Page 15 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)

FIFTEEN

GREYSON

Small vibrations hum beneath my feet as I sit in leather luxury, waiting for takeoff in my boss's private jet. After a long day of practice, film, and then going to Noelle's summer cheer showcase, my energy is zapped.

I'm already dreading the back-to-back interviews and the hoopla my agent has lined up for me in New York.

I stare out the window, looking at nothing but a midnight sky and the white lights of the runway.

The door opens, and Sutton storms on board, shaken, her red eyes shimmering with fresh tears.

She almost barrels past me, but our eyes lock, and I can feel her heartbreak pulsing through the narrow cabin.

My chest squeezes. Why is she crying, and why the hell is she here on this trip with me? The heaviness in the air shifts, charged and uncertain. Suddenly, whatever the cameras want from me tomorrow doesn't matter one damn bit.

I scoot forward in my seat, unsure if my touch is wanted, but I reach for her anyway. My fingers barely skim the tips of hers, and for a second, it feels like touching an exposed wire. She jumps. "Sutton," I say quietly, "what's wrong? Are you okay?"

She tries to suck back her tears, but each blink releases a fresh wave. "No. I'm not..." She covers her mouth with her palm, attempting to hold herself together. "My best friend, Anna, was in a car accident. Oh, God, Greyson, she's in the ICU."

Desperate to comfort her, I pull her into my lap. My arms wrap around her shoulders. "Hey, it's going to be okay."

Sutton sniffles, her nose buried deep in my neck. "What if she's not? It's bad. Really bad."

I stroke her hair, which is in a ponytail. I still don't understand why she's on this plane. Maybe we're dropping her off before heading to New York. "Shh," I say, just like my mom used to do to me when I was little.

The flight attendant comes by and says, "We're ready for takeoff. Seatbelts, please."

I nod and shift Sutton into the seat next to me. She clicks her belt and wipes her eyes.

"Who's Anna? Should I know her?"

With her voice trembling, she says, "She's my best friend and a professional tennis player. We went to the academy together and have been roommates most of our lives."

"Do you know what happened?"

She shakes her head. "I just got the call an hour ago and came straight to the airport. All I know is she was in a car accident. I should have been there. Instead, I'm here playing football exec." Her voice breaks all over again, and I tighten my hold on her hand, hoping it gives her some support.

Once we're in flight, I ask, "Where is she? Dallas? New Orleans?"

"New York. She asked me to meet her there, and I didn't because I had too much going on with the Armadillos. I don't even recognize myself. When did football start coming before my friends?"

That's a good question. It's always come first in my life, at least since I went pro.

Sometimes, I long for those long-lost college days when there was a time limit on our practice.

My cheeks round out like a pufferfish, and I blow out a breath.

"It's just the nature of the beast. We're professionals, and we do what we have to do. It's not your fault."

For the rest of the flight, she shows me pictures of Anna, some of them together since they were preteens. It's kind of like with her ex—Anna and Sutton grew up together.

"Oh, and this one. It was against the academy's rules to have sugar. No Coke. No ICEEs. No cookies. But Bodhi convinced his dorm mom to sneak them in."

She smiles at her phone; it's obvious that these are times she cherishes.

The three of them are on the couch, Bodhi in the center, and Sutton's looking at him as if he hung the moon.

I love seeing her happy and getting a glimpse inside her childhood, but I feel a sharp, relentless pain of being the guy on the outside looking in.

She falls asleep on my shoulder, and I keep telling myself that whatever connection we have, she's off-limits. Sutton wakes up when the wheels of the plane bounce against the runway, and the force propels us forward until we skid to a stop.

Standing, I grab both of our carry-on bags and let her out in front of me.

As we descend the outdoor steps, I say, "I have a driver picking me up. Can I..."

I'm interrupted by her screaming and running toward a guy with his arms open wide. Sutton runs right into them, and he envelops her as she cries all over again. I catch up to her, placing my hand on her back, and say, "Sutton, I can take you to the hospital."

His head lifts, and I realize it's her ex—the tennis star, Bodhi Creed.

In an instant, my stomach sinks. It doesn't stop there; the sting crawls its way into my heart, incinerating everything in its path.

All I can do is wait as I choke on the ache of seeing her with someone who clearly still has a piece of her heart.

As she comes out of his embrace, he extends his hand. "Bodhi Creed. We did a commercial together a few years ago."

The smile on my face is fake. "We did. Sutton?"

She dips her chin, slowly bringing her gaze to mine. "Bodhi's taking me straight there. I appreciate your willingness, but you have interviews early in the morning."

I look down at my feet, and I feel my lips pulling to the side. "Okay, just text me and let me know how she's doing and if you need anything." My voice trails off, and I'm not sure I even finished my thought.

"I will. Thanks for listening on the plane."

All I can do is nod because I'm too busy watching Bodhi throw his long arm over her shoulder and cradle her body to his.

Sure. What are employees for?

"I hope she pulls through. Anna is obviously very important to you." I see a driver holding a sign that reads, "Mr. Greyson O'Ryan." "My ride is here," I say, brushing against her arm as I walk past the tennis duo.

The black Cadillac SUV smells brand new as I throw my overnight bag onto the seat beside me. "The Barrington Hotel. "

"Yes, sir."

Clenching my fists as I stare out the window at the bustling city, I'm determined to shake off this foreign feeling. I tell the driver to go to the hotel so I can drop off my luggage and then ask him to take me to the closest place with a pulse, women, and whiskey.

Yeah, maybe that's what I need—a night out, some music, maybe a few drinks—anything to burn this acid taste out of my system.

I have no trouble getting into the club.

I pose for photos with the bouncer and then the employees who walk me down a VIP hallway.

The thrum of the bass swallows me, and I lean against the bar while women drift over, laughing, tossing their hair, and trying to catch my eye.

But none of it sticks. Every smile feels wrong, every touch empty.

No matter how loud the music gets or how many numbers get slipped into my pocket, I'm left feeling hollow, longing for someone whose laughter is still echoing in the back of my mind.

None of them are Sutton.