Page 9 of Broken Play
J.D. speaks up. "I'm married, so I'm totally used to a woman telling me what to do."
"He's so in love that sometimes I want to send out anS.O.S. to save me," I say, drawing a laugh from everyone, including Sutton, and I can't help but notice how she sucks her lips in flat, making two little dimples appear in her cheeks. "So, I'm not sure how Sutton being in charge applies to me, though." I point to my brother and make atsksound. "He's my boss, whether I like it or not."
Sutton surveys my face and J.D.'s but stays quiet. The first thing I'm doing when I leave here is stalking her online. Why wouldn't she know who I was that night? I mean, for God's sake, my face is—or was—plastered all over Denver.
"Do you play tennis, or do you just like tennis clothes?" I ask, eyeing the Clorox-white skirt with all the skepticism of a Wimbledon umpire.
She cocks her hip and crosses her arms. I wish I could take it back, judging by the look on her face. Her dad cuts in. "Sutton played professional tennis for twelve years and on the junior circuit for five."
She folds her mouth in like she doesn't know what to say, but if she can't handle a simple question, she won't be a very good manager.
"Greyson, right?" she asks, a shadow of challenge in her eyes. "I coach at the Ace Tennis Academy, but yes, tennis wear feels like my second skin—probably like the pads you wear that make you appear bigger and stronger than you actually are. Did you know rugby is the fastest-growing sport right now? Maybe it's because they don't wear pads for protection."
My eyes narrow, but I paste on a smile because I like the fight I see in her. "Rugby players don't wear pads because they don't have three-hundred-pound guys running like a freight train toward them. They're slower, shorter, and don'thave the speed, skill, or muscles that professional football players have."
One of her eyebrows twitches, but it's so minuscule I don't think anyone but me notices. But damn, I notice everything about this woman.
Giving me a slow and sly smile, she serves her next bit of sarcasm. "Right, because size definitely equals skill. And padding up is such a sign of bravery. Clearly, I should be deeply impressed. Just promise not to trip over your ego the next time you gear up, Mr. O'Ryan."
The tension in the room ratchets up, at least for me and Sutton. Luckily, her dad and J.D. are deep in a conversation of their own.
My tongue sweeps between my lips when I think of a genius idea. "So, are you accepting the job?"
Sutton shrugs. "Not sure. I was told about it five minutes before you arrived."
"Does your dad have tennis courts?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Let's go." I get up. "Show me the way."
"Why?" she asks, confusion masking her face.
"If I win, you accept the job. If you win, well, I'll do whatever you want," I blurt out just so I can have time alone with her.
Sutton scoffs, a stubborn spark in her eyes and suspicion written across her face. Her hair is pulled back with a few errant strands that she keeps tucking behind her ears.
"You want to play me? Have you ever played?" Her cheeks flush with annoyance, turning a beautiful, light pink color. She looks like a Slavic princess—gorgeous sandy-blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and high cheekbones.
"My sister played. I've played. I had a girlfriend on the tennis team in high school."
More like a friend-with-benefits relationship.
She spins in the other direction, leaving me standing. Then she looks over her shoulder. "Come on. Let's see if you play tennis as well as you..." She stops talking abruptly and hurries down the stairs.
As well as I what? Does she remember me?
Why did I tell her she had to take the job if I won? That's not even what I want. What I want is a chance to take her out—just the two of us—and see if that insane chemistry we shared that night is more than just a one-time thing.
She opens a door into a sun-drenched basement with a wall of windows. She opens a walk-in closet filled with sports gear. I notice hockey gear. "Who plays hockey?"
"My dad and my stepbrother used to before he went to rehab. He's been in and out for a couple of years."
Not wanting to talk about her brother, I grab a racket from the wall, take a couple of tubes of balls, and lead us out to the tennis courts. I want to know if she remembers, but if she doesn't, that will be the last blow my ego can take.
She points to the side of the court where she wants me. "Do you need to warm up?" she asks.
"No need."
