Page 27 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)
TWENTY-SEVEN
GREYSON
The season starts this weekend, and neither Sutton nor I have had any time to spend together since our official first date. We play the Vegas Dice in Vegas. Right when the stars seemed to align, they were swallowed by a black hole called reality.
We're on the team plane, and Frank sits next to me.
"Hey, man, thanks again for letting me stay with you for a few days.
" He holds his phone up and shows me a carousel of pictures.
"This is my new house. It's massive and has a butler's pantry.
And guess who's the butler? Me. Lucy named me the butler. "
"It's beautiful, man. You can get more for your money in Texas than in California.
" The big man shifts in his seat, getting comfortable.
"Now I just need you to find a woman who makes you want to settle down and have kids.
Lucy's pregnant. Just four weeks, so keep it between us.
" His eyes are closed, but a content smile covers his face.
"Congrats, man." I don't have to ask if he's happy about it—it's written all over his face.
For the first time, I don't scoff or tell him how much I love the single life; instead, I put in my earbuds and listen to BL's playlist. I feel like a teenager making a playlist of songs that remind me of her.
Me: Where are you?
BL: The owners' meeting in L.A. will be in Vegas tonight.
Me: Can we meet up, boss lady?
BL: Not a good idea. Cameras everywhere in Vegas.
Me: How's Anna?
BL: Much better. She may come to stay with me for a week when Francisco is on tour.
Me: I've got a better idea. Have her stay with me, and then you'll have a reason to stay, too.
She sends the thinking emoji.
The plane touches down in Vegas, sweat already beading up against my collar despite the blast of air-conditioning on the team bus.
The Texas heat doesn't compare to the smothering temperatures of Vegas.
Soon, the painted green-and-gold bus rolls us straight to the Maggio Resort with its gleaming marble and perfectly trimmed hedges.
After grabbing lunch, we arrive at the Vegas Dice practice facility. "Hey, congratulations," I say to J.D.
"What?" His eyes squint as he shakes his head.
"This fancy indoor facility was built on your back. You did this. I remember you being by the owner's side when it was unveiled," I say, gawking at the pristine turf beaming under the bright lights and the lingering smell of paint and rubber in the air.
"Yeah." J.D. grits his teeth. If anyone knows how he feels, it's me.
We were both traded from the only teams we had been on, teams we thought would be our forever.
But nothing is forever, and we should understand that because we've experienced it firsthand.
I let the guys walk deeper in, and I hang back with my brother.
Bumping his shoulder against mine, I add, "You're going to be an even better coach than a player, and you were a great player. And if my memory is right, you told me just a few months ago that moving home would be the best scenario for me, and I'm beginning to believe you were right."
He bites his bottom lip, letting my words sink in. My brother is a thinker. Most quarterbacks are. We're used to running ten different scenarios in our heads over one play—pages of "if-then" statements run through our minds for every play.
"G, all I want is for you to be happy. I was so scared when..." His cheeks round as he blows out a heavy breath.
Dredging up old incidents won't change any of the facts or outcomes, so I go into work mode and remove my backpack from my shoulder. We all wore our practice gear on the bus, but the guys are all slipping into their turf shoes, and I do the same. "Ready? Do you want me to speak to the team?"
"Nah, you can pump them up tomorrow." He blows his whistle, gathers the team in the center of the facility, and lays down the law that he wants us to communicate after each play.
The defense and offense will have thirty seconds after each play to determine how they line up for the next one.
"No hotshots today. Today is all about execution. "
We warm up for thirty minutes, then Coach drills the offense on timing routes while the defense works with the second-string offense on a few plays that have been giving them trouble during the preseason games.
He makes us enact the plays in slow motion, where everyone walks to their spots, and then run them in game-time mode.
Then we move to the first string, running plays against each other.
Coach calls out anyone who cuts corners, easing up on their angles or cuts.
No one is safe from J.D.'s wrath—he wants to win this game.
Redham gets called out for being so easy for the defense to read—like an open book. "If you always head-fake to the left, then they're always going to know you're going right. Mix it up. Come on, Redham."
Redham hangs his head as he walks back to the huddle, and I slap his shoulder.
