Page 37 of Broken Play
But as Bodhi talks to me, Greyson's athleticism catches my eye, and I'm left torn—do I give Bodhi another chance, or do I light a spark between Greyson and me?
All I can do is pray that my choice doesn't blow up in my face.
NINETEEN
GREYSON
Playing in New York City on a Saturday pumps me up. I don't know if it's the buzz of the city, the sold-out crowd for a preseason game, or the raucous fans, but I love it. Or maybe it's that Sutton is here. Do I care that she's here with her ex? Hell yeah. Winking at her, I say, "This one's for you." I don't know whether she or Bodhi catches it, but I'm up for a little competition.
The refs gather us for the coin toss, and when it lands on heads, New York wants to play defense first. What? That almost never happens unless they believe the opposing offense sucks. They're trying to get in my head.
Frank taps my backside. "I got ya, QB."
On the first play, I throw a bomb to Redham down the right side of the field. Redham tracks it all the way and catches it over his right shoulder, where only he can. He makes a double move and leaves his defender in the dust as he runs in for a touchdown. The crowd goes silent. Pumping my fist into the air, I jog down the field to give Redham a pat on the helmet.
We run off to the sideline, and the first person to congratulate me is Frank. He lifts me off the ground, and I swear my back cracks. "We did it," he shouts.
"And we're going to keep doing it. You were the missing piece. Damn, Sutton's good." I look up into the owners' boxes, and she's in the outside portion of her box, jumping up and down with her hair bouncing in waves over her shoulders. I hold up one finger, and I know she sees me.
I sit down on the bench and watch our defense handle our opponent with ease, even without Spader, who was a damn good safety.
Despite being distracted by Sutton and her ex, I'm still able to march the Dillos down the field, eating up eight minutes of the clock and scoring on a quarterback sneak into the end zone. They thought for sure I would throw it to Lyle, our tight end.
I break into a goofy victory dance in the end zone, spinning slowly as if Sutton's right there in my arms. The guys erupt, joining in theAir Dance.Coach Stricker just shakes his head when the refs flag us for excessive celebration. J.D. throws his hands up in exasperation, but it all works out—the defense snags an interception on the next play, and my grin only gets bigger.
Leading seventeen to zero at halftime, J.D. cautions us to stay focused and finish the job. He wants the second string to play in the second half if possible. You never know when a player will get hurt. Football is a rough fucking sport.
He pulls me aside. "G, you should have thrown that pass to the tight end. He was wide open. We can't lose you in a preseason game. You have nothing to prove."
Giving him a dismissive laugh, I say, "I have everything to prove to this team. To Denver. To Sutton—that she madethe right decision. They let us have the ball, for God's sake. I'm one of the best quarterbacks in the league, and they put the ball in my hands. It's fucking insulting."
"Well, they know how wrong they were, so I'm going to put in Lawson."
"Come on, let me stay in the third quarter. I want to put up forty on them and make us both look good."
He huffs and drops his clipboard to his side. "You're coming out in the fourth quarter. I can't have you getting hurt on a dirty play."
"Got it, Coach." I hold out my fist, and he hits it; then it's my turn, just like in Little League, middle school, and high school. Part of me wishes we had played college together, but my dad thought it was better for us to play at different colleges so I could play sooner rather than later. And he was right. I started by the end of my freshman year in college. J.D. was a Heisman Trophy winner, so he started at Texas from day one. Unfortunately for me, I was in the same class as Logan Warren from the Stallions, and he won it that year. I was the runner-up in the Heisman voting.
The third quarter is much the same. We can pass the ball all day. I'm able to read their defense with ease. We played them several times when I was at Denver, and their defensive coordinator hasn't changed. The next time we're at the goal line, I throw a jump pass to Lyle on a curl route, and we score.
New York finally scores on a fifty-six-yard field goal.
We run the ball five times in a row, then I hurl one to the twenty-yard line, and our wide receiver catches it, strolling in for a touchdown. 31-3. Our defense holds them, and J.D. calls a flea flicker, which is my favorite play. Because if I'm not throwing it, I want to catch it. I hand it off to our runningback, who throws a dart to me. I shake the defender and run the last five yards for another touchdown.
I'm on a high. When trick plays work, it's the best feeling in the world. Well, there are a few things that would be better. Sex with Sutton comes to mind. I shake off the thought when J.D. comes up and says, "We're at thirty-eight. That was your last possession today. Get Lawson ready. Good job, G."
"You should be thanking Sutton. It's easy when I'm not worried about getting pressure from the left side."
"I have a feeling you'll thank her for me," he mumbles as he ruffles my hair like he did when we were young.
Moving to sit by Lawson, I ask, "Are you ready?" He nods but seems nervous. "Listen, they're only blitzing on second down since we've made them pay. Their left linebacker is fast, but Cozen's got your back. You have as much time as you need to go through your reads. All you need to worry about is the side you can see. Now go get some touchdowns. There's nothing better to ease the nerves." I slap his leg. "This is your time to shine because when the season starts, I'll be taking all the snaps. Go make some highlights."
A smile eases across Lawson's face as he stands and pulls his helmet over his head.
Lawson struggles on the first few snaps but manages to get a first down. Then, with six minutes to go in the game, he settles down and leads the Armadillos down the field for a touchdown pass to our running back.
I glance up just in time to catch the replay on the jumbotron. The guys are losing their minds, celebrating Lawson's first touchdown pass of the season. But then the camera pans to the crowd, zooming in on the owner's box. I brace myself for the usual wave, fist pump, or high-fivesbetween the guests in the suites. What I see instead rips the breath from my lungs.
