Page 12 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)

TWELVE

SUTTON

Why did I freeze? It should have been simple. Yes, I'm completely over him. I mean, how hard is that? I say it to myself all the time, manifesting it into existence. I'm tired of the hurt and pain.

I message Anna, knowing she's probably asleep.

Me: Hey, you awake?

Anna: Yeah, I'm in New York for a tourney. What's up?

Me: Greyson and I kissed, and it was even better than the one before.

Anna: Did clothes fly?

Me: No, I'm an idiot. He asked about Bodhi, and I went straight into fight-or-flight mode and barreled out of his house.

Anna: Sutty, Bodhi and I have always been your constants. It's understandable to still feel something for him. Do you still love him?

Me: No, but if I hate him, it's like deleting my whole existence. All my memories are soiled.

The little dots bounce up and down until she responds.

Anna: It's natural. Bodhi and I were the people you leaned on, the ones who stayed. Even our coaches changed every couple of years. Just tell him the truth.

Me: Thanks, I just have to find the right time.

Not wanting to run into Greyson, I watched practice from my office for the past two days.

Coach O'Ryan taps on my office door. "Hey. Where have you been?" He steps a few feet inside.

"Working on a trade for a left tackle. We need someone better to protect Greyson's blind side."

J.D.'s eyebrows raise and his forehead creases with worry lines. "Oh. Who are you trying to get? I thought we were going to talk about important decisions and work together."

"Frank Cozen."

"You told Greyson and me that you would talk to us about it."

I snap. "That's what I'm doing now. "

His head jerks back. "Okay...well, the team is leaving for Louisville this afternoon. Are you flying with us? If so, we can talk about it then. We should talk to Greyson too. He was under the impression that he would be asked for his opinion."

"Greyson is in charge of executing plays, not making personnel decisions." "And yes, I'll be there, but I'll be flying separately."

He walks out without saying a word. I press the intercom, asking Marlon to get the general manager of the Kings on the line.

"Mr. Faulkner, I don't want to waste your time. So, tell me what it will take to get Frank Cozen."

"No drinks or small talk? You're one of those women," he says with a deep belly laugh that reminds me of the villain in a cartoon movie.

"I don't have time for that nonsense. Tell me, and I'll let you know what we can trade."

"If I give you Frank, it will take two people plus a first-round draft pick. I don't know who yet. He has a giant buyout clause."

"We don't play you this year. We're not in the same conference. The only way we meet this year is if we both get to the championship game. We'll offer you Spader, a top-ten safety, and Baker. You need a wide receiver, plus a third-round draft pick next year."

I can hear him tapping his fingers against something, probably his desk. "I'll get back to you. I'll pull tape on them. Make sure they play in the preseason game tomorrow so I can see their current condition."

"I'll make it happen. But I want this done by next week so we both have time to bring them up to speed before the regular season starts."

We hang up, and I head to the private airport with Marlon and George, the vice president of operations. On the way, I text J.D.

Me: Make sure to play Baker and Spader as much as possible in the game.

J.D.: I'm the coach. I make the playing decisions, remember?

Me: I'm trying to protect your brother and our investment.

When I arrive at the team hotel, the players are having dinner in a private dining room catered by Jeff Ruby's Steakhouse.

I peek in and can't help but notice the scowls on both the O'Ryan men's faces.

Just as I'm about to walk away, Greyson catches my eye.

He doesn't smile or wave a friendly hand; instead, he turns back to his teammates.

Finally, the elevator stops on the tenth floor. After ordering room service, I put on my pajamas, turn on the television, and wait for my food.

Room service arrives, and I can barely eat due to exhaustion. I nibble while I watch a true crime show and then soak in the enormous tub, my mind drifting between Bodhi and Greyson. Greyson to Bodhi. Bodhi's not an option, and Greyson shouldn't be.

If Greyson had asked, "Are you still in love with him?" I could have said no instantly. But he asked if I was over him. How could I be over him after what he did?

The next day, I have breakfast with Marlon and George before we head to the stadium for the game. We should win today since their MVP quarterback, Logan Warren, isn't playing.

We watch as the team takes the field for warm-ups. George says, "We should go down to the field for support."

Twisting my lips and scrunching my nose, I say, "You two go. I'm expecting a call." I don't want to be anywhere near Greyson O'Ryan and experience the disappointment in his blue eyes again.

After kickoff, J.D. plays the two players I requested, and, honestly, I had questioned whether he would.

Baker catches a sixty-yard touchdown pass, and Greyson runs down the field and picks him up to celebrate.

Baker catches three more passes. Marquis Redham catches five passes, but none are big plays.

Late in the fourth quarter, we're up by twenty-one, and we're still passing the ball.

