Page 63 of Broken Play
He shoots me a confident look and says, "Babe,you're anything but sloppy. And I know Bodhi never gave you what you needed the way I do."
My body feels like a puddle of warm chocolate from all the charm, the smiles, and the winks.
We hear the crowd chant and cheer. It's intermission, and suddenly backstage is a flurry of activity—wardrobe is following Birdie, and the band is jogging to their dressing room.
Greyson and I spot J.D. handing Birdie her hot tea with honey. After she catches her breath, I fangirl over her. I explain, "I'm not feeling well and am going home."
Birdie insists, "Don't drive. I did that once when I was dehydrated and barely made it home. Have Greyson drive you. He's heard me sing a hundred times."
"Oh, I can't inconvenience him."
Greyson smirks, "You're my boss, not an inconvenience. I need you to keep signing those checks."
I lift my arms and let them fall back to my sides. "Okay, let's go find some lucky players and make them very happy." Greyson messages the players' group text: "The first two who reply get front-row tickets. Go!"
Redham: Me. Me. Me.
Quinton: Please let me be first.
The band runs past us, and it's only minutes before they're strumming their guitars to a steady beat.
"That's my cue," Birdie says as she jumps into J.D.'s arms. "One more hour and then I'm yours."
I clutch my hands over my heart, swooning over how deeply in love they are. As the hum of the crowd builds, J.D.puts her down and says, "Knock 'em dead. I'm going to meet Redham and Quinton. We'll be in the first row in no time."
Greyson says, "Hold my hand while we maneuver through the crowd." The hallways vibrate with the bass and drums as we slip toward the back door to the players' lot. Minutes later, we're curled up in his truck, concert lights blinking through the windows, Birdie's voice trailing out into the humid night.
He laces his fingers with mine, and I close my eyes, wondering how long we can keep this secret safe. Or how long before someone knocks on the glass and the whole world changes.
THIRTY-THREE
GREYSON
Well, that's a first. Sutton falls asleep in my truck on the way to her house, so I take her back to mine. She's running on empty trying to coach, be the general manager, and sneak around with me.
After I force her to drink a sixteen-ounce sports drink with electrolytes, I sit on the couch holding her hand, watching her sleep.
Sutton is taller than average, yet she looks small curled up on my couch, with one hand fisting my throw blanket and the other resting on her cheek. Strands of her hair stick to her forehead and neck, so I brush them away. I should have noticed at the concert that her lips were dry, but I was too busy flirting, trying to make sure she found me irresistible.
She stirs, turning over so that she's facing the inside of the couch. I take the cold washcloth and pat it against her cheek. I can't stop watching her. The way she breathes. The way she moves to get comfortable.
"Hmmm." Her lids slowly open. "Where am I?"
"Greyson O'Ryan at your service," I say, letting out anervous chuckle. "Drink this." I hand her another glass of the orange drink. Sutton wiggles until she can take a drink without spilling it. I watch her swallow, and when she hands it back to me, I say, "One more." She rubs her eyes and stretches, the blanket slipping down around her waist. She gives me a sleepy, grateful smile as she drinks the cup dry.
I wonder what it would be like to take care of her every day. Would she be stubborn if she were sick?
"Sutton, do you have any medical conditions? Should you be at the hospital?"
She blinks at my serious tone and shakes her head, as if to reassure me. "No, I swear, no medical issues. I just... I think I pushed myself too hard and didn't drink enough water. That's all. No history of anything scary, I promise." She reaches for my hand, as if to convince me, even though I know the worry is still lingering in my eyes. "You don't have to haul me off to the hospital. I just need to slow down."
"Well, you're staying the whole night, and I'm nursing you back to health. You're calling them and telling them you're working remotely."
"I... I can't. What will they say?"
"It doesn't matter. You're in charge, not anyone else. General managers aren't around nearly as much as you are. I don't know how you fit everything in between the Armadillos and coaching tennis. No wonder I barely see you. Email Marlon now."
Reaching for her phone, she says under her breath, "Okay."
