Page 17 of Broken Play
They start a rhythmic clap for J.D. until he tells them to settle down. Then J.D. says, "And there is no better quarterback than my lit... Greyson O'Ryan." He chuckles. "I can't let him win a bet on the first day. He's better than I was. He's a team player. And even though you'll hear announcers and pundits say it's Greyson O'Ryan's team to win or lose, it's not. We win and lose as a team, but that doesn't mean you can slack off. Each one of you needs to work outside of practice on your speed, agility, and the intangibles, like reading anoffense or a defense. You need to study football every day, just as our GM has."
When the meeting is over, Coach takes the rookies to the locker room to change into their Austin Armadillos gear. Greyson is filtering out, and I yell, "Greyson, can I see you for a moment?"
He stops and turns slowly before bumping fists with one of the rookies.
When I'm sure everyone is gone, I say, "You didn't have to do that."
"What? I wanted them to know you're not just some trust-fund baby. You've done the same things we've done all our lives: work toward a goal and play professionally. Believe me, I know how hard it is to push the negative things in your life to the back of your mind just to play a game. You'll be a terrific general manager."
He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, and suddenly I feel like a teenager, blushing, wanting him to kiss me, and knowing that he can't.
I choke on my own voice. "Thank you."
His hand drops, and he takes two steps backward. "I've got your back."
It's a simple statement, but why does it feel so intimate when he says it?
NINE
GREYSON
Laughter bounces off the bare walls, filling every corner of my new, mostly empty house. Cardboard boxes double as chairs, but no one seems to care—my teammates sprawl out across the basement, voices overlapping as they trash talk and swap stories. Someone yells for a rematch. Controller buttons click. Five TVs flicker with different games, each one drawing a few more shouts and groans. My family weaves in and out, dodging errant Nerf darts and balancing plates of chips. The smell of barbecue floats in from upstairs. In the last round, Redham—our rookie—beats me and grins, "Told you, old man."
J.D. comes down and says, "Dad's here. He wants to meet the new guys."
"Be on your best behavior," I warn Redham.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, that's a good start. Dad's a firm believer in showing respect."
Two rookies quickly join us, eager to stay on good terms with me and J.D. Jeff, an offensive lineman, and Lyle, atight end, follow J.D., talking about dominating on game day.
The other guys trot upstairs while I stay behind and look at the bookcase with my trophies. It's the one and only thing I've arranged myself, but every time I look at my Denver jersey or the small replica of the championship trophy, anger rises inside me.
I don't know how long I stare before a hand flattens against my shoulder blade. "Are you okay?" she asks. I already know it's Sutton simply by the current that flows between us.
"Fine."
"You've been staring at that poster for three minutes." She shows me the stopwatch on her watch.
"I said I'm fine."
Her hand glides down my arm, and her fingers slip into mine. She pulls me down onto the couch. "You're not. And we paid a pretty freaking penny for you, so talk."
"It sucks starting all over."
"You've seemed fine until now."
"I loved Denver and everything about it."
She removes her hand from mine and shoves her fingers through her hair, resting her elbow on the back of the couch. "I thought you were somewhat happy to be back around your family."
"I am. It's just that I'm here with rookies, kids close to Noelle and Parker's age. And my dad isn't here to meet the guys. He's here because today is..."
"Today is what?"
"Never mind." I stand, offer her a hand, and pull her up.
