Roughing the Kicker

by Eden Butler

He hadn’t been wrong. She was a distraction. This day and those memories were, too, but they were nothing compared to the emotion and confusion and worry being around Reese would cause if his teammates or coaches ever discovered them.

  “Reese,” he tried again, his skin going cold when she pushed away from him, rubbing the heel of her palms against her eyes. Head shaking, she dropped her hands, backtracking away from him quicker than he could follow. Her expression was obvious; it matched the worry and confusion in his own head.

  What had he done? Kissing her?

  Her?

  It was all there in her face—frowning like she didn’t want him, like she hated that she did. Just like him.

  Gia wanted them to try. She wanted them to be professionals, but this was personal. Everything about them was personal.

  She moved back, eyes squinted, tightening before she turned, jogging fast to put space between them. “Wait…” he tried but she waved him off, moving down the hall before he could stop her. Ryder watched her, knots forming in his gut the quicker she ran. He wondered if the tears had dried. He wondered if touching her had ever felt that good before. He couldn’t quite remember it. Most of all, he wondered where his logic had gone and what kind of storm kissing her had just unleashed.

  8

  Reese

  Hanson did not want Reese on his team. That was an obvious conclusion born when Reese jogged out of the stadium, ready to practice with Wilkens and a now more amendable Mills, and had to endure Hanson filming her with a biting commentary as she moved through her drills.

  “Make me a sandwich!” Hanson yelled, laughing into his phone as he recorded. The comment distracted Reese, and she tripped over the orange 20-yard marker on the sidelines. The fumble made Hanson howl with laughter, screaming over the roar of Mills’ whistle as he turned his phone from Reese to his own face. “This is what happens when women play ball and—”

  The man stopped mid-insult, his entire body going still as Ryder stood behind him, one hand clamped around the running back’s neck. Reese couldn’t hear a thing they said to each other, but she understood the look on Ryder’s face and the warning behind it.

  “Is there more drama?” Gia asked, standing next to Reese as she grabbed a black and gold aluminum bottle from the stack on the water table.

  Reese followed Gia’s gaze as she drank, sweat already collecting on her lower back. “No idea,” she told the woman, squinting when Ryder glared at Hanson, dropping his hand. “I have no idea what’s going on with those two.”

  “So this isn’t about you?” Reese turned back to Gia, eyebrows up at the woman’s expectant expression. “Well?”

  “Not everything is about me, you know.” She turned to the table, leaning one palm against it as she stretched her ankle.

  “You’re funny,” Gia said, grabbing her cell from her pocket. She gestured at Reese to give her a second with one raised finger, silently telling her that she had to take the call, and Reese kept her attention on Hanson as he handed over his cell to the captain.

  Huh, Reese thought, wondering what Hanson had on his phone, wondering more why Ryder cared so much.

  In the lull of waiting for the balls to be reset and Gia to finish her call, Reese stared at Ryder, thumbing through Hanson’s phone before he returned it and hesitated, shooting a glance her way.

  He was impossible to ignore. More impossible to forget, and despite the irritation at herself for allowing one kiss between them to distract her for the past two days, Reese seemed incapable of letting it go.

  Ryder watched her, saying nothing, doing nothing but looking at her for the longest four seconds of her life, and she didn’t drop her gaze. Not immediately. Instead, she let herself take in the arch of his mouth, how he looked on the verge of a smile. Those lips had been over hers Sunday, and though it was stupid, Reese thought she could almost taste him, feel the powerful search of his tongue against hers.

  Gia approached at the same time Hanson spoke to Ryder, and they both looked away.

  “Now,” Gia said, pulling Reese’s attention back to her. “Did something else happen?”

  “No,” Reese answered, handing over her drink. “Nothing that I know of.” And she ran back to the field, away from her manager and the heavy focus of her captain across the field.

  She let Mills direct her, not even bothering to pay much attention to his passive-aggressive commands, ones that he didn’t also give to Wilkens. Reese didn’t care, at that moment. Again, she pulled the recent memory of Ryder’s kiss to the front of her mind.

  There had been no excuses, no reasons for that kiss, except their mutual grief at Rhiannon’s loss. It had been an old wound, but the scar was still a pulsing, aching mess. Only Ryder’s soft, sweet mouth and demanding tongue had made her forget the loss. It had been a reprieve, the smallest pause in the aching pain that had filled every minute of that day. Sunrise to sunset, August 15 was torture for her.

  It was only natural to cling to someone, even someone you knew hated you. Loss breeds hopelessness. It provokes weakness. In that moment, Reese suspected that just like her, Ryder wanted something to cling to. He wanted life and a moment of active living. They could have been total strangers to each other, but Reese was glad it had been Ryder who’d saved her from that pain, if only for a few small seconds.

