by Eden Butler
Sweat collected and dripped from her neck, trickling down her back, and Reese wiped her forehead dry, figuring if her teammates could handle this, she would have to as well. They’d been at it all day, and the humidity in the air was thicker than fog. It was late July and already a hundred and two. They all likely wanted to hit the showers and call it a day. But Reese was too much of a temptation. They wanted to see if she was worth the hype surrounding her contract. They wanted to know if she was worth losing Joe Willis, a five-year Steamers veteran, to Washington. Damn the league and their salary caps.
Back and to the left. A deeper, fuller inhale, and Reese ran, kicking the ball with all the strength she had. There was twenty years of weight training in that kick. Twenty years of practice and cardio and her father screaming at her for another mile, another ten pounds on her dumbbell. That kick held pressure and worry and missed nights with her best friend. It held the frustration of Ryder pretending to never want her and the ache she felt when he stopped pretending altogether.
It held everything she’d been and who she’d become in this city with this team.
“Dios, por favor,” she prayed, hopeful, desperate, as the ball flew forward. Then, the weight that seemed to sink into her chest lifted as the ball delivered. Reese Noble, the first contracted woman in the NFL, landed the ball perfectly through the uprights from the 40-yard line.
“Fuck me!” Wilkens called, blinking like he wasn’t sure what he’d just witnessed, and the man stood, hands on top of his head, gawking at Reese like she’d just walked on water. “I mean…fuck…me.”
In the distance on the sidelines, Reese heard the triumphant yelp and hooting call of her father, rooster proud, but tried to ignore it, shooting him a wave and a distinct, ‘get out of here’ gesture that had the man laughing. It wasn’t Take Your Dad to Work Day. He touched his watch to needlessly remind her of their dinner date, then turned to leave the stadium. He’d already mentioned it twice before she left him at the parking garage. She tried to mentally prepare herself for all the critiques and advice, and possibly bragging to the waiters or perfect strangers, that was headed her way the second she met him at the restaurant.
“Fifty,” Mills said, pulling Reese’s thoughts from her proud father as the coach pointed his thumb at the field goal for another set-up. “Dumb fucking luck, that…”
“Dumb fucking talent,” Ricks said, walking up to his special-teams coach with Gia, several of his staff trailing behind him. “We had this chat. When I signed her.”
“Coach…” Mills tried waving a hand at Reese, as though that motion would be explanation enough to why he didn’t buy the two perfectly executed kicks. “She’s…”
“If you can’t condition my players, Mills—all my players—I’m sure we can find someone who can.” He looked at Reese, that squat face softening enough that she thought he’d half-attempted a smile. “You know better than to overwork your kickers, Mills.” To Reese, Ricks nodded, head shaking as he spoke. “You’re gonna piss a lot of people off.”
“Story of my life, Coach,” she sighed. It was the truth.
“Hell, I don’t care if you do. It’ll get asses in the bleachers.”
“More importantly,” Gia interrupted, pointing at Ricks with the shades she’d pulled off as Reese landed that 40-yard kick. “We might stand a chance at the playoffs.” She looked around the field, at the players still watching them, and began to nod. “You’ve got something special this season, Coach.”
“Hope you’re right,” he said, nodding to Reese before he clapped Mills on the shoulder and led him off the field.
At her side, Gia kept step with Reese, and the twisting knots in her stomach only tightened the closer they came to the sidelines and the waiting team. “That was ballsy,” Gia said, moving her shades back over her eyes. “And risky.”
“I knew I could do it, si?” Reese admitted, nodding at Wilkens when he tagged her shoulder with his fist as he passed by. “I’ve made that distance a thousand times.”
“Not on this field.” Gia stopped, standing in front of Reese, and the woman thought her general manager was gearing up for an argument. “Not in these conditions.” She waited, that ever-serious expression making it impossible for Reese to read her. Then, Gia moved one side of her mouth up and let a low, warm laugh push past her lips. “Ballsy. I like it. Keep that shit up.”
Gia laughed outright as she turned, drawing the attention of the bravest among the Steamers, who watched the woman walk away. Gia was fearless, unassuming, and shit, could she hold the gaze of even a blind man.
“What else can you do with those thick thighs?” Reese heard, the question spoken under the speaker’s breath and hidden behind a snickering laugh that made a kindling of anger spark in her gut.
She didn’t hesitate, figuring if she didn’t give her teammates the make of her now, they’d try that bullshit again and again until it got too late for her to set them straight.
“Stuff half-pint running backs couldn’t handle, pendejo,” she said, snapping her attention to the man in question as she walked off the field. There was a collective roar of hooting from her teammates, but Reese ignored them, kept her careful attention on the running back who’d insulted her. He wasn’t amused like their teammates.
“Oh, you think so, bitch…” he tried, stepping toward her with his hand over his dick like he needed Reese to know he had one.
Hanson, she thought. Robert Hanson. Second season. Last year’s Rookie of the Year. She’d spent the better part of the last few months memorizing players and their stats because she knew she’d have to be prepared. They’d try to shake her.
