void. For what it's worth, I'm sure she's proud of you. Look at all you've achieved." She takes a breath.

Soaking in her compassion, I feel the pain in my chest ease a bit, and I squeeze her hand. I'm grateful for someone willing to just sit and eat in silence without feeling the need to fill the void.

A few minutes pass before Sutton stands and reaches for my bowl. "I'll do the dishes."

"We can do them together. You're not one of those people who can't have anything out of place, are you?" I stand and follow her inside.

She twists her head, glancing at me. "No, but I'm not messy."

We stand shoulder to shoulder, more intimate than washing dishes seems. She has an off-white tank top on, hitting just above her belly button, giving me a peek at her midriff. Her shorts show off her legs.

As we tag-team the dishes, our hips bump, our arms graze, and sparks prickle every nerve.

When I accidentally splash her with water, she nudges me with her elbow.

I'll do anything for her touch, so I grin before flicking a few more drops her way, pretending it was an accident—but she's a competitor, and suddenly she's splashing a wave of soapy water across my chest, wetting my white dress shirt.

I chase her around with a towel, and I can't remember the last time I had so much PG-13 fun with a woman.

Sometime between flicking a dish towel and pretending I'm surrendering, her laughter breaks, and my hands find her waist as naturally as breathing.

Static crackles between us, and our eyes lock.

Water streams over her mouth and down her neck, but my focus stays on her lips.

We smile into a warm and wanting kiss, smooth and buttery from the cornbread.

The world around me blurs, and we kiss until our lips are raw. My hands slide up her bare torso as my thumbs swipe over the silky-soft skin, dangerously close to her breasts. She laughs into a sigh. "Greyson."

Nuzzling her lips between mine, I say, "That was the best kiss of my life."

Her shoulders lift, and a seductive giggle filters from her mouth. "Mine too. But what do we do now?"

"Well, the way I see it, we have a couple of choices. You can go upstairs with me and check out my new custom-made bed." She arches a brow. "Or we can break in the couch."

Sutton stands there with her hip cocked, eyebrow arched, and just enough defiance in her smile to make my pulse skip. "I'm not that easy."

I grab her hand and lead her to the couch in the great room.

"I said..." Her body tenses, and I feel the uncertainty in her hand.

"Just stay and watch a movie. I haven't watched a movie with a woman since college," I say as I click the television remote. "What type of movies do you like?"

"True crime documentaries or movies, psychological thrillers. Anna and I loved that series called You . Have you seen it?"

"Can't say I have, but I do love mysteries. Let's see what I can find."

Sports Showdown lights up the television. Before I can change it, the anchors are talking about tennis, and her ex-boyfriend's picture looms large on the left side of the screen. Her fingers straighten in my hold, letting me know the internet was right. They used to be a thing.

"What's your story with him?"

"Who?" she deflects.

I point to the screen. "Bodhi Creed."

"No story. We dated and grew apart."

Biting my bottom lip, I mull over what to say.

Do I tell her I know they were together for what amounts to forever in a young adult's life, or do I let her give me the details on her own terms?

I'm not good with the unknown, and I don't want to get involved with Sutton if she still has feelings for Bodhi Creed. So I angle my body toward hers.

"I have something to admit, and it may sound stalkerish, but when I met you at your dad's house, the first thing I did was look you up on socials. To my surprise, you don't have any. How does a professional athlete not have social media accounts?"

Sutton's eyes fall from mine, and she presses her palms against her thighs, rubbing them down toward her knees. I'm no psychologist, but this seems like it would be a stress response.

"I deleted all my accounts. I wasn't good enough for his fans. They constantly trashed me, calling me an amazon or saying how he should be dating a celebrity, not a tennis player who can't break the top five."

"Did you believe that you weren't good enough for him?"

She shakes her head. "I believed I was lucky to be with him. I don't know if that is the same or not, but he has always been the poster boy of American tennis."

"How long did you date?"

I watch her eyes close before she speaks. "We were at the tennis academy together, and he was my boyfriend on and off for a decade."

"I saw some photos of the two of you as recently as this past winter. Were you dating when we met at the Denver nightclub?" My eye twitches; I'm not sure if I want the answer. Dating someone who cheats is a no-can-do for me. When I settle down, it will be forever.

She fiddles with her fingers. "No, we had broken up a few weeks earlier. Bodhi's home base is Denver. His parents live there too. Anna, my best friend, and I played an indoor hard-court tournament, so she convinced me to get out to forget about him."

"And did you?"

"Did I what?"

Why did I ask? It's too late now, so I clarify. "Did you forget about him?"

Her silence is deafening. With her lashes lowered and lips pressed into a flat line, she pulls at the straps on her tank top.

As the seconds tick by, her failure to answer feels like a slow leak in my chest. Nausea creeps up my throat as I realize she's not over him.

I can handle being tackled by two-hundred-fifty-pound linemen, but her not looking me in the eye and saying, "I'm over him," hurts worse than most things I've experienced in life.

The way we clicked tonight, trading laughs and kisses while washing the dishes, has me believing this could be something real.

The Swedish beauty pushes to her feet. "I need to go," she says, deliberately not meeting my gaze. She walks into the kitchen, grabs her purse from the chair, and slings it over her shoulder. "I forgot I have an early meeting tomorrow."

Pissed and frustrated, I scoff, "Well, don't forget your folders." Part of me wants to keep her here and do a deep dive into their relationship. The other part doesn't want more drama in my life.

Pausing at the front door, she lets the words I feared tumble from her mouth. "What happened tonight... it was a mistake." Her tone is steady, masking the way I know she felt in my arms.

I stretch my arm to the top of the door as she walks down the front steps, and I stare at the distance she's putting between us. There are no dramatics when cleat chasers leave after a romp in a hotel. But for the first time, I want one woman who is mentally closing the door on us .