"He's right. But I believe in you, and so does he, or he wouldn't be so hard on you.
He's been hard on me my whole life, tweaking every little thing I did.
He even called me after we won the conference championship and told me I wasn't moving my feet and reading the defense as quickly as normal.
But when I watched it back, he was on point.
.. about both. You can do this. Be my guy. "
"You got it, QB." He bounces on his toes, then yells to Coach, "Can we run it again?"
J.D. smiles, bringing the whistle to his lips, saying, "Again," and blowing.
Redham executes the route with precision—zero head fakes, just a straight-up I'm faster than you mentality.
By the time practice is over, I'm drenched in sweat. The air conditioning in this place can't keep up with the Vegas temperatures. It's suffocating.
The guys disperse to their rooms to shower, and then we meet in the private dining area.
Tonight, we're being served by waitresses, so I choose a seat at the table with the defensive line.
Part of becoming a leader of a team is spending time with players on both sides of the ball.
I ask them if my eyes or stance is giving anything away.
Am I telegraphing whether it's a pass or a run or where I'm going with the ball?
They laugh, and Crawford suggests, "Yeah, you better change the name of Black Six. Double Zero. It should be Broken Play because we rip you to shreds on that play."
The way they're whooping and hollering and stamping their feet, you would think Jay Leno had just performed his monologue.
"You know the plays. They don't," I say as the waitresses begin to set grilled salmon or steak in front of us. It's a good thing, too, because if we had to wait much longer, there might be a mutiny. Guys are hangry after practice.
I pretend to listen to the conversations, but my mind's already wandering toward the table where Sutton sits with the coaches.
She's deep in conversation with the quarterback coach, Matt Stricker.
His claim to fame is that he was Logan Warren's quarterback coach at Kentucky.
I mean, was it the QB coach or just the raw talent of Logan?
Plus, I have J.D., who's going to dissect every detail of my play anyway, whether he's my head coach or not.
Sutton gives Coach Stricker her patented boss-lady stare—the one that could make a quarterback beg for mercy in front of the whole team. Then she throws her head back in laughter, and I'm imagining her legs wrapped around Stricker's. Not happening .
I text her under the table.
Me: Meet me in my room and bring plausible deniability.
She picks up her phone, reads the message, and turns it face down on the table. Being a good brother, I walk over and say good night to the coaches. "I'm turning in. Do not disturb unless the hotel is on fire." That's code for "I'm having a lady friend over."
Sutton says, "Sleep well. We need you to be on your game tomorrow."
"Sure thing, boss." She hates it when I call her that, but it adds a bit of intrigue to the whole situation.
As I pace my hotel room, Sutton calls. "Almost there.
Had to dodge three coaches and the strength trainer in the hallway.
If I disappear, avenge my legacy." Her tone makes it sound as if she's a spy committing espionage.
She cracks me up. Only Sutton could turn a secret affair into a covert mission.
Opening my door, I see her as she rounds the corner, her eyes darting from side to side. Her heel catches on a rogue gym bag. She trips, and a flurry of papers and spreadsheets showers the hallway. I guess she's not as stealthy as she thinks.
Before I realize it, Coach Stricker comes out of nowhere, swooping down to help her clean up her mess. With a bit of nervousness tinging his voice, he asks, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I was just reviewing these charts and tripped."
"Sutton, come in, and I'll get you some ice," I volunteer.
Coach Stricker helps her up. "I'll take her to the trainer, just to make sure her ankle is okay."
I bet you will .
"Oh, that's sweet of you, Stricker, but I'm fine. I can get to my room."
Stricker demands, "I'm walking you to your room."
They turn, walking down the hall, and Sutton glances back, giving me a close-lipped smile, as if to say she's sorry. At this point, I know our secret rendezvous was a false start, and Sutton won't risk it again tonight.
I close the door, and the harsh click is muffled by my disappointment. I just stare at the handle, feeling empty, and I can't recall feeling this empty except for two other times.
We were supposed to steal a few minutes together and maybe a late-night snack. Instead, I'm alone, listening to her laughter fade down the hall with the sense that I called a broken play—the kind that seems easy on paper but, when it comes to execution, is harder than it looks.