Page 62 of Broken Play
"She's amazing," I scream, looking down the row to J.D.
He yells, "I know," but he never takes his eyes off his wife.
"You're more amazing," Greyson says as he slips his hand from mine. A wave of sweet nerves rolls through me. It's the anticipation before a kiss. No anxiety. There's a collective "aww" from the crowd. The band plays, and up on the screen, the camera finds us just as Greyson releases my hand. I feel exposed, but we were just looking at each other for a few seconds before the camera caught us, and we naturallylooked up. There was no kiss cam or outing of our secret relationship.
As if it were planned, Birdie redirects the attention. "Who wants my hot, football-coach husband to come up with me?"
Well, that's all it takes for the crowd to go completely nuts. They're jumping and spilling their drinks. She walks down the side steps and takes her husband's hand. "You ready to sing with me, babe?"
J.D. shakes his head no, but she whispers something to him, and a smile appears. "We're going to sing a song I wrote when I wasn't sure if I'd ever run into him again. We didn't know each other's real names. I was a struggling singer who had no idea about football. Actually, I thought he was a hockey player. Why, you ask? Because he was wearing a scarf."
The audience hangs on her every word, and Greyson leans into me. "I gave him that scarf for when he came to Denver. He was used to the Vegas heat, and he hated to wear coats."
"I'm sure it was an awesome scarf, Ten."
"It was, and I've told Birdie to quit saying that part of the story. Have I told you that I love it when you call me Ten?" Greyson brushes a stray curl behind my ear. I reach into my back pocket, pull out my phone, and show him. "That's how you have me named in your phone?"
I nod in agreement. "Yeah, I thought it was very stealthy. I guess I'm just 'Sutton' in yours?"
"Nope. 'BL' for boss lady."
"That's a terrible nickname."
His eyes dance and a mischievous smile covers his face. "Well, I have others, but they're dirty."
He grins as he listens to Birdie finish her story. "This one is called 'Lead Me Home.'" She sings the slow melody, and J.D. comes in on the chorus, "Lead Me Home. Lead Me Home."
When the song is almost over, I squeeze Greyson's hand. "I'm thirsty."
Greyson places his hand on my back, guiding me through the hallway to the backstage area. We show our passes, and we wander around looking for beverages. "I can't wait to hear the whole story about Birdie."
He backs me up against a gold concrete wall, dips his head, his lips close enough that his words float across my own. "The real story begins at the encore. Don't you love it when you think you're finished, but you get one more..." His mouth crashes against mine, and even though I'm scared of being seen, I've never felt more alive than I do with Greyson O'Ryan.
Our chests inflate with the corresponding swell of the music. My hands dig into his hair. Greyson O'Ryan kisses me senseless, and when our lips part, he says, "Let's go up to the suite, give our front-row seats to someone, and sneak back to my place."
Just then, I hear a camera click, and I push Greyson away. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" His voice sounds like he's in a vacuum to me. I'm hyperaware that a camera was clicking and somebody could be watching me, or worse—us.
"Sutton, of course there are cameras. We're at a concert. Did you see anything suspicious?" he asks, lowering his voice, shifting closer. Around us, the thump of the bass and the shouts of the crew blur into the background, but his eyes are sharp, scanning the shadows beyond the glaring stage lights.
Flabbergasted, I huff. "I saw a shadow sliding along the wall." The words tumble out—an unwanted chill ripples over my skin.
Instantly, his brows knit together, and he angles his body protectively in front of me. "Show me where." The fun backstage energy crackles with tension now. He searches the wall with his gaze, one hand hovering subtly near mine. I realize he's not just worried for himself—but for us, for the secret that's become as fragile as glass.
Someone from security passes by, and Greyson catches his eye with a nod that's all business. "We need extra eyes back here tonight. I'm Birdie's brother-in-law," he says, his tone sharp enough to cut through the music.
The security guy nods, "I know who you are, Mr. O'Ryan. I'll take care of it."
Now everyone's a little on edge, as if the danger I sensed bled into them too. My heart pounds harder as Greyson finally lets his fingers graze mine for half a second—a silent warning, a silent comfort.
Greyson's voice is hoarse as he murmurs into my ear, "Stay close." There's an ache in his tone, a promise of safety battling with the risks pressing in on all sides. If someone is really watching, everything could change in an instant.
"We're not being careful. We can't be a couple in public." My stomach churns. Am I nervous about being caught, or am I sick?
"I really don't think anyone would care, as long as we disclose it."
"I care. I don't want to be fodder for every celebrity magazine. I can hear it now: 'O'Ryan gets sloppy seconds.'"
