Page 19 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)

NINETEEN

GREYSON

Playing in New York City on a Saturday pumps me up.

I don't know if it's the buzz of the city, the sold-out crowd for a preseason game, or the raucous fans, but I love it.

Or maybe it's that Sutton is here. Do I care that she's here with her ex?

Hell yeah. Winking at her, I say, "This one's for you.

" I don't know whether she or Bodhi catches it, but I'm up for a little competition.

The refs gather us for the coin toss, and when it lands on heads, New York wants to play defense first. What? That almost never happens unless they believe the opposing offense sucks. They're trying to get in my head.

Frank taps my backside. "I got ya, QB."

On the first play, I throw a bomb to Redham down the right side of the field.

Redham tracks it all the way and catches it over his right shoulder, where only he can.

He makes a double move and leaves his defender in the dust as he runs in for a touchdown.

The crowd goes silent. Pumping my fist into the air, I jog down the field to give Redham a pat on the helmet .

We run off to the sideline, and the first person to congratulate me is Frank. He lifts me off the ground, and I swear my back cracks. "We did it," he shouts.

"And we're going to keep doing it. You were the missing piece. Damn, Sutton's good." I look up into the owners' boxes, and she's in the outside portion of her box, jumping up and down with her hair bouncing in waves over her shoulders. I hold up one finger, and I know she sees me.

I sit down on the bench and watch our defense handle our opponent with ease, even without Spader, who was a damn good safety.

Despite being distracted by Sutton and her ex, I'm still able to march the Dillos down the field, eating up eight minutes of the clock and scoring on a quarterback sneak into the end zone. They thought for sure I would throw it to Lyle, our tight end.

I break into a goofy victory dance in the end zone, spinning slowly as if Sutton's right there in my arms. The guys erupt, joining in the Air Dance.

Coach Stricker just shakes his head when the refs flag us for excessive celebration.

J.D. throws his hands up in exasperation, but it all works out—the defense snags an interception on the next play, and my grin only gets bigger.

Leading seventeen to zero at halftime, J.D. cautions us to stay focused and finish the job. He wants the second string to play in the second half if possible. You never know when a player will get hurt. Football is a rough fucking sport.

He pulls me aside. "G, you should have thrown that pass to the tight end. He was wide open. We can't lose you in a preseason game. You have nothing to prove."

Giving him a dismissive laugh, I say, "I have everything to prove to this team. To Denver. To Sutton—that she made the right decision. They let us have the ball, for God's sake. I'm one of the best quarterbacks in the league, and they put the ball in my hands. It's fucking insulting."

"Well, they know how wrong they were, so I'm going to put in Lawson."

"Come on, let me stay in the third quarter. I want to put up forty on them and make us both look good."

He huffs and drops his clipboard to his side. "You're coming out in the fourth quarter. I can't have you getting hurt on a dirty play."

"Got it, Coach." I hold out my fist, and he hits it; then it's my turn, just like in Little League, middle school, and high school.

Part of me wishes we had played college together, but my dad thought it was better for us to play at different colleges so I could play sooner rather than later.

And he was right. I started by the end of my freshman year in college.

J.D. was a Heisman Trophy winner, so he started at Texas from day one.

Unfortunately for me, I was in the same class as Logan Warren from the Stallions, and he won it that year.

I was the runner-up in the Heisman voting.

The third quarter is much the same. We can pass the ball all day.

I'm able to read their defense with ease.

We played them several times when I was at Denver, and their defensive coordinator hasn't changed.

The next time we're at the goal line, I throw a jump pass to Lyle on a curl route, and we score.

New York finally scores on a fifty-six-yard field goal.

We run the ball five times in a row, then I hurl one to the twenty-yard line, and our wide receiver catches it, strolling in for a touchdown.

31-3. Our defense holds them, and J.D. calls a flea flicker, which is my favorite play.

Because if I'm not throwing it, I want to catch it.

I hand it off to our running back, who throws a dart to me.

I shake the defender and run the last five yards for another touchdown.

I'm on a high. When trick plays work, it's the best feeling in the world.

Well, there are a few things that would be better.

Sex with Sutton comes to mind. I shake off the thought when J.D.

comes up and says, "We're at thirty-eight.

That was your last possession today. Get Lawson ready. Good job, G."

"You should be thanking Sutton. It's easy when I'm not worried about getting pressure from the left side."

"I have a feeling you'll thank her for me," he mumbles as he ruffles my hair like he did when we were young.

Moving to sit by Lawson, I ask, "Are you ready?

" He nods but seems nervous. "Listen, they're only blitzing on second down since we've made them pay.

Their left linebacker is fast, but Cozen's got your back.

You have as much time as you need to go through your reads.

All you need to worry about is the side you can see.

Now go get some touchdowns. There's nothing better to ease the nerves.

" I slap his leg. "This is your time to shine because when the season starts, I'll be taking all the snaps. Go make some highlights."

A smile eases across Lawson's face as he stands and pulls his helmet over his head.

Lawson struggles on the first few snaps but manages to get a first down. Then, with six minutes to go in the game, he settles down and leads the Armadillos down the field for a touchdown pass to our running back.

I glance up just in time to catch the replay on the jumbotron.

The guys are losing their minds, celebrating Lawson's first touchdown pass of the season.

But then the camera pans to the crowd, zooming in on the owner's box.

I brace myself for the usual wave, fist pump, or high-fives between the guests in the suites.

What I see instead rips the breath from my lungs.

