Page 18 of Broken Play
Her brows crease in frustration. "Greyson, you can tell me anything. I thought we had become friends."
Being friends with Sutton sounds like a prison sentence because I want so much more. And once she feels like she knows the team and the game, I won't see her much, and that's the best thing for me. I guide her up the staircase with my hand on her back, secretly wishing she would fall backward into my arms.
The first person I see is my dad talking to a couple of defensive teammates. "Son," he says with his arms out wide. "I still can't believe you're here. My prayers have been answered. If Parker were home, it would be perfect." He pulls me into a warm hug, then folds his hand around the back of my neck and looks me straight in the eyes. "This is where you belong."
I hate that he still feels the need to protect me and watch over me. But I'm not a father, so maybe that's the way it is.
"It's good to be home," I claim, trying to sound convincing, even though the truth is tangled somewhere between relief and total uncertainty.
My dad lets out a booming laugh, filling the kitchen with that easy, familiar noise. "Not sure I believe you, son. You've got that look in your eye like you did the time..." My stomach clenches. Please don't bring that up, especially not with half the team mingling in my empty great room. He hesitates and just says, "Like the time you lied about loving fried okra, so your mom kept making it."
I snort, ducking my head so he doesn't see my relief. "I'd almost blocked that out."
With her interest piqued, Sutton sashays over out of nowhere and perks up. "Wait—you don't like fried okra? Me neither. It's slimy." She pulls a face, nose scrunched, shaking her head, lips tightening in a way that makes me want to pull her close just for being real.
Feeling lighter, I clasp my hands behind my neck. "Exactly, but my mom was an excellent cook, and I didn't want to disappoint her. What about oysters?"
Sutton's body shudders just at the thought. "Yuck, no. No oysters, no clams, and, God forbid, no calamari. Just give me a steak, and I'm in heaven."
I respond, my voice warmer and more tender than I intend, as my eyes linger on hers. "A woman after my own heart."
Sutton's lips quirk in a way that makes me feel like she's letting me in on a secret. In that moment, I see a softness beneath the tough exterior she's been using to keep me at arm's length. It's the same warmth and desire I experienced with her that night in Denver, and it's impossible not to wonder if she feels this pull between us too.
TEN
SUTTON
Standing in the bleachers a few rows up, I watch as J.D. instructs Greyson, who takes it in stride and hurls the ball downfield to Marquis Redham. One of the older wide receivers comes up, jawing at Greyson, no doubt unhappy that the ball has been going to the rookie seventy percent of the time by my calculations.
Greyson pats him on the shoulders and puts his helmet against Baker's. I have no idea what they're saying, but after a minute, our QB pats the back of Baker's helmet, and they both take their spots on the field.
Once again, the next throw goes to Marquis, but this time, Baker just runs back to his spot.
Greyson's leadership skills are on full display as he takes a shot downfield to Baker, and Baker catches it over his inside shoulder and runs it in for a touchdown. Greyson runs down the field and chest-bumps Baker, who's celebrating.
Being here on the field for practice is teaching me more than what J.D. and Greyson call X's and O's—it's showing me who wants to learn, who's excited for the season, and,unfortunately, who the bad apples may be. I take notes on each player's behavior and skills to make trades.
J.D. will decide who starts this weekend in our first preseason game against the Louisville Heavyweights, led by Logan Warren, another Super Bowl MVP.
When practice ends, Greyson and the second- and third-string quarterbacks huddle around the coach.
J.D. yells at Greyson. For what, I have no idea. As I walk down the steps, J.D.'s voice carries as if he's on a microphone. Greyson stands there, taking every razored word, staring at his cleats, not saying a word.
As I get closer, J.D. storms off, cursing and mumbling about authority. Dale slaps Greyson on the back, then walks away. I snag Greyson's elbow. "Hey, what was that all about?" I ask, low but insistent.
His gaze doesn't meet mine as he lets out a humorless laugh. "Nothing. Just my big brother reminding me that I don't follow directions. Guess it's easier to blame me than his play call."
I squeeze his arm, trying to ground him. Instead, the tension crackles between us, and I say without thinking, "Can I come over?" I clear my throat as his eyes move from the ground up my torso, landing on mine. "I have a few things I want to go over."
My stomach twists into a nervous knot as I fidget with the hem of my sleeve, avoiding his eyes. He tilts his head, studying me.
"Alone? Like, by yourself? Without J... the coach?" he asks, and suddenly I wish the ground would just swallow me up. The moment hangs between us like the ball toss when you're serving on match point.
"Sorry, it's a bad idea. Just meet me inmy office."
"No, my house is fine. Noelle was supposed to oversee the furniture delivery. What time?"
"In a couple of hours. Do you want me to pick up dinner?"
