Page 8 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)

EIGHT

SUTTON - THE FOLLOWING WEEK

All the players sit in an auditorium-style room with navy blue leather chairs. There's a huge screen to pull down like a professor and a permanent whiteboard.

It's the first day of training camp, and rookie orientation lasts for three days before the existing players—except for their quarterback—return. Greyson needs to be here since he's the leader on the field.

Greyson startles me as he leans against the door frame.

"Look who's here early. Ready for your big debut?

" His tone is so easy, making me feel welcome.

He shuts off the lights and saunters over as his fingers crawl into mine.

I take an inward breath, wanting to give in to this connection zipping between us.

It reminds me of how, last week at dinner, my dad suggested a visual training exercise, lining me up as the center.

My breath hitched when I felt the warmth of Greyson's hands between my legs.

Resisting temptation will be like climbing the Himalayas .

Greyson leads me to a seat. "Sit. I have something to show you." He releases my hand and presses a remote with his other hand. "Forget about the list of wide receivers I gave you. This is what I need, and I think Redham can be the one."

"How can you know?"

Pressing play, he brings Marquis Redham up on the screen. "Watch how he watches the quarterback's eyes instead of just running to a spot on the field. It's instinct and trust. He trusts his high school QB. QB is short for quarterback."

I manage a laugh. "I'm not an idiot."

"You asked J.D. at dinner."

"That was before I studied. Now I know."

Greyson squeezes my knee, allowing his hand to linger a second too long before he snatches it away.

The spot tingles, and I can't fight the flutter deep in my chest. I bite back a giddy smile—completely and utterly smitten.

He continues to show me college tape of Redham and says, "See, same thing.

" He looks at me with longing eyes, and I don't know if he wants Redham as his number one receiver or if he wants me.

It's amazing to me that Denver traded him. He's thorough, with attention to detail. "So, what's the plan?"

"I'm going to do my best to help him settle in.

We're both new to this, figuring things out as we go.

Until my house is ready, I'm pulling out all the stops—dinners together, video game marathons, maybe even a little horseback riding—anything to help him feel at home and trust me. You're always welcome."

I give him a you-are-such-a-flirt grin . "Okay, but let's not play favorites before you've given everyone a chance. "

"Anything for you, Boss," he says with a wink and a full-of-himself smirk.

J.D. arrives with a clipboard and says, "What's going on here?"

"Just showing the boss how good I think Redham will be."

Nodding while he peruses the papers on his clipboard, J.D. says, "We're going to be offensive-minded, but defense wins championships."

Whatever.

All the rookies file in, and you can feel the nervous energy. It's like the locker room at Wimbledon—silent with half-smiles.

I watch Greyson go to work. With an enormous smile that captivates them and small dimples that trap me in his web, he introduces himself: "Greyson O'Ryan.

You can call me anything but little brother.

" He hooks his thumb and points to J.D. "That's reserved for him.

He promised he wouldn't use it while coaching, but who wants to take bets that he doesn't last through training camp? "

He puts us all at ease with one sentence.

"Have a seat. I have a little something for you. Even the bosses don't know what I've done." He looks at me, J.D., and the defensive coordinator, who walked in with the rookies.

Based on the brothers' interactions—and how J.D. pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head—it's clear he expects a prank from Greyson.

When the rookies are seated, Greyson, once again, pushes play, and the title is:

This Is You.

It's a highlight package of every rookie, and I can literally see their shoulders relax as they shout kudos to each other .

" Took it to the house."

" Pick six, baby."

" Looks like I've got wings."

I can't believe how much research and work he's put in—studying film of each of the rookies and preparing a highlight reel. It's easy to understand why his former teammates loved and trusted him. He likes to prepare and research, just like me.

The next caption comes up:

This Is Us.

This time it's a highlight reel of J.D. and the other coaches from when they played.

Some, like J.D., played only a little over two years ago, and some, like the special teams coach, retired fifteen years ago.

The rookies are just as much in awe as I am.

My coaches know what the hell they're doing.

At least they know how to play, but can they teach the game to kids who think they know it all?

This is your General Manager:

Professional Athlete

It shows me playing at Wimbledon and winning the French Open.

Coach

It shows me coaching at ACE Tennis Academy.

Sutton Anders

Student of the Game.

Photos flash of me taken at meetings, press events, my dad's house with the O'Ryans, J.D.'s home while eating dinner with his wife, and with employees.

At the end, the rookies clap and holler. I admit my face reddens and my stomach spins at the thoughtfulness of the Armadillos' new quarterback and the man I've thought about for months .

Greyson stops the film as he stands in front of it, the light glowing behind him.

"This team of Armadillos is made to withstand every shot the opposing team takes—from the rookies to the existing players to the ones traded, like me, to our coaching staff and management.

We are tough. Life has shot a few bullets my way, but I won't let it stop me from winning.

Take that bad thing that happened to you and use it for motivation. "

The player media room erupts with thundering voices and raw, electric energy as Greyson delivers a fiery speech, and for the first time, I feel goosebumps rise on my arms. I never understood locker-room hype until now, but hearing my quarterback rally the rookies, I'm suddenly certain that, together, we can win anything. Or at least sound good trying.

"Thank you, Greyson. I guess you all know that I'm Sutton Anders.

I didn't know Greyson was putting this together, but it reminds us that we have qualities that can be used in any aspect of our lives.

Rookies, after this week, I don't want you to feel like a rookie.

So many of us are in new roles in a new place, and we're going to navigate this football season together.

There's no better coach to lead you than a man who has spent his life reading defenses and throwing touchdowns: your coach, J.D. O'Ryan."

They start a rhythmic clap for J.D. until he tells them to settle down.

Then J.D. says, "And there is no better quarterback than my lit.

.. Greyson O'Ryan." He chuckles. "I can't let him win a bet on the first day.

He's better than I was. He's a team player.

And even though you'll hear announcers and pundits say it's Greyson O'Ryan's team to win or lose, it's not.

We win and lose as a team, but that doesn't mean you can slack off.

Each one of you needs to work outside of practice on your speed, agility, and the intangibles, like reading an offense or a defense.

You need to study football every day, just as our GM has. "

When the meeting is over, Coach takes the rookies to the locker room to change into their Austin Armadillos gear. Greyson is filtering out, and I yell, "Greyson, can I see you for a moment?"

He stops and turns slowly before bumping fists with one of the rookies.

When I'm sure everyone is gone, I say, "You didn't have to do that."

"What? I wanted them to know you're not just some trust-fund baby.

You've done the same things we've done all our lives: work toward a goal and play professionally.

Believe me, I know how hard it is to push the negative things in your life to the back of your mind just to play a game. You'll be a terrific general manager."

He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, and suddenly I feel like a teenager, blushing, wanting him to kiss me, and knowing that he can't.

I choke on my own voice. "Thank you."

His hand drops, and he takes two steps backward. "I've got your back."

It's a simple statement, but why does it feel so intimate when he says it?