Page 47 of Broken Play
Relieved that I've tackled that task, I set the pen down and try to rub the cramps out of my hand. My phone buzzes, lighting up the screen with Greyson's name—well, not his name—just TEN.
Ten: See you at eight. Hwy 76 at Sydna
Inwardly, I keep my amusement in check. We decided that anywhere we meet will be spelled backward. So, we're actually meeting at Andy's on Hwy 76 for a casual dinner.
Me: What should I wear?
Ten: What if I said nothing? Kidding. Jeans, shorts. No tennis skirts.
Me: Will we go to the Esuoh?
Ten: Yeah, take an Uber to Sydna.
I like his comment, and with my portfolio in hand, I make my way to the marketing meeting, grinning at the thought that keeping this secret adds an extra layer of adventure on top of what I hope will be more sex.
TWENTY-FIVE
GREYSON
If I have a fault, it's impatience. When I want something, I want it now. If a player doesn't know the new plays, it ticks me off. Waiting on people drives me insane. And right now, Sutton is fifteen minutes late.
A strange feeling creeps over my heart like a shadow, tainting every thought—worry. Instead, has the Uber driver kidnapped her? Or has she been in an accident? She's not answering her phone, which I slipped back to her when I took Noelle to play tennis with Sutton. And while Sutton and Noelle played tennis, I met Sutton's protégé, Paulina. She's the cutest little preteen. Her teeth are a little too big for her face, and she's got this goofy grin that warms your heart. And she adores Sutton—a feeling I am well acquainted with.
On the outside, I'm cool as a cucumber except for the incessant tapping of my fingers against the checkerboard tablecloth. But on the inside, I feel sick, and I don't like this feeling. Not being in control isn't in my wheelhouse. Did something happen to Paulina? Or Anna? Not wanting to be overbearing on our first date, I don't text or call; I just wait.
Only a few more minutes pass when the little bell above the restaurant door chimes and a vision of country chic strides in. Cowboy boots, short jean shorts showing off her long legs, a white blouse, and a summer straw cowgirl hat. Fuck, is that Sutton? It is.
She slides into the booth across from me, and the first words that come from my mouth are, "You're getting fucked tonight."
"We'll see how the date goes," she teases as her face blooms a rose-petal pink.
"Oh, it's going to go like a bucking bronco," I say, reaching for her hand. A slow smile spreads across my lips when I feel her shudder beneath my touch. It's all the confirmation I need to know she wants the same thing I do.
With a half-hearted laugh, she gives me a nearly invisible shake of her head. "Have you been here before?" she asks as she picks up the menu. "I could eat a horse."
"Good, you're going to need energy."
"Have you ever ridden?"
"A horse? Just you." Sutton's lids flutter closed, and that same flush comes creeping back up her neck. Damn, I love how she's both hot sauce and honey, like she's taken aback by her own slip of the tongue.
"I'll teach you."
"It's against your contract."
"No, it's not. My agent knows I've been riding all my life. The rule was just for Denver because I didn't have a farm there, but now that I'm home, I've already been out riding with J.D."
She peers at me with pure skepticism. I'm half-afraid she's going to whip out her phone and call the team's legal department. Instead, she asks, "Why are you wearing thoseglasses? And that shirt has pearl buttons?" She leans over the table, fiddling with them, and I come close to letting her play with my real jewels right here in a public diner.
It's an opportunity I can't pass up. I slide my hand under her hair and bring her mouth to mine. It's a slow, dragging kiss that I don't want to end. Sutton's lips vibrate before she drops back into the booth.
The waitress, who looks like she just escaped her shift at a punk rock concert, cocks her brow. With her notebook ready, she rolls her eyes and pops her gum twice.
"What will it be?" she asks, completely unfazed by who we are, which is exactly what we want.
"She'll have the bacon cheeseburger, fries extra crispy, and a chocolate shake. I'll have the country-fried steak special and a Coke." I wink at the waitress, who is unimpressed as she scribbles on her pad. She doesn't repeat it back, just walks off.
"What if I don't like bacon? Or cheese? Are you moonlighting as a cowboy nutritionist?"
