Page 23 of Broken Play
"I don't have time for that nonsense. Tell me, and I'll let you know what we can trade."
"If I give you Frank, it will take two people plus a first-round draft pick. I don't know who yet. He has a giant buyout clause."
"We don't play you this year. We're not in the same conference. The only way we meet this year is if we both get to the championship game. We'll offer you Spader, a top-ten safety, and Baker. You need a wide receiver, plus a third-round draft pick next year."
I can hear him tapping his fingers against something, probably his desk. "I'll get back to you. I'll pull tape on them. Make sure they play in the preseason game tomorrow so I can see their current condition."
"I'll make it happen. But I want this done by next weekso we both have time to bring them up to speed before the regular season starts."
We hang up, and I head to the private airport with Marlon and George, the vice president of operations. On the way, I text J.D.
Me: Make sure to play Baker and Spader as much as possible in the game.
J.D.: I'm the coach. I make the playing decisions, remember?
Me: I'm trying to protect your brother and our investment.
When I arrive at the team hotel, the players are having dinner in a private dining room catered by Jeff Ruby's Steakhouse. I peek in and can't help but notice the scowls on both the O'Ryan men's faces. Just as I'm about to walk away, Greyson catches my eye. He doesn't smile or wave a friendly hand; instead, he turns back to his teammates.
Finally, the elevator stops on the tenth floor. After ordering room service, I put on my pajamas, turn on the television, and wait for my food.
Room service arrives, and I can barely eat due to exhaustion. I nibble while I watch a true crime show and then soak in the enormous tub, my mind drifting between Bodhi and Greyson. Greyson to Bodhi. Bodhi's not an option, and Greyson shouldn't be.
If Greyson had asked, "Are you still in love with him?" I could have said no instantly. But he asked if I was over him. How could I be over him after what he did?
The next day, I have breakfast with Marlon and George before we head to the stadium for the game. We should wintoday since their MVP quarterback, Logan Warren, isn't playing.
We watch as the team takes the field for warm-ups. George says, "We should go down to the field for support."
Twisting my lips and scrunching my nose, I say, "You two go. I'm expecting a call." I don't want to be anywhere near Greyson O'Ryan and experience the disappointment in his blue eyes again.
After kickoff, J.D. plays the two players I requested, and, honestly, I had questioned whether he would. Baker catches a sixty-yard touchdown pass, and Greyson runs down the field and picks him up to celebrate. Baker catches three more passes. Marquis Redham catches five passes, but none are big plays.
Late in the fourth quarter, we're up by twenty-one, and we're still passing the ball. I don't pretend to know how to call plays or when they're appropriate, but Greyson throws a bullet to our tight end, and it bounces off his shoulder pad into the hands of a defender. The defender zigzags his way all the way to the end zone. The Louisville Heavyweights' fans go nuts. Just what they need to believe that they can still win the ball game.
As Greyson runs off the field, I can tell that J.D. is upset as he grabs Greyson's shoulder pad. I take out my binoculars, wanting to see the exchange. They jaw back and forth, but every stiff movement screams frustration. Greyson's jaw ticks with each sentence, his shoulders squared as he rips his helmet off. J.D. shakes his head. Greyson's nostrils flare as he takes a razored breath. Suddenly, Greyson hurls his helmet, cracking it into the metal bench. The team's eyes shift, catching the fury and discontent on Greyson's face. His fingers rake through hissweaty waves, then he flings himself down on the bench. With all eyes on him, it doesn't take long for him to get back to his brother's side, talking.
We endup winning the game by seven, but Greyson seemed to think we'd beat them by thirty when we talked about it last week before theincident.
My phone rings, so I walk to a place a little more private. "Sutton Anders."
"Sutton, are you sure you want to trade Baker? Check your email for our terms."
"I'm sure, Mr. Faulkner."
As I read over their terms on my laptop, I'm surer than ever of the decision, and I forward it to legal, finance, and George with the subject line: For your eyes and ears only.
Calling my dad, I fill him in on the terms of the trade.
"You're the boss, Sutton. I value your instincts," he says, and I can almost see his smile through the phone.
"Yeah, but it's your money."
"If our star player needs protection, then do whatever is necessary. I love you, Sutton, and I knew you would be able to lead this organization."
Dad's always been proud of me, even when he wasn't around. But this feels different—he trusts me.
It takes two days to get the contracts drawn up and signed by both teams, so I call J.D. into my office.