The whole stadium gasps all at once. On screen—clear as day—Bodhi shoves Sutton, hard. She staggers backward, slamming into the railing.

My vision goes red. I can't process how Bodhi could even touch her like that.

My pulse thunders in my ears, anger pulsing like hot lava beneath my skin.

Acting on instinct, I sprint off the field to the tunnel to the executive elevator.

The elevator operator seems surprised to see a player during the game, but he doesn't know what's going on.

It's not every day that someone gets caught on camera assaulting a team's general manager.

I don't know exactly where I'm going, but every step is fueled by pure adrenaline.

I don't care who's watching; I don't care if I miss the rest of the damn game.

All I know is that I need to get to Sutton.

If Bodhi lays a hand on her one more time—he'll wish he didn't.

In a fury, I find the door marked Visiting Owner Box and burst into the suite, barely registering the blur of startled faces as I scan the room.

My chest heaves with adrenaline, my hands fisted at my sides.

Sutton is pressed up against the railing, her hands raised like she's bracing for impact.

Her eyes glitter with tears and dart between Bodhi and me.

Bodhi stands rigid, his jaw tight, throwing his arms up in some half-hearted gesture of innocence when he sees me.

I rush to Sutton. Admittedly, I'm not controlling my anger very well, but I do manage to soften my voice. "Are you okay?"

She nods in a practiced manner. "I'm fine," she says, but her voice shakes enough for me to know she's lying.

My glare lands on Bodhi as I stalk toward him. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I snap as I gather his shirt in my fists and pull him toward me. "Don't you ever, ever put your hands on her again. Do you hear me? I don't care who you are, Golden Boy."

"Greyson, stop," Sutton calls out, her voice weak and choked.

I jerk him closer then shove him a little. Bodhi's eyes collide with mine, defiant and cold, but there's a flicker of something unsettled in them. "It was an accident," he mutters, but the look on Sutton's face tells me all I need to know.

"Lay a finger on her again, and you'll never play tennis again. If you think I'm kidding, touch her and find out." I move Sutton behind me, then turn and ask, "Do you want him to leave?"

She nods aggressively but isn't crying. Francisco and Anna don't look surprised. I grab Bodhi by the elbow, lead him to security, and watch until they're out of sight.

Sutton comes up behind me and chokes out, "I was handling it. Now I'm the laughingstock of the league."

"It's better than being a battered and bruised manager of the league at the hands of that cocksucker."

"You're all coming home to Austin on the team plane, and everyone is staying with me. No telling what that psycho will do."

Francisco butts in, "We'll stay here tonight and talk about our plans. But, Greyson, he deserved worse than what you gave him. He hasn't changed one bit."

My face must look as confused as I feel because Anna's and Francisco's brows furrow, and they both look away. I turn to Sutton. "Are you coming? Were you staying at his hotel? "

Sutton gives me an ashamed and apologetic nod. "Do you have anything important there?"

"No. Just a few pieces of clothing."

I gently run my hands over her shoulders in the same spots where he accosted her. "I'm going to take care of this."

I look to the field, and there are only fifty-five seconds left in the game, so I lead her to the locker room.

She sits on the bench, and I quickly shower and dress.

Just as I come out, the team is filing in, along with my coach.

He looks pissed. I stand in front of Sutton, ready to receive a tongue-lashing for leaving the game, even though we were winning.

He places his hand on my shoulder and says, "Is she okay?"

Sutton stands and says, "I'm fine. I'm a big girl."

It makes me think she's used to this kind of behavior from Bodhi, maybe even worse.

"G, you two go to the bus, but...my office first thing Monday morning," J.D. says as he squeezes my shoulder. His words remind me that I broke protocol. What I don't know is if I'm going to get chewed out on Monday or if he just had to save face in front of the team.

When Sutton and I reach the team bus, instead of sitting in the front, she heads straight for the back.

I'm sure this will be the talk of the league and a topic for podcasters and pundits.

Questions about Bodhi and Sutton's relationship will arise, and without a doubt, they'll imply that Sutton and I are confusing personal and professional, too.

I throw my bag on the seats in front of us, staking a silent claim so none of the guys even consider taking them.

Sutton sinks into her seat, lets out a heavy sigh, and leans her head back, flinching when my arm rubs against hers.

Exhaustion has taken root in her body after a week of being at the hospital and one shitty incident with the supposed golden boy.

Not so fucking golden.

A million questions race through my mind.

How long has she been dealing with men who push her around?

Or is it just one man? Hurt knots up in my chest at the thought that this might be normal for her.

But she's already put up her walls; the team is beginning to board the bus, and my instincts tell me not to push.

No one knows better than I do that a person won't open up until they're ready.

Besides, she deserves better than being quizzed while surrounded by a bunch of overgrown football players.

For now, I'll be the barrier she needs. I'll wait until we get on the plane and the guys fall asleep for the three-hour trip home.

The team moves quickly to board the plane, and there's no time to talk, but we are the last ones on and sit in the first row. After takeoff, I whisper, "Do you want to talk about what happened?"

She shakes her head no.

"I'm driving you home."

"You can't. People will talk. They probably already are."

"I don't care. You're in no condition to drive. Drive to the diner around the corner from the stadium, and I'll pick you up there."

She doesn't agree, but she runs her hand over mine, then promptly curls it under her chin and sleeps. She's not ready to talk, and I need to earn her trust, so I do the only thing I know—keep everyone away from her.