Page 52 of Broken Play
I bet you will.
"Oh, that's sweet of you, Stricker, but I'm fine. I can get to my room."
Stricker demands, "I'm walking you to your room."
They turn, walking down the hall, and Sutton glances back, giving me a close-lipped smile, as if to say she's sorry. At this point, I know our secret rendezvous was a false start, and Sutton won't risk it again tonight.
I close the door, and the harsh click is muffled by my disappointment. I just stare at the handle, feeling empty, and I can't recall feeling this empty except for two other times.
We were supposed to steal a few minutes together and maybe a late-night snack. Instead, I'm alone, listening to her laughter fade down the hall with the sense that I called a broken play—the kind that seems easy on paper but, when it comes to execution, is harder than it looks.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SUTTON
"Hey, sorry it didn't work out tonight."
"Is Stricker really that funny?" he asks, his voice laced with jealousy, and for some reason, I like it.
"He is. Maybe you should give him a chance."
"Has he been crying on your shoulder, trying to get the boss on his side?" he asks with a smidgen of venom.
I turn onto my side and put the speaker on low. "No, but I see you going to your brother for everything. You're cutting Matt off at the knees. He needs you... no, I need you to be a team player."
"I am a team player," he scoffs. "I ate with the defense tonight."
"You know what I'm saying. Your brother is the head coach and shouldn't have to be the QB coach too just because you don't want to take instruction from..."
"From someone who played two years in the league and whose only résumé builder is coaching Logan Warren in college? Damn right, I don't. I know how to play this game at the highest level, Sutton."
I close my eyes, searching for words that will make him understand, and then I hit the video button. I'm not prepared for the bare chest and the charming smile that smack me in the face, but somehow, I keep my composure.
"Ten."
"Is that my nickname? 'Cause I'm a ten or because I wear the number ten?"
"You're a four... I say it because you wear the number," I tease.
He responds with a panty-melting smile. "Right."
"When I played professional tennis, I still needed a coach. I had three coaches: a hitting coach, a strength coach, and a coach who was all-encompassing. The last is J.D.; Barry is your strength coach; and Matt is your quarterback coach. Why wouldn't you want to ingratiate yourself with Matt? He's dedicated to three people on the team and, most importantly, to you."
Greyson gets quiet, and I have to say, "Are you asleep?"
He lets out a long exhale and says, "No, but I feel like I know and have experienced more than he has. My QB coach in Denver made it to three Super Bowls even though he never won. He had credibility."
"Stricker won a Super Bowl with the Heavyweights and an NCAA Championship with Kentucky."
"As a coach, not a player."
"So, he's a better coach than he was a player. He's a nice guy and has more going on in his life than you know, because you won't give him more than is required. He's a great guy," I say as I reach for the folder full of data on the nightstand. Sometimes, this general manager gig seems more about stroking egos than it is about spreadsheets and financials.
"I just don't like to see other men make you laugh. That's my job."
I admit I like the thought of Greyson wanting to be the one who makes me smile. "Well, now I know how to get under your skin."
"You buried yourself under my skin the night I met you in Denver," he says with a slight crackle to his voice. "If I say I'll start talking to him and listening, will that make you happy?"
