Page 11 of Broken Play
"Or maybe you just want to see Greyson every day and hook up in the utility closet." She bursts out laughing.
She's not wrong. I've thought about him all night.
"What should I do?"
"What does the job entail? Do you have to work directly with Greyson?"
My teeth dig into my bottom lip, thinking about a scenario where I'm the general manager for the Austin Armadillos. "I don't think so. His older brother is the head coach, also a former player, and I'll have meetings with him; he's married to Birdie, the singer."
"Well, this story just got even more interesting. Take the job and get Francisco and me VIP tickets to her concert in Madrid. You know how much I love her."
Rolling my eyes, I say, "Sure, I'll take the job for concert tickets."
"Don't take the job for me. Take it so the hot quarterback can melt your undies."
"I'm fairly sure that if I take the job, it would be against the rules. No fraternization. It's a rule at the tennis academy."
"When did that stop anyone at our tennis academy? Where there's a will, there's a way. Didn't you always say that?"
I did. But that was before my self-confidence was shattered along with my ribs.
When I don't say anything for a minute, she squeals, "Okay, text me as soon as you decide. But if you want a challenge, this qualifies."
"Love you, Anna. Thanks for waking up and listening, but now I need to go to bed."
"And it's time for me to eat and go to practice. I'm just glad you didn't call and say you ran into your ex-asshole. Oh, before we hang up, did he remember you? And did you let him know you remembered him?"
I replay the way Greyson's eyes lingered a little too long on me in my dad's house. "My dad and his brother were in the room most of the time, but I think so. At the end, he said, 'You can put me wherever you want me.'"
Anna lets out a satisfied cackle. "This is going to get good. Have you stalked him yet?"
"Next on my to-do list."
I hang up, still buzzing with the thrill and the coincidence of it all. Before I go to bed, I do a deep dive on Greyson O'Ryan's Wikipedia page. I admit, I go straight to the personal section. Single.
How could a man with more charm than a prince be single, never married, and without children?
After daydreaming about Greyson, I skim the professional section about Super Bowls and MVPs. This is all great, but it doesn't tell me why he was traded. Did he do something stupid? A bar fight? Drugs? Injury? I look over his statistics and have no idea what the acronyms mean. INT? PY? RY? I make a mental note to do some studying if I'm serious about accepting this job.
I type "Greyson O'Ryan trade" into the search bar, and everything that comes up says he almost lost the Super Bowl single-handedly. The backup came in and won the game. I blow out a breath. He must be devastated. Someone with his talent being replaced. The article says that Denver had to pay Greyson a lot of money, and then, of course, he's getting paid by my dad's team.
What I find next shocks me.
A photo of Greyson and me at the nightclub appears. My back is to his chest as my head leans back on his shoulder, and his hand is on my leg, dangerously close to my privates. The various headlines read:
Is Mystery Woman the Reason for the Distraction?
Did O'Ryan Lose the Game of His Career
Because of a Woman?
Denver Needs to Find This Woman and Screw His Head on Right.
When I was in Europe, I never saw any of this; they don't care about American football. I'm sure he's photographed with women all the time, considering he's single and hasnever been married. Why are they harping on him about one girl? We kissed once. We danced for an hour, maybe less. But as I gaze at our picture, shivers run up my spine; a tidal wave of memories crashes over me, overwhelming my senses and transporting me back to that night.
How he held me tight.
How his voice made me melt.