“Yeah,” Reese said, crossing her arms as he got a little close. “I’d snap you like a twig.”
“We can find out right—”
“Enough.”
The voice came from behind Reese, and she didn’t need to think about who’d killed the little insult battle she’d started with Hanson. It was the same voice that had haunted her for ten years. The voice Reese used to love hearing late at night when Ryder would crash on his hotel bed after an away game. There’d been a sleepy rasp in his tone then, and at twenty she’d found it erotic.
Not much had changed in ten years.
“Glenn…” Hanson tried, waving a hand like he meant to dismiss his team captain, but Ryder brushed Reese’s shoulder with his pads and stood next to her.
It only took a glare to get Hanson to back up and then Ryder nodded the man off, stepping away from Reese before she could thank him.
Something told her to keep quiet. It was the same voice that reminded her ten years had grown between them like a root, fracturing everything they’d been back in Durham when her father coached him, and she and Ryder’s little sister, Rhiannon, were practically joined at the hip.
But Reese was high on the rush that kick gave her, and she wanted the man to realize she was down for the long haul. This was her team now, and the hatchets stacked up between them needed burying.
“Hey,” Reese started when Ryder headed toward the stands and the fans waving pens and pictures at him. “Hang on.”
He kept going, pulling off his pads and scrubbing his tousled hair with a dry towel. He was two feet from her, throwing winks and smiles at the females leaning over each other from the bleachers.
“You still with that woman, Ryder?” one female fan asked, earning a laugh and shrug from the quarterback. “She’s not here watching?” The fan leaned forward, her ample breasts nearly spilling over the V-neck of her Steamers tee. “I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”
“She’s out of town,” Ryder answered, head shaking as he winked at the woman when he passed back her freshly autographed picture.
Greer Larson. That was a name Reese had heard connected with Ryder’s name for a while. Cat, Gia’s assistant, had helped Reese settle into the city and given her the low-down on what she called The W.A.G. Hags.
“Wives and girlfriends?” Reese had asked as Cat helped her straighten th
e rug in her front room.
“No. Witches and Ghouls. They’re a pain in the ass.”
Greer Larson, Ryder’s girlfriend of two years, seemed to be the Hags’ head witch.
Reese pushed back the shock of jealousy that burned in her chest, intent on getting Ryder to hear her. He reached for another pen and picture, flashing a wide, beautiful smile at the mostly female crowd in front of him.
“You not gonna let me say thank you?” she asked, stepping out of the way of an older lady with Ryder’s number 21 jersey leaning forward, her large breasts bouncing against the metal railing as she flailed, thrusting a pen and half-naked shot of Ryder she’d clearly gotten off TMZ.
“Nope,” he said, not bothering to acknowledge Reese as he took the fans’ pens and went to town signing autographs.
“You sure about that?” Reese couldn’t help asking. Ryder hadn’t spoken to her in ten years. Even at her tryouts, he’d kept his distance. They hadn’t been this close in proximity since…damn. Still? After all this time, he still blamed her?
Shit, she thought when Ryder lowered his hands, turning to face Reese like he’d only just realized she stood next to him.
“I’m. Sure,” he started. There was no warmth in his blue eyes, no reason for that thick bottom lip of his to twitch as though he tried to fight a smile from forming there. “Really fucking sure.”
You’re a liar. The words came back as clear as the day Ryder had spoken them. You’re a disgusting liar. They didn’t sting anymore, but they still ached, though Reese was able to hold them at a distance now.
She could do the responsible thing—the mature thing—and offer Ryder her thanks before she left the field and the attention their brief conversation was drawing. Or, she could strike back, insult the asshole before he began the process of ripping into her.
“You got mierda to say,” Reese started, moving in between Ryder and his fans. “Then fucking say it.”
The quarterback clenched his jaw, working away the tension he likely felt as Reese taunted him. “I got nothing to say to you,” he finally answered, gaze like coal, deep, unfathomable.
There’d once been something warm, smoldering, that hummed and worked like an electric shock between them. It had set her skin on fire and kept her warm at night before Ryder had ever even kissed her. Then, when he got around to admitting he wanted her, too, that spark ignited. It bore a firestorm of heat and passion Reese thought nothing could extinguish.
Until Rhiannon, and that too-bright hospital waiting room. The night that had changed them all forever.
Staring up at Ryder, with the fans to their side babbling and gushing at the quarterback, and their teammates eyeing them with open curiosity, Reese felt that electric current moving from his eyes to hers. It could have been lust, but likely was just more hatred.
Reese shifted, moving her feet so that she came closer to him, and she didn’t miss the step back Ryder took. For a second, the crowd moved away, and there was only Ryder and Reese and the things they couldn’t say in front of anyone. Still, she had to try to get him to be a professional. “Whether you want to or not, eventually we’re going to have to be civil to each other.”
He moved his head, not exactly a shake, but a tilt that told her he thought very little of her. “Don’t see why.”
“We’re on the same team.” Her explanation came out in one breath, the tone hushed, and Reese pulled on Ryder’s arm, meaning to lead him away from the bleachers. “We’ve both got jobs to do.”
