Page 13 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)

THIRTEEN

GREYSON

Sutton's eyes are transfixed on mine, unwavering, but I see a little crack in her armor—water wells up in her eyes, but no tears fall.

She straightens and opens her folder, then begins to spit out Baker's practice stats.

"Yes, he played well against the Heavyweights, but I've gone over everything multiple times from many different directions.

As a professional tennis player, I'm used to breaking down stats. He won't get us into the playoffs."

Right, you're a football expert.

She hits the television remote and shows me how many times Baker's running lazy routes. "Greyson, you told me yourself that Marcus Redham will be the guy. Your go-to."

"I didn't mean right this minute. He needs to learn, get bigger and stronger, and learn how to play in the league."

"And you think he's going to learn from a player who complains that he's not getting the ball enough, a player who doesn't go full out in practice? That's reason enough to trade him."

Maybe I underestimated Sutton Anders and her ability to be the general manager. I mumble, "You've ruined my chance to show Denver they made a huge mistake."

One side of her mouth pulls to the side.

"Is this about you? About the team? Or about us?

" When I don't answer, she tucks her straight blonde hair behind her ears, then rubs her temples with her forefingers.

"Greyson, this trade is all about you. You are the leader of this team.

But you need to trust your coach and management. "

I let out a dismissive huff. "Yeah, I trusted the entire organization in Denver. Look where that got me."

"You're making more money a year than people make in a lifetime."

Shifting my weight, I respond, "I don't care about money."

"The trade brought you home. You're going to see your family more.

I'm sure your dad is ecstatic, and I know Noelle is.

You and J.D. will have a chance to do something special.

Something historic. The first brother combination as a head coach and quarterback—not just to be on the same team in that capacity, but to win it all. "

My lips break into a weak grin. I admit I like the fact that she's thinking about winning it all. "What are we getting in return for Baker? Keller from San Fran? Brown from Carolina? They're the two best receivers in the league, but on teams that won't contend for the playoffs."

She fast-forwards the film to where J.D. and I are arguing on the sidelines. "Nope. Why were you arguing here?"

"J.D. was mad that I changed the play and threw an interception."

I lean forward with my elbows on my desk. "Why did you change the play?" she asks .

"Because I can't hold the ball that long for the play J.D. called. He doesn't like being overridden."

"And why can't you hold the ball long enough for the play he called?" she asks, leading me to the root cause.

I pause and realize she has studied film from practice and the one preseason game. "Because I'm not protected on my blind side. That means my left side," I explain, my tone a tad snarky.

"I know what blind side means. Remember, you and Coach gave me terminology lessons for the first few weeks.

But that's why I'm trading Baker—to get you some protection at left tackle.

We'll be fine at receiver. Jacobs is just as good as Baker, and of course, you'll bring Redham along.

And our tight end, Lyle Knight, will be a force. "

"Just tell me who we're getting to protect me."

"Would you be happy and not be an asshole if I said Frank Cozen?"

My jaw hits the floor. Sutton is a force to be reckoned with.

"Are you kidding me? You must have had to give up more than Baker for Cozen. He's top two in the league, and I trust him with my life... literally. You know we won a Super Bowl together."

"Yes, I know. I had to give up Baker, Spader, and a draft pick."

"Wow, I underestimated you. I owe you an apology for this... not for anything else. But next time, talk to me about the offensive changes you want to make. You promised you would."

"I know I did, but after we... that doesn't matter.

What matters is the Armadillos have invested our future in you, Greyson O'Ryan, and we need to protect you.

We're keeping the current left tackle as a backup, but Cozen will be here in a couple of days.

Please don't say anything until I've told Baker.

I sent him a message to come to my office. "

There's no hint of a smile or victory over me; Sutton just goes about it with the steady professionalism of someone doing her job.

And she's proving to be damn good at it.

It makes me wonder why I didn't bring up the lack of protection from my left side to my brother sooner.

Probably because I didn't want to make waves, wanting my new teammates to like me.

And that's not how a top quarterback conducts himself.

I need to put my foot on the pedal and expect excellence from my teammates, and they should expect the same from me.

"Thank you for knowing what I needed before I did.

Before Coach did. Oh, and for giving me cover.

I'm sure the players already know that I stormed in here like a linebacker rushing the quarterback.

" I stand and turn to say one more thing, but she's rubbing her temples again, so I take three strides, move behind her, wrap my large hands around her head, and press on the spot where a third eye would be, between the eyebrows.

"Rubbing here will help ease the pain of a headache better than the temples.

" I continue pressing, rubbing small circles on that spot, and a few minutes later, the tension leaves her facial muscles, and she softens.

"That feels good."

When she responds, I realize this is what a boyfriend would do, not a work colleague, so I drop my hands and walk back toward the door.

She sighs. "Greyson?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget to slam the door on your way out for good measure. "

"Sure thing, boss lady," I say, reminding myself that we only have a professional relationship. I open the door and slam it behind me as I pretend to be ticked off.

Whiplash is real. Figuring out Sutton Anders is proving more complicated than I expected. If you just look at her, you get rich, athletic, gorgeous, trust-fund vibes. You don't automatically think businesswoman, executive, and certainly not football. This trade puts her on a whole different level.

Baker's getting off the elevator, so I throw my water bottle against the wall for good measure to make it look like I'm furious, then turn left like I don't see him and take the stairs down to the locker room.

I try to figure out whether to wait for him, to give him an I'm sorry speech.

I wait for an hour, but he never comes down.

His locker has been cleaned out. Damn, that's cold.

I hate it for him because I understand the emotions that go along with getting traded. I type out a message:

Me: Damn, I'll miss you, Baker. Thanks for making me feel welcome.

