Page 1 of Broken Play
ONE
GREYSON
Winning this game feels almost as good as having a woman underneath me. My teammates throw me onto their shoulders, chanting, "QB! QB!"
Even with management dismantling key components of our team, citing salary cap issues, we are triumphant.
I stand in the middle of the locker room with several green bottles spraying in my direction. This team. My team. We're AFC Conference Champions. One more game, and I'll have my second championship ring.
If you haven't been soaked in champagne, you haven't lived. It's the epitome of the taste of victory. The sting when it sneaks into your eyes. The little bubbles sitting on your skin. And the few drops that reach your mouth? The cherry on top.
When the celebration comes to an end, one of my offensive linemen says, "Hey, let's go to Hillenbrand's tonight. I arranged a VIP room for twenty."
"When did you make the reservation?" I ask with a raised eyebrow.
"Wednesday. I knew my quarterback would come through," Ockerman says with a big, goofy grin on his face. He grabs me in a bear hug, and I do mean a bear hug. He's big, burly, and the dude is covered in hair from head to toe, having never met a razor.
"Sounds good, but I'm enforcing a curfew. We deserve to party, but we need to keep our goal in plain sight." I prefer night games, but in this case, I'm happy we played the three-thirty game. This will be our only night to enjoy the win before getting back to it on Monday.
There's some towel flipping on the way to the showers. By the time I'm finished, most of the guys are gone. My phone rings, and my brother's name pops up on the screen. I press decline. Seconds later, he sends a text message.
J.D.: Answer your phone, MF.
Laughing, I call him back. "Hey, bro. Sorry, I was making plans with a teammate."
"Congrats. You played a hell of a game," he says excitedly.
"Thanks. It was fun."
"Greyson, you need to make quicker reads when you play Atlanta. Their defense is the best in the league, and you need to move your feet."
Of course, he can't stop with a positive remark. J.D. is the head coach of the Austin Armadillos and former league MVP.
It's hard living in the shadow of the perfect player, even though he never made it to a Super Bowl. He needs to remember that I'm the one playing now, not him.
"Can you please just be my brother instead of my coach?Just one damn day." I sigh as I place my personal items into my small duffel bag—a picture, my conference champions hat, and T-shirt—then grab an empty champagne bottle to display on my bookcase.
There's silence on the phone. Both of us thinking too much. Wishing my mom was here to experience this with me. Dad and my younger siblings were given field access, so I was able to hug them at least. My sister, Noelle, has a cheer competition tomorrow, so they had to catch a flight right after the game. Luckily, we could have a low-key dinner at my house last night.
"Sorry, it's the coach in me," J.D. mumbles. "Of the last-place Austin Armadillos."
Thank God I don't play for him. That would be disastrous.
"No, I think it's the older-brother syndrome. Do you remember the time in Pop Warner when you came off the sidelines, waving your arms, explaining the play? I think I was nine, and you were twelve. You weren't on my team or the coaching staff, and you ran out on the field. The team wouldn't let me forget it." I chuckle, remembering that J.D. looked like an overzealous nut.
J.D. mutters, "Well, you didn't read the defense and nearly threw an interception, which is exactly why you need to run your reads quicker. I want you to win this. Cement your place in history."
"One thing I've never questioned is how much you want to win or want me to win." My voice catches in my throat. "I've got this."
"You've got this. You've done it once, and you can do it this time. Congrats again."
Poking the bear, I ask, "Are you going to Noelle's competition since you're finished playing football?"
"All right, you beat me this year, but next year my QB will light it up. I can't wait to go head-to-head. But yes, I'll send you a video of her routine. Love ya."
"You, too. I'll call you Friday, but no football talk. I need to stay loose."
After hanging up, I drive thirty minutes to my house in Highlands Ranch. I have an hour to chill before going to the club. I make a turkey, cheese, lettuce, and tomato sandwich with Dijon mustard while watching game film, trying to dissect my play. And fuck if I don't see exactly what J.D. referenced. I scratch some notes down, then go upstairs to get ready.