I don't pretend to know how to call plays or when they're appropriate, but Greyson throws a bullet to our tight end, and it bounces off his shoulder pad into the hands of a defender.

The defender zigzags his way all the way to the end zone.

The Louisville Heavyweights' fans go nuts.

Just what they need to believe that they can still win the ball game.

As Greyson runs off the field, I can tell that J.D.

is upset as he grabs Greyson's shoulder pad.

I take out my binoculars, wanting to see the exchange.

They jaw back and forth, but every stiff movement screams frustration.

Greyson's jaw ticks with each sentence, his shoulders squared as he rips his helmet off.

J.D. shakes his head. Greyson's nostrils flare as he takes a razored breath.

Suddenly, Greyson hurls his helmet, cracking it into the metal bench.

The team's eyes shift, catching the fury and discontent on Greyson's face.

His fingers rake through his sweaty waves, then he flings himself down on the bench.

With all eyes on him, it doesn't take long for him to get back to his brother's side, talking.

We end up winning the game by seven, but Greyson seemed to think we'd beat them by thirty when we talked about it last week before the incident.

My phone rings, so I walk to a place a little more private. "Sutton Anders."

"Sutton, are you sure you want to trade Baker? Check your email for our terms."

"I'm sure, Mr. Faulkner."

As I read over their terms on my laptop, I'm surer than ever of the decision, and I forward it to legal, finance, and George with the subject line: For your eyes and ears only.

Calling my dad, I fill him in on the terms of the trade.

"You're the boss, Sutton. I value your instincts," he says, and I can almost see his smile through the phone.

"Yeah, but it's your money."

"If our star player needs protection, then do whatever is necessary. I love you, Sutton, and I knew you would be able to lead this organization."

Dad's always been proud of me, even when he wasn't around. But this feels different—he trusts me.

It takes two days to get the contracts drawn up and signed by both teams, so I call J.D. into my office.

"What the fuck, Sutton? He's our number one receiver."

"Redham will be by the end of the year."

"We need more than one receiver. Dammit, why won't you listen? You're worse than Greyson."

The Armadillo coach is usually an easygoing man and, until now, has respected my decisions, so I'm giving him a little latitude.

"I'm trying to protect Greyson. You should want the same thing. For God's sake, he's your brother. He was sacked seven times in the game by the Heavyweights' second string. We got Frank Cozen. He used to play for Denver, so I know it will make Greyson more comfortable in the pocket."

"Maybe, but you promised you would run this organization from the bottom up instead of top down. Have you told Baker?"

"No. I thought you would."

"Hell no. You did this. You do it." His feet thud heavily against the floor as he leaves.

I haven't known our coach long, but I've never seen him this angry. The realization hits me that I probably can't get Anna tickets to the Birdie concert. And worse, I may have ruined my relationship with the youngest coach in the history of the league.

Looking out my office window at the team practicing, I see Coach O'Ryan taking long, heavy strides after his obvious objection to my decision.

My hands hurt from clenching my fists, and my short nails cut into my skin.

I've replayed the trade a hundred times—balanced the numbers, weighed the risks, tried to see the bigger picture—but his anger hits harder than I expected.

The room feels too bright and too small, a headache throbbing between my eyes.

I push the button, closing the blackout drapes.

Doubt nips at me, sharp and relentless, but I shove it down. This is the job. I breathe in, slow and shaky, bracing myself for whatever comes next. The door crashes open, and Greyson barrels in, fury written all over his face—ready to wage war .

"What the fuck have you done?"

There hasn't been time for J.D. to tell him, so I'm not sure what he's talking about. "Don't speak to me like that." My words are sharp as a razor; I remember the verbal abuse I've had to endure.

"This is how football players talk. If you can't take it, go tell your daddy."

My jaw drops. Never in a million years did I expect this from Greyson. He's always been playful, helpful, and flirtatious. He's rarely been grumpy or worse, cruel.

I walk over and press my palm against the heavy wooden door behind him until it closes, trying to figure out the best way to handle this situation. If we hadn't kissed last week, this would be easier, which is the exact reason it never should have happened.

"Please sit down, and let's talk about whatever is on your mind." I gesture for him to sit in the club chair in front of my desk. There's a gold-colored couch, but I don't dare offer to sit there together. Too close.

He's breathing hard and fast, but he finally sits. His masculine, muscular thighs spread, and I can't help but appreciate his body. His legs are long and thick, simply mouthwatering.

"Ms. Anders, do you want us to lose every game?" he asks, his eyes narrowed, in a snarky voice.

"Of course not. Why?" I don't want to assume that he's referring to Baker.

"Why would you trade Baker? That's asinine."