Page 94 of Broken Play
Anonymous: Not for long.
Social media comments keep flooding in. Why are strangers so invested in our lives? If Bodhi is behind this, with everything he has going for him, why does he want the woman he mistreated—the woman I love?
Do I tell Sutton when she calls? No. She has enough on her plate.
A couple of days pass, and we head to Pittsburgh for a clash with a division rival. I spend an hour catching J.D. up at dinner. Witt has traced some emails to a Florida IP address. He's digging deeper every day after school, even skipping his gaming tournament to help.
Needing to hear her voice, I call Sutton, but there's no answer. Paulina has won three straight matches, and running on emotion means she's probably going to collapse soon.
I lock in when we win the coin toss and elect to get the ball first in the second half. Kickoff is eventful. Pittsburghruns it back for a touchdown, which is rare since the league changed the rules. We're already in a hole when I trot out onto the field, snapping my chin strap in the huddle. The first ten plays are scripted, and everyone knows it, but I want to get us back to even. Hell, only thirty seconds have been played, and we're down 7–0. I kneel on one knee. My teammates hover over me. "Broken Play, got it?"
"You're the captain. Coach will be pissed," Redham says, shaking his helmet.
"Then catch the ball, and we can ask for forgiveness later."
All together, we chant, "Broken Play," and head to the line of scrimmage. This play is mine. When things feel broken, I call it. It looks like one of our normal plays, but the wide receiver stumbles intentionally so the linebacker commits to the tight end, leaving a receiver to cut free and curl inside.
I scoot under center and call, "Green-Broken-Dillo, hut, hut." The guys laugh all the time because it sounds like "green broken dildo." The defense does just as expected, and I hit Redham between his double eights for forty yards, and then he jogs into the end zone untouched, silencing the raucous Pittsburgh fans.
As I run off the field, Coach Stricker hits my helmet. "Damn, you're good."
"Better than Warren?" I joke.
"We'll debate that one when your careers are over. Great pass," Stricker admits.
The players slap my back and high-five me, but J.D. doesn't say a word. I got this. Coaching me can't be that hard. I'm a playmaker, and he knows it.
The rest of the game goes by fast. They can't stop our offense, and our defense grows every game.
Checking my phone when we get to the locker room, I see a text from Sutton.
Sutton: Paulina lost. She ran out of gas.
That's all. No "I love you" or "I miss you," and it sort of pisses me off.
Me: When will you be back in Austin?
No dots.
Maybe she's not answering me because she’s on her way home.
FIFTY-TWO
SUTTON
My stomach takes a nosedive as I read the message from my faceless blackmailer. My hands are clammy, and breathing should be easy, but it isn't. I'm living in a nightmare that I can't shake, not knowing if the person is watching me at this very moment or if he's just a coward monitoring me through social media. I reread the warning.
"You can avoid total humiliation by dumping number ten. If you don't, the whole world will see you for the slut you are, and you'll never live to see your precious tennis protégé."
I fight the urge to throw my phone across the hotel room, wishing I could unsee those words. My thoughts war with each other—how can I walk away from Greyson after fighting so hard to be together? But the little girl beside me deserves a good life. I can't risk her future for my own, not even for love.
The flight home is long, but changing planes goes without a hitch. As soon as we land, a cab takes us to thetennis academy, and I make sure Paulina is settled and the resident assistant knows she's back.
As if on autopilot, my car takes me directly to Greyson's ranch. This time, I don't go in the back way; whoever is watching me will know where I am. Before I turn into the paved driveway, the gravel crunches beneath my tires, but it's not louder than the mixed emotions tumbling around in my head.
He yanks open the front door before I've even knocked. His face is drawn, his eyes filled with worry and something else. He knows I've been deliberately putting distance between us.
"Why the hell haven't you returned my text?" His voice is as rough as sandpaper, desperate for answers.
