Page 2 of Broken Play
I pull on some jeans my publicist sent over. I don't know why I can't just wear regular jeans, but she insists that I wear clothes from my sponsors. Then I thread my arms through a black sport coat over a white button-down.
Grabbing the keys to my Porsche from the counter, I slide into the four-car garage and settle into the gunmetal-gray sports car. I have a good life in Denver.
Thankfully, Hillenbrand's has a VIP entrance with security to keep the mob away. "Great game, Mr. O'Ryan," the valet attendant says as he takes my keys.
"Thanks. Call me Greyson, or the GOAT will do," I laugh in jest. But part of me wants to be remembered as the greatest of all time.
I follow the VIP host to the upper level, my head high as the clubbers realize QB1 is in the house. The club is packed on the main level, celebrating our win while others have no idea that a football game was played today.
Most of the offense is here, even some of the married ones whotake every opportunity to party and have extramarital hookups.
Why get married if you're going to cheat? I'll just keep playing the field—discreetly.
Our private host has long black hair and a skimpy tuxedo comparable to a certain "bunny" outfit. Her tits and ass hang out, and she has on four-inch heels, lengthening her already mile-long legs. Hillenbrand's is classy, though. My teammates are calling dibs. I prefer to work a little for the women in my company. My first year or two in the league, I loved that women were ready and willing, but now I like a little chase.
Our tight end, Rick, is in his rookie season, twenty-three years old and about to play in the biggest game of his life. He's huge—six-foot-six and about two hundred sixty pounds—and he can fly down the field. He calls me over with a wave.
"Hey, after this bottle, do you want to go down to the lower level and use our charms?"
"Sure."
As we finish our fourth bottle of Dom Pérignon, the guys attract girls like flies. They invite one up, and then her entourage comes, too.
"Let's go. I'm tired of cleat chasers."
We use the elevator with security, and as we're getting off, a woman whose body is completely covered garners my attention. Well, not completely. Her legs are toned, and she's so damn feminine. Blonde hair, but not fake blonde. It's sandy, with a colored streak framing each side of her face. I can't tell the color because of the lighting. Maybe pink or red.
She's talking to her friend when they both look up and smile, but to my surprise, neither of them flirts with us. Theyduck their heads and move through the crowd, sinfully swaying their hips as they make their way to the dance floor.
"Has that ever happened to you? A woman five feet away not hitting on you?" Rick asks as he runs his hand through his hair.
Shaking my head, I respond, "Not in a long time. Did you see her perfect, pouty lips?" Maybe they're part of the I-don't-care-about-football crowd.
We weave through slashing bodies to reach what we call the lookout point—the area where you survey the landscape. The ratio of women to men is at least two to one. It makes me wonder if every guy ends up in the soft arms of a woman or if there are some guys who, no matter what they do, go home lonely.
Rick gestures with a double head nod that it's time to dance. He has someone in his sights.
The music thumps wildly as the lights flash, and we swim in a sea of women. How are there so many beautiful women yet not one who makes me want to give up the single life?
A redhead twists and whips her hair around, slapping me in the chest. She doesn't notice, but it stings as if I've been flogged. She's wearing a miniskirt, and when I say mini, I mean one knuckle deep, and I would be in. Her top looks like a bra or the top of a bikini, and her flesh is covered with glistening beads of sweat. I have a feeling she'd be a spark plug in bed.
When the music transitions to another song, she pulls the ends of her hair with both hands, twirling around, making sure I get a good look. But my eyes are drawn to the woman whose breasts aren't exposed. Why? I have no idea. Inod to the girls I've been dancing with and cross the floor as the square tiles light up beneath me.
Her back is to me, so I touch her arm. When she turns, I'm struck by the entirety of her. The wind is nearly knocked out of me. Her eyes widen as she looks up at me, and a jaunty smile appears.
I ask, "Do you want to dance?" But it's so loud she would need to be an expert lip-reader to hear me. So I reach for her hand, and when we touch, emotion floods my body.WTF?
She curls her fingers into mine, and I pull her closer. Our bodies move, letting air flow between us. I could watch her all day. The way she moves is like a ballerina inSwan Lake. My mom took us to the ballet once a year, wanting us to be well-rounded and to appreciate the arts as much as sports.
It's sweltering hot in here, so I roll up my sleeves to my elbows, then take her hand once again. I spin her so her back lands against my chest. And fuck if this isn't the best dance I've ever had. My hands slide down her silky dress, reaching her hips.
As we sway our hips, my erection builds, pressing into her back. I bend my knees so it hits the swell of her cheeks. She hooks her arm around my neck, stretching her torso. The dress rises a few inches, and my hands wander to her bare legs. My fingers skim the smooth, taut flesh. Her chest rises, and her breath hitches.
I move her hair to one side, dipping my head into the perfect pocket. My lips trace the column of her neck. She relaxes into me with her eyes closed. It's like we're in the soft focus of a camera. She's all I can see, with a haze erasing everything else. It's just us.
Needing to taste her lips, I turn her around to face me.Lust sparkles in her eyes as I tug at the material sticking to her skin. "I'm Greyson," I say into her ear.
Then her lips graze my ear as she says, "Sutton."