Ryder jerked out of her reach, crossing his arms over his ample chest as he glared down at her. “You do yours and don’t worry about mine.”
She knew what this was. His anger. His irritation that she was on his team now. It was his little sister. It always came back to her. Without thinking, Reese opened her mouth, the words falling out before she remembered where she was and who was watching. “It wasn’t my fault…”
Ryder released a noise deep in the back of his throat, silencing her before she could finish her explanation. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
He hated her. It was right there in the hard set of his features and the pulse thundering in his neck as he glared down at her.
“I’m here,” she tried, straightening her shoulders, trying hard not to let his frown get to her. “Whether you like it or not, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yeah?” he taunted, the tone light, but Ryder still wore an expression that felt like a threat. “We’ll see.”
She hated the tease glinting in his eyes. Reese hated that Ryder had control, power she’d likely never have, not in this industry. Not on this team. One phone call and he could start a rumor that would lead to lies and accusations and trouble that was never hers to begin with. One anonymous tip and Reese would spend weeks—months—trying to deflect whatever bullshit he made up about her. One word to his people about his own contract negotiation, and the hundred-million-dollar man could make the coaching staff worry enough to tear up Reese’s contract. It would be nothing to buy her out. Not compared to what they’d lose if Ryder got mad enough to play hardball.
All that potential swam in her head, telling her to walk away, reminding her that she was trying to earn the respect of this team and the people who supported it. All those warnings rushed and moved around her head like a beacon, and yet, Reese only saw the red-hot flash of anger at Ryder’s taunting smirk.
She couldn’t help herself, no matter that her hand was weak.
“Try me, asshole,” she threatened, standing so close to him, her voice lifting so high that the noise of the crowd quieted. Reese knew they were making a scene. She knew she’d likely come off as a bitch, provoking the Steamers’ golden boy, but the glare he gave her felt like slaps over her skin and his words clawed into her chest, reminding her of what she’d let slip away.
“Noble,” he said, voice flat now, glare gone, as though he was done with her and the pathetic threats she made. She was nothing to him but a kicker on his team. Not worth a second thought. “Go fuck yourself.”
Then Ryder walked away from Reese and the crowd, leaving her out on that field with the weight of disgusted, suspicious glares beaming over her, hotter than the scorching southeastern Louisiana sun.
2
Reese
The Warehouse District was no place for a single woman. At least, that’s what Reese’s father pronounced the first time he’d entered her second-floor apartment.
“There aren’t enough street lights and only one security guard.”
“Papa...”
“You’ll be murdered in your sleep, I just know it.”
Reese hoped the realtor had a sense of humor or at least knew something about overprotective fathers and the nightmares they had when their daughters left to live on their own.
Regardless of the modest lighting and the lonely security guard, Reese still liked the look of the place as they’d walked through the lobby. The building was old, pre-war from the looks of it, and appointed in the center of Baronne Street, surrounded by broken green pavers that ran in front of the building and up to the intersection.
“The Civic,” the realtor had shared with Reese when her father was out of earshot, “the one across the street, is the nicest building on the street, but this will do in a pinch.”
There was a pinch, it turned out. Reese’s contract had come through last minute. Gia had assured her manager that the half a million Reese had been given, and the signing bonus, would be in her bank before she landed in New Orleans. It was, but that still left little time for her accountant to sort through the minutia of taxes, fees, and all the other nickel-and-dime business that would determine the real estate budget.
That had led her to the Baronne Street apartment just two weeks before she was set to practice with the Steamers, with her father grumbling at every stain on the original pine floors and crack in the clean-but-worn exposed brick walls. It had been on purpose, Reese had realized, all that New Orleans charm, laid out in every ding and scrape along the w
ood floors and stained concrete that covered the hallway and bathroom.
She’d fallen for it five steps into the large front room. The commute would be nothing—just a quick ride would have her at the stadium and beating traffic on game days. The garage was secured, and that at least seemed well lit. It also didn’t hurt that everything in her new place had been spartan and sparse. Limestone washed-brick walls. The pine floors stained dark. Thick cedar beams running along the ceiling and ductwork overhead and the kitchen, living room, and dining room taking up much of the unit. There was a little over a thousand square feet, one nice-sized bathroom and a large master at the back of the apartment. The windows were large and soundproof, blocking out downstairs noises and the constant drum of traffic that moved right outside her window. The large en suite bathroom was sleek and modern, with a free-standing tub and Carrara marble around every surface of the floor and half of the walls, and a rainfall shower head directly above the tub.
Heaven. That’s the word that had entered Reese’s mind when she’d first toured the place.
“Cold,” her father offered, but didn’t do much more than make sure the realtor wasn’t trying to screw her on the price of the unit or the interest rate.
She ignored his criticism and offered the realtor a smile she couldn’t manage to keep subtle. “I’ll take it.”
“Heaven,” she repeated to herself as she came through the door, stomach full from the casual po-boy dinner with her father, immediately stripping off the smell of grass and sweat with her practice clothes. “And I’ve just been to hell.”
