Page 72 of Broken Play
"Sounds perfect."
"I need to drink a protein shake first. Do you want one?"
"Can I take a glass of water up?"
I grab her a glass of water while I open the fridge and get my canned drink. After I hand her the glass, my fingers curl into hers, and I lead her up the stairs.
In my bedroom, I pull back the covers, suddenly unsure if I should lead or let her take her time. I throw her the Armadillo shirt that she put in my drawer. It's not like I don't have team swag; I do. But I wear them to practice, not at home.
Sutton's mouth grows into a smile as she chuckles, "I knew that would come in handy."
"I guess so. You can sleep naked, you know."
She sits close, settling beside me with an intimacy that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with trust. "I don't like sleeping nude. What if a spider bites my... you know. Or a bedbug."
"You think I have spiders and bugs in my bed?"
Sutton squishes her nose. "Bugs are silent and sneaky. I hate them."
"Well, since you didn't wear panties, do you want some boxers to wear?"
"Yes, please."
She rolls them down three times so that they don't fall off, then slides into the bed, and I'm right behind her. She rolls onto my chest, running her fingers up and down my forearm, slowly and tenderly. It's relaxing, reminding me of how my mother would scratch my back until I fell asleep. I'mnot comparing Sutton to my mother scratching my back, but it feels especially intimate, like she's nurturing my mind as much as my body. Her thumb swipes over my wrist several times, then stops when she realizes it's a scar, a faded memory I try to keep hidden. Very few people even know about it.
I don't dare look at her; I stare at the ceiling. She lifts her head a fraction from my chest. It's dark, and I have no idea what she's thinking. Her touch lingers, and I feel exposed and raw, like it's happening all over again. Somehow, I keep it together when she rolls onto my chest. Her eyes search mine for answers I've never offered to anyone, ever.
THIRTY-EIGHT
SUTTON
Tracing his wrist, I pause on a ridge—a scar. It feels old and deep and out of place on someone so strong and athletic. It stops me cold, and I raise my head a pinch to see it. I turn his hand. It's a tattoo that I've seen but never felt before. It swirls and curves, like a fancy coloring book, around his wrist like a bracelet.
I look into his eyes for some sort of sign that this isn't what I think it is. How else could he get a scar on his wrist unless...unless he wanted to leave everyone and everything behind? He strokes my back, soothing me. Keeping his eyes on me, he doesn't offer an explanation. Instead of asking him about it, I kiss his chest, his neck, and then land on his lips.
The kiss is tentative.
I swallow, suddenly aware that Greyson O'Ryan is real, human, with flaws just like the rest of us. When I open my mouth, words flow from my heart that I didn't intend to speak. "Your scars are your strength. Your brokenness is your beauty. And when you're ready, I'm here to listen."
He runs his fingers through my hair, and mymind wanders to loving him. If I do, will I lose him to an invisible opponent, a silent killer?
Tangled in his limbs,I uncoil my body from his and sneak out of bed to make him breakfast. I pad downstairs in his green and gold Austin Armadillos T-shirt. It's so much comfier than that Denver shirt. I open the fridge and find strawberries, eggs, and bacon. As I'm whipping the eggs, he sneaks up behind me, kissing below my ear.
"After I do some physical therapy, do you want to go somewhere with me?"
"Depends."
"I bought a couple more horses. I need to pick them up in Whirlwind, Texas. If Paulina isn't busy with school, she should come too. It would be good for her to be out of the city. Kids should play in fields, explore nature, ride horses, and hunt for treasure."
He wants to take Paulina.
I didn't see that coming. It hits me—he's building walls where I only wanted a bridge. I told him about Bodhi, laid myself bare. But his scar? He won't touch that pain, as though sharing it might hurt more than the story itself.
The wooden spoon winds through the eggs, my mind wandering, and my words trail off. "She'll be done by lunchtime. Does that work?"
He smiles, winking with those full lashes. "Depends."
I swat him with a tea towel. He puts his arms up in self-defense and quickly lifts me off my feet. Spoon still in hand, I wrap my arms around him and tap his hard ass with the wooden utensil. "What do your conditions depend on?"
