Page 69 of Broken Play
"Nice to meet you." He reaches out to shake her hand, but she hugs him instead. "Enjoy the game."
"Oh, I will. The butts on these men are fantastic."
J.D. gets right back to work as he meets Coach Stricker and Greyson on the thirty-yard line to go over final instructions.
After all the pregame festivities, the game starts off with a defensive stand in the red zone. A thunderous and collective cheer comes from the stands when we hold them on fourth down. Now we have the ball. Frank Cozen has firmed up the blind side, allowing Greyson to move around without fear of being sacked; he throws a touchdown pass to the wide receiver. The game continues to be a nail-biter. Greyson is playing great, but our defense has given up two touchdowns.
The crowd is going wild during the television timeout while my heart hammers in my veins. With forty-four seconds on the clock, the scoreboard hasn't moved since the third quarter, stopped at 14-14. But we have a chance to win it, and the fans are merciless and loud. This is our stadium, and the opposing team feels it. All eyes are on Number Ten as he jogs onto the field. He doesn't look around—he just snaps his chinstrap—and the crowd erupts.
I know how he's feeling. To be successful, you must have unbreakable focus, and that's what he has. I grip the edge of the seat in front of me so hard my knuckles burn. Even though my body feels like a live wire, I try to look calm for the department heads and friends.
Greyson barks out the play, drops back, and scans the field. He wants to relieve the stress on his brother and turn this team into winners. "Winners win," he always says. "Teach a man that it's okay to lose, and he will continue to lose. Teach a man to win, and he will keep winning." The problem is that our team is so new to working together, and everyone must have a winner's mentality. None of the receivers can shake the defenders, so he dumps it off to the running back, who catches it three yards away but then breaks a tackle and comes close to a first down.
The next play is a quarterback sneak for a first down, but the clock is ticking. Greyson throws for eight yards, but the clock is down to seven seconds. I'm not an expert, but I think J.D. will kick a field goal for the win. Greyson calls a timeout, and J.D. is furious. Coach Stricker takes his hat off and runs his fingers through his hair. The camera shows a close-up of them talking, with Greyson covering his mouth, and it's clear our head coach isn't happy. He finally pats Greyson on the helmet, and he huddles up with the guys.
Surprised,I shout, "We're going for it!" I look around. "Is that what we should do?"
Everyone has a different opinion. Depending on the outcome, some of the employees will have bragging rights.
From high above the field, I watch Greyson command the offense. The team changes position each time he calls out a word. I wish I understood why they call a play "Cinderella Pumpkin Seven." But Greyson drops back five or six steps, surveying the field. I look at the Jumbotron and see that the clock has ticked down to four seconds. Greyson lets the ball fly, and when I say fly, I mean the ball slices through the air. Redham jumps, his body parallel to the ground, and brings the pigskin to his chest. Touchdown.
Greyson runs down the field, celebrating with his team. The cameras zoom in on him and a few others, and they're all making the letter 'A' in sign language. He's adapting to his new team, and I'm falling in love with a man who can have any woman he wants. And all I can think of is how good my Number Ten is under pressure.
Slapping each other's hands, I pull Anna, Marlon, and my brother into the suite so we can see Greyson's live interview.Well, I don't tell them that part.J.D. and Greyson are larger than life on the television. Brothers. The first coach/quarterback combo in history to win a professional football game in their home stadium.
The interviewer simply asks for his thoughts. J.D. lifts his hat before placing it back on his head and lets out what looks like a sigh of relief. "I've always loved to win, but to win our firsthomegame of the season with my brother... Well, it's like we're in high school again. It's a lot of fun." The emotion in his voice is evident.
"Greyson, do you feel the same way?"
Sweat pours from the ends of Greyson's hair, making me wish he were hovering over me with his sweat dripping on my body. His smile is hiding something, and I'll have to ask him about it. "In all honesty, I'm happier than I've ever been. This is a great organization headed up by people that I trust and a team that is coming together, so I can't ask for much more."
"Congrats on the win. How are you going to celebrate?"
"Thank you. I'll enjoy tonight, but then it's right back to work to prepare for Atlanta."
Greyson winks at the camera, and I'm almost sure it's all for me.
THIRTY-SEVEN
GREYSON
Sutton bursts into the locker room, excited, waving her arms. She throws her arms around J.D. "You did it! You put the Armadillo opening home-game curse to rest."
J.D. eases out of the hug and says, "That was all the QB."
Freshly showered and with a towel wrapped around my hips, I have satisfaction written all over my face, but with Sutton's eyes trained on me, I start to feel uncomfortable. Don't get me wrong, I love that I can have this effect on her, but she's the one who's scared of people finding out about us. I watch her swallow like she's got cat hair stuck in her throat.
She asks, "What do you mean?"
J.D. looks at her, but I say, "No, it wasn't. You and Coach Stricker were willing to listen, and the guys executed. It's all you, Coach."
The team chants, "Coach! Coach!" They say it louder, and J.D. gestures for them to quiet down. "Men, we're going to need to play better to win in Atlanta, but think about how good it feels to start the season 2-0. How good it feels to be winners. Speak the words into existence. I'm a winner. Myteam wins. And I promise that the more you win, the more you want to win, and the more you will win. Enjoy a day off tomorrow, other than physical therapy. We'll see you here on Tuesday. Great game. Dillos on three. One. Two. Three. Dillos!"
Sutton stands by the door, congratulating each player, and I overhear her saying things like "Terrific tackle," "What a return," and "You were locked in." I sort of chuckle inside at how far she's come in just a couple of months. I have no doubt Sutton would have been a Rhodes Scholar had she taken the academic route. She takes studying seriously.
When it seems the locker room is empty, she calls out, "Anyone still here?" Her shoes click against the floor, and I know she's wondering where I am because she hasn't congratulated me. "Hello? Anyone here?"
Wanting to tease her, I sweep her into my arms as she turns the corner. The way she giggles sounds nothing like my straightforward, calm general manager. It's a sound that Sutton doesn't give to others; it's just for me.