Baker: Everything works out the way it should. My hometown isn't far from the Kings' stadium, and I'll get to see my son more. He lives with his mom.

Me: Stay in touch. If you want to grab a beer tonight, I'll buy.

Baker: The Kings want me right away so we can get in some practice before the next preseason game.

Me: All right, man. Good luck.

Baker: Ms. Anders told me you were furious. Thanks for having my back, but you do need better protection on the left side.

Me: Yeah, I guess. Next time you're in town, the beer is on me.

As I roll up onto my family's land, the driveway's already a parking lot—five cars deep, and none of them belong to my family. I angle my truck onto the grass so I don't have to move it every time someone wants to leave.

Pushing the side door open, I nearly trip over a pile of sneakers blocking the entryway—every brand and color under the sun. The living room's packed with college kids. Laughter ricochets off the walls, and there's enough cologne in the air that it's possible I'll suffocate.

Noelle, my sister, is in the middle of it all, ponytail swinging as she slings one arm around her boyfriend, one of the stars of their college football team. He spots me and tips his chin up, barely suppressing a smirk. "If it isn't the new Armadillo quarterback. Getting traded must suck."

A few scattered laughs filter through the room, and others gasp. My jaw tightens, but Noelle runs over and hugs me. "Are you staying? We're going to play flag football."

"I came by to talk to Dad. Is he here?"

"Nope, he went to pick up pizzas."

"How about Witt?"

"Yeah, he's in his room, like always."

I let out a disappointed sigh. "Noelle, he needs you."

"What am I supposed to do? I invited him."

I bound up the stairs, two at a time, and rap on Witt's door.

Silence. Figures. Dad and Noelle always say he never hears a thing.

I nudge the door open and spot Witt sprawled in front of his massive TV, Beats clamped over his ears, thumbs flying over the controller.

He's so locked into his game, he doesn't even notice me standing there.

I plop down beside him, and he jolts. "Hey, big guy." He's taller than both J.D. and I were at his age, but he's long and lanky.

He gives the old side-eye and lifts the Beats, not quite removing them. "Hey."

"Playing football? Who with?" I lean forward and pull my knees to my chest. The games these days are amazing. At first glance, you would think this was a live professional football game. The players, the field, and even the crowd look lifelike.

"I'm in a tournament," he says, laser-focused on the competition.

"May I watch?"

He shrugs without glancing in my direction, but since he didn't kick me out, I settle in, and after about five minutes, I nudge him with my knee. "Can you take off the Beats so I can hear?"

Witt huffs like it's a big inconvenience, but he slides the headphones around his neck and hits something so I can hear the game.

I'm in awe of how good he is. Then I notice he's using my avatar as his quarterback. I grin and say, "That play is Red-Oz-Dorothy from Denver."

Even though he's in the zone, a ghost of a smile flashes but fades just as quickly. The faux fans erupt as he—well, me—throws a fifty-yard touchdown pass.

"Yes," I shout as if I'm playing an actual game, and Witt rolls his eyes, then gets right back at it. The steady clicks from the controller combined with hearing the guy he's playing against make it exciting. Twenty minutes later, Witt pumps his fist in victory.

"Players, we'll take a half-hour break. Stretch those fingers."

"Who is that?" I ask.

Witt's voice is flat. "The tournament coordinator."

"What does the winner receive? A free copy of next year's game?"

For the first time since I've been home, Witt laughs. "You're so fucking old. The prize is ten thousand dollars."

His answer blows me backward. "Are you serious?"

He nods.

"Was there an entry fee?"

"Nope, the sponsors pay the players."

A hum rattles in my throat. "Wow. Have you won money before? And are there in-person tourneys?"

"Yeah, but I don't play in-person, and I've won nearly a hundred thousand dollars."

This is the most he's said to me since I got here a month or so ago. "You're shitting me. You're in high school."

He just shrugs. Typical Witt.

"Noelle wants us to play flag football with her cheer and football friends. I'm pretty sure you'll kick their ass. How 'bout it?"

"Nah."

"Why?"

He clams up and mumbles, "You can."

I stand, thinking I'm going to go play, but something inside me tells me to sit my ass back down. "I'd rather watch this tourney. What do you think about Noelle's boyfriend? "

"He cheats on her. I hear her crying through the walls sometimes."

"He what? I'll kill him."

Witt lets out a short, harsh breath, edged with something like an accusation. "He's Greyson 2.0," he tosses out with a laugh, the kind of laugh that cuts me to the bone like I invented the cheating boyfriend playbook.

"I've never cheated. I've never had a true girlfriend since tenth grade; that way, no one gets hurt."

He runs his hand through his dark hair. "That's not what Sabrina says. Her cousin is Marley Southworth, and she says you cheated on her with a girl in a band. She never shuts up about it. It's like her claim to fame."

"Well, that's not true." Inside, I flip through an imaginary yearbook.

I did go out with Marley a half-dozen times, but we were never exclusive.

We didn't put a girlfriend/boyfriend label on the relationship.

And the band girl is now the hot realtor who sold me the house. "I'm never leaving my house."

"Now I believe we're brothers," Witt says with no inflection in his voice as he sits back down with his back against the bed.

I've missed so much of his life—sixteen years, and I've barely been here for any of them.

There's this weird ache in my chest, like regret and frustration all tangled together.

I want to say something sharp, to deflect, but all I can do is stand there, arms crossed, feeling old and useless.

Maybe he's right. Maybe, after all this time, now is when we finally figure out what being brothers even means.

I'm home with my family, and I can have it all. Sutton was right again.