Page 52 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)

FIFTY-ONE

GREYSON

I'm missing Sutton. She took Paulina to her grandparents' funeral, which was low-key, with about twenty people. Sutton said they pinched Paulina's cheeks, gave her hugs, and told her stories that made her feel better.

Paulina's tennis tournament starts today, and there's a part of me that hopes she loses so they come home, which is totally selfish... I know.

With the time difference, Sutton and I haven't talked in a few days. Instead, she sends me texts and photos of Paulina's matches. So, when I get a text in the middle of the night, I grab my phone. When I see a notification from an unknown number, something cold and unwelcome crawls beneath my skin.

I press the voicemail icon on my phone, and it's a message that sounds like it's going through a filter, someone changing their voice with artificial intelligence—distorted and scratchy. The message is simple. "Don't fuck with me, or Sutton's reputation will be shattered."

My gut twists as I listen again. For once, there's nothing hidden between the lines. The blackmailer is letting me know that he'll get what he wants or ruin Sutton.

After a couple of hours of staring at my phone, a new post from Noelle appears. It's the photo of Sutton and me at the waterfall, faceless since our backs are turned.

So happy for my brother for finding his one true love. If only we could all have what they do.

Underneath, the comments read:

What a gorgeous photo. Professional?

Nothing better than looking at Mother Nature with the one you love.

Which brother?

Holy shit. Greyson O'Ryan is off the market.

Anonymous: Not for long.

Social media comments keep flooding in. Why are strangers so invested in our lives? If Bodhi is behind this, with everything he has going for him, why does he want the woman he mistreated—the woman I love?

Do I tell Sutton when she calls? No. She has enough on her plate.

A couple of days pass, and we head to Pittsburgh for a clash with a division rival. I spend an hour catching J.D. up at dinner. Witt has traced some emails to a Florida IP address. He's digging deeper every day after school, even skipping his gaming tournament to help.

Needing to hear her voice, I call Sutton, but there's no answer. Paulina has won three straight matches, and running on emotion means she's probably going to collapse soon.

I lock in when we win the coin toss and elect to get the ball first in the second half.

Kickoff is eventful. Pittsburgh runs it back for a touchdown, which is rare since the league changed the rules.

We're already in a hole when I trot out onto the field, snapping my chin strap in the huddle.

The first ten plays are scripted, and everyone knows it, but I want to get us back to even.

Hell, only thirty seconds have been played, and we're down 7–0.

I kneel on one knee. My teammates hover over me. "Broken Play, got it?"

"You're the captain. Coach will be pissed," Redham says, shaking his helmet.

"Then catch the ball, and we can ask for forgiveness later."

All together, we chant, "Broken Play," and head to the line of scrimmage.

This play is mine. When things feel broken, I call it.

It looks like one of our normal plays, but the wide receiver stumbles intentionally so the linebacker commits to the tight end, leaving a receiver to cut free and curl inside.

I scoot under center and call, "Green-Broken-Dillo, hut, hut.

" The guys laugh all the time because it sounds like "green broken dildo.

" The defense does just as expected, and I hit Redham between his double eights for forty yards, and then he jogs into the end zone untouched, silencing the raucous Pittsburgh fans.

As I run off the field, Coach Stricker hits my helmet. "Damn, you're good."

"Better than Warren?" I joke.

"We'll debate that one when your careers are over. Great pass," Stricker admits.

The players slap my back and high-five me, but J.D. doesn't say a word. I got this. Coaching me can't be that hard. I'm a playmaker, and he knows it .

The rest of the game goes by fast. They can't stop our offense, and our defense grows every game.

Checking my phone when we get to the locker room, I see a text from Sutton.

Sutton: Paulina lost. She ran out of gas.

That's all. No "I love you" or "I miss you," and it sort of pisses me off.

Me: When will you be back in Austin?

No dots.

Maybe she's not answering me because she’s on her way home.