  And now he was saving her from whatever plans Hanson had for her. She glanced back, mouth twitching when she spotted Gia standing next to Pukui, barely speaking to the man, not remotely clued in on the way he looked at her, all hunger and desire and greedy need.

  Shit, Reese thought. One kiss from Ryder, and she was seeing lust in the most mundane places.

  But then Mills’ whistle sounded and Pukui looked up, spotting Reese’s smile, then shrugged, meeting her in the middle of the field.

  “What?” he asked when she laughed at him. She liked the guy, had hung out with him a few nights ago with Wilson and Baker at Lucy’s. “I can’t look?”

  “Did I say that?” Reese asked, elbowing his ribs as they both turned back to Gia, back on her phone again. “She is beautiful.”

  Pukui nodded, but didn’t comment. He didn’t need to. Reese spotted the long, slow look the man made gawking at their manager. He was obvious, then embarrassed when Reese cleared her throat, bringing his attention back to her. “Beautiful, yeah. But, hey, let me show you someone even more beautiful.” Pukui dug his phone from his pocket, scrolling through a few images. “I told you about Keeana, my ex?” Reese nodded, twisting her head to the side when Pukui stood next to her. “She took these this morning of our daughter.”

  “Keola?” Reese asked, remembering how big Pukui’s smile got when he’d spoken about his daughter that night at Lucy’s.

  “Yep. Look. She did her first hula.”

  He wasn’t wrong. The little girl, eight or nine from what she remembered of her earlier conversation with Pukui, was dressed in a traditional green grass skirt and wore a pink and white flowered head piece with matching leis around her ankles and wrists. She was beautiful, with dark skin like her father and a wide mouth and nose that narrowed at the bridge. Her eyes, though, shined like glass, were hazel and the smile she wore lit up her entire face, and was nearly as broad as the one her father held over his mouth as he scrolled through picture after picture happily bragging on his kid to Reese.

  “She’s coming here for Christmas. I can’t wait.” Pukui pulled away his phone, still smiling. “Wilson said you’re gonna have your own team with the kids’ league?”

  “Yeah. Hopefully.”

  “Well, maybe you can let Keola practice when she’s here. She won’t shut up about you when I FaceTime her.”

  “Oh?” Reese said, not able to hold back her proud smile.

  “Yep. You’re her hero. Not, you know, her hardworking defensive lineman dad,” he sighed, laughing a little. “Anyway, I promised her I’d introduce you.”

  “Can’t wait,” she said, looking over at Gia when she called her name. The manager gave Reese ano
ther “hold up a sec” finger point then continued with her phone call. When Reese looked back to Pukui he was staring at Gia again. That earned him another elbow to the rib. “Stop being so obvious,” she told him, smiling when the guy pretended to be more interested at the sidelines, shooting a belated nod at Wilson.

  “I gotta jet. You coming to Lucy’s this weekend?” he asked, shifting his gaze from Gia back to Reese as he walked backward.

  “Maybe,” she told him, head shaking as he shrugged, and jogged toward Wilson on the sideline next to Ryder.

  Wilson greeted Pukui as Ryder hung back, near the bleachers, shoulders against the stands, arms crossed as he watched the field. Wilson stood next to him and when the running back spotted Reese watching them, he moved his chin, grinning so that Ryder followed his gaze, catching Reese’s attention once more.

  She looked away again when Pukui blocked her sight of Ryder, and she decided she could at least thank him. For the kiss? For the reprieve? For getting Hanson to leave her alone? Despite the lingering anger over how Ryder had treated her, Reese needed to let the past go. She needed to move forward. She’d think of an excuse that didn’t sound stupid and desperate. He’d been so quiet since that Sunday in the gym, not rude, not ignoring her, but silent any time she got near him. Like he wasn’t sure he could go on hating her. He’d probably gotten used to it. Maybe it felt comfortable to hate her. Hating Reese didn’t force Ryder to do anything but marinate in his anger. He’d never be forced to confront Rhiannon’s loss if he still hated Reese.

  But they had shared a kiss that might have meant more than clinging to each other. Regardless of what the intention had been, Reese knew she had to make things right. They’d only survive the season if they were professionals. But she knew Ryder. If he felt bad about kissing her, he’d never make the first move. It would have to be on Reese.

  Twenty minutes later Reese left the elevator on the fifth floor, heading toward the front of the parking garage. Ryder always parked his Audi near the front row, and Reese hoped she hadn’t missed him. But Wilkens wanted to know about her at-home workouts and her father’s opinion on lower body conditioning. Her timing was off, her steps a little sluggish, and by the time she came near the front row, Ryder was already at his car.

