Page 50 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)

FORTY-NINE

GREYSON

It's game day, and we lost. I would love to say it wasn't my fault since I didn't play. Or even I told you so , but it was my decision to miss practice. The guys pass me with sour glances, muttering under their breath exactly whose fault it is—mine.

J.D. clears his throat and speaks. "I would love to blame this on Greyson, but we all should be ready when our number is called.

You need to practice like it's a game. I'm done being easy on you.

You are professionals and should put in the work after practice to get yourselves in playing shape.

Hell, I could have put in...". He trails off.

This is my team, so I stand up without a grass stain or splotch of dirt on my white uniform.

"I will never have a spotless uniform again.

My actions hurt all of us, but if you did play and your uniform is clean, then you didn't play hard enough.

I don't care if you were in for one play or seventy-two; this is fucking football. "

My teammates scream and beat their chests. It feels good to release all the anger I'm feeling inside over being videotaped and violated.

J.D. names me the starter for our away game against Pittsburgh. My teammates and I breathe a sigh of relief.

When we get home, out of view of fans and media, Noelle makes her first post. She has over a million followers on several platforms, so she insists it's the perfect spot to start with small leaks about us being together.

She shows a picture of my hand and Sutton's hand brushing against each other without showing our faces.

What it does show is her tennis bracelet and my wrist tattoo.

Do you think this is romantic?

Underneath, the comments read:

Go ahead. Hold hands.

I love that first handhold. The hesitancy...not knowing if it will be reciprocated.

Young love.

Love the bracelet.

I'll let him do anything he wants based on the tattoo alone.

I pull Sutton onto my chest. "It's on. No stopping now."

Her fingers trace my abs, and she asks, "Is that when you started drawing?"

"What?"

She pops up on one elbow. "I was snooping in the trophy room one morning and saw that the painting of you was crooked.

When I straightened it, I saw the drawing of you with your mom underneath.

I never said anything because I wanted you to tell me in your own time.

Then, when I felt the scar on your wrist, I realized what you had done. "

The pads of my fingers slide over her shoulder.

"Nothing ever affected my play on the field.

It was the one place where I was at peace after Mom passed away.

But it's hard to play football twenty-four hours a day, although it seems like I do as a professional.

After I cut my wrist, Dad sent me to therapy.

When I wouldn't talk, the therapist gave me a sketch pad and a pencil.

I would draw my feelings. Most were of my mom—images of vacations or just her raising her arms in victory at a game.

" Tears bite at my eyelids, and my voice drops. "She was my number one fan."

"Have you held onto your drawings?"

I nod.

"Can I see them sometime?"

Kissing her temple, I say, "Sometime. Sometime soon."

We wake up to a new post from Noelle. The photo is of us in the Denver nightclub.

Do you believe in fate? If not, you should.

The comments read:

Yes, I believe in fate.

Is this your brother, Greyson?

Who is this with Greyson O'Ryan?

Whoever she is, he looks smitten.

Is he off the market? Please tell me he's still single.

Fate. Destiny. Yes!

"Noelle seems to know what she's doing. How did she get all those followers?"

"I have no idea. Maybe because she's a college cheerleader. She's been posting about cheer, softball, and tennis for a long time. Most of her followers are probably young girls wanting to learn to flip or fly high into the air like her. Honestly, I'm not sure if it will work."

Her eyes widen, and she points to the post. "Oh, it's working. From the time we started this conversation, the video has gotten two hundred thousand likes and nearly fifty reposts. I just hope it draws the person out."

Wincing, I ask myself, What if the person still releases the video or attempts to do something worse to Sutton? Not wanting her out of my sight, I ask, "Wanna go feed the horses with me? I need to hire someone to do it, but I haven't had the time."

"Yes." She hops out of bed with me at four-thirty in the morning. We make a cup of coffee and head down to the barn. She's getting more comfortable now. Sutton rubs their noses and feeds them carrots. "I can see why you love animals so much."

"Granny made sure we were there enough to learn to help out, and then my parents bought the ranch that Dad and the kids still live on."

"You know, the only one who is still a kid is Witt."

"Hell, Sutton, I make my living playing a kids' game. I consider myself a child." I chuckle as my phone rings.

There's no name on the screen, so I let it go to voicemail.

Again, the phone rings. No caller ID. The third time, it's Witt.

"It's early for you to be up. Need anything?"

Witt scoffs. "I just got pinged on one of the scripts I wrote."

Talking to Witt is never easy. He thinks you should understand his vocabulary, and he doesn't give you context. He's the most literal guy ever. "And? "

"He or she emailed a partial video to the whole company."

My lids fall shut, and I feel a cramp in my throat. "Witt... how bad is it?"

"It shows you in the locker room nude, but they cropped out Sutton," he says matter-of-factly.

"That's a relief," I add, while Sutton's eyes plead for me to give her details.

"Not really. Think about it. Noelle is suggesting that you two are an item, so it won't be long before people realize it's her in the video."

"Fuck. Can you trace who sent it?"

"Working on it now."

I stay on the line, but Witt hangs up on me. I thought that meant he could tell me now—but the only answer I get is the hollow echo of my own fear of Sutton being exposed.