Page 90 of Broken Play
He shrugs and then changes the subject. "Okay, I've written a string of code that will notify you whenever someone sends an email from inside or outside the company that contains these words: photos, images, pictures, video, or blackmail. I'm running a search of the last month to see if there are any matches. Those will come to me, and I'll weed through them and only send you anything unusual."
I put my hand on his knee. "Thanks, Witt. I can see why you're Birdie's favorite."
This time when he smiles, it's genuine.
FORTY-NINE
GREYSON
It's game day, and we lost. I would love to say it wasn't my fault since I didn't play. Or evenI toldyou so, but it was my decision to miss practice. The guys pass me with sour glances, muttering under their breath exactly whose fault it is—mine.
J.D. clears his throat and speaks. "I would love to blame this on Greyson, but we all should be ready when our number is called. You need to practice like it's a game. I'm done being easy on you. You are professionals and should put in the work after practice to get yourselves in playing shape. Hell, I could have put in...". He trails off.
This is my team, so I stand up without a grass stain or splotch of dirt on my white uniform. "I will never have a spotless uniform again. My actions hurt all of us, but if you did play and your uniform is clean, then you didn't play hard enough. I don't care if you were in for one play or seventy-two; this is fucking football."
My teammates scream and beat their chests. It feels goodto release all the anger I'm feeling inside over being videotaped and violated.
J.D. names me the starter for our away game against Pittsburgh. My teammates and I breathe a sigh of relief.
When we get home, out of view of fans and media, Noelle makes her first post. She has over a million followers on several platforms, so she insists it's the perfect spot to start with small leaks about us being together. She shows a picture of my hand and Sutton's hand brushing against each other without showing our faces. What it does show is her tennis bracelet and my wrist tattoo.
Do you think this is romantic?
Underneath, the comments read:
Go ahead. Hold hands.
I love that first handhold. The hesitancy...not knowing if it will be reciprocated.
Young love.
Love the bracelet.
I'll let him do anything he wants based on the tattoo alone.
I pull Sutton onto my chest. "It's on. No stopping now."
Her fingers trace my abs, and she asks, "Is that when you started drawing?"
"What?"
She pops up on one elbow. "I was snooping in the trophy room one morning and saw that the painting of you was crooked. When I straightened it, I saw the drawing of you with your mom underneath. I never said anything because I wanted you to tell me in your own time. Then, when I felt the scar on your wrist, I realized what you had done."
The pads of my fingers slide over her shoulder.
"Nothing ever affected my play on the field. It was the one place where I was at peace after Mom passed away. But it's hard to play football twenty-four hours a day, although it seems like I do as a professional. After I cut my wrist, Dad sent me to therapy. When I wouldn't talk, the therapist gave me a sketch pad and a pencil. I would draw my feelings. Most were of my mom—images of vacations or just her raising her arms in victory at a game." Tears bite at my eyelids, and my voice drops. "She was my number one fan."
"Have you held onto your drawings?"
I nod.
"Can I see them sometime?"
Kissing her temple, I say, "Sometime. Sometime soon."
We wake up to a new post from Noelle. The photo is of us in the Denver nightclub.
Do you believe in fate? If not, you should.