  The parking garage was quiet, despite the exodus of staff and players as practices ended. There was an occasional low squeal of a tire, the faint one- or two-tap horn blast, but otherwise, Reese thought the garage was too dark, too quiet. She gripped her keys between her fingers, the sharp point of her car key ready to jab and slice, and jogged a little toward the sound of Ryder’s steps. Then Reese heard a loud yelping laugh, walking two more feet before she stopped short, backtracking immediately as Greer Larson curled herself around a surprised-looking Ryder and kissed him thoroughly. He held her against him under her ass, arms gripping as the woman took his face between her hands and savagely kissed him. Ryder didn’t close his eyes—he seemed more surprised than turned on—but Reese still walked away, hurrying toward her Challenger two rows back.

  It was stupid, wanting to thank him. He was their captain. He’d likely say speaking to Hanson was a common courtesy he’d do for anyone on his team. She was no one special to him, not really. Not anymore.

  But Reese could still recall exactly how Ryder tasted and the sure, certain force of his tongue as he slipped it inside her mouth. More than that, she remembered how her heart raced as he kissed her, how she’d waited a long time to hear his apology. It had been perfect, that sweet kiss, and Reese reminded herself it would never happen again.

  “Hey.” She heard, smiling at Wilson when he came through the door. “What’s going on, Noble?”

  “Nothing,” she told him, clicking the alarm for her car. “Just trying to get home.”

  “I hear that. You got plans to…”

  Wilson’s question died when Cat emerged from the elevator. The woman was imposing, and Reese had seen her silence an entire table of men two weekends before just by walking past their table one night at Lucy’s. It was some weird, quiet beauty trait, Reese guessed, that shook a man with little more than a half grin. Cat had that thing, whatever it was, and at that moment, that thing rendered Wilson speechless.

  “Hey,” Cat greeted Reese, shifting her wide smile to Wilson when the man adjusted his stance. “How’s it going, Wilson?”

  “I’m…it’s good,” he said, and Reese had to smother a laugh at the way the running back nodded, smile shaky, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to speak or stare or hold his breath. Reese would gamble that a version of the three might happen if she didn’t intervene, and that would be a disaster for the guy who’d been the first of her teammates outside of the stadium to show her any real courtesy.

  “Wilson, you know Cat, right?” He shook his head, shooting a shrug at Reese. “Well, sorry. We should remedy that. Cat Montgomery, this is Kenya Wilson. Wilson, this is Cat. She’s Gia’s assistant.”

  “Oh,” he said, offering her his hand. Cat took it quickly and didn’t frown or roll her eyes when Wilson held onto her fingers a little longer than was necessary. “So you work for our new boss lady?”

  “I do.” Cat pulled her hand away, suppressing a look that Reese thought might be hiding tittering laughter. “And we have met.”

  “No way,” Wilson said, stepping closer to the woman. “I would have definitely remembered meeting you, Ms. Cat.”

  She shook her head, folding her arms as she faced him. “Tucker Episcopal. Eighth grade dance. You wore shutter shades and a Yankees hat like you thought you were JAY-Z or something. My cousin is Marcus Phillips.”

  Wilson’s eyes rounded, and he took an even closer step to Cat. Reese knew that look. She’d seen it a hundred times on her brother Nathan’s face, when he was young and stupid and thought he had way more game than he did. She’d seen it on every player she ever trained anytime a cheerleader or over-exuberant fan caught their attention. That was the look of a man on a hook. With little effort, Cat could jerk the line and reel him in.

  “I can’t believe…” It took him a second, one which he spent head tilting, gaze working overtime to place Cat’s pretty face, and then finally, Wilson laughed, fist to his mouth as the laughter went loud and steady. “Kitty Cat?” he said, his face flushed and lit with interest and humor and a hundred other things Reese knew would keep the man rooted to the spot.

  “No one’s called me that in a long time,” Cat said. She didn’t seem irritated by Wilson using the nickname, but her smile did lower.

  “Dang,” he said, gaze raking over her. “You grew up good. Real good.” The ‘good’ got drawn out, spoken in a husky, vibrating tone before Cat cocked an eyebrow at him and Wilson cleared his throat. “So…how the hell did you end up here?”

  “That’s a long story,” she sighed, staring back at Reese as the woman moved her head, squinting at the Audi when it moved past them. “Reese?” Cat said, pulling her attention away from Ryder’s car and the passenger riding with him.

  “Yeah?”

  “We still on for wine and Netflix?” Cat ignored how close Wilson stood to her or how he shifted his interest between the two women. If Reese had to guess, she’d say the running back was about to invite himself to the party. Cat was smoother than Reese and deflected the awkwardness before it happened. “Sorry, Kenya,” she told Wilson. “The wine is for Reese and me and the standing date we have with Jessica Jones and Luke Cage.”

  “You sure?” The smile Wilson gave Cat was obvious, overkill since she hadn’t given him even the smallest indication that she wanted it. “I like Marvel. I’d be good company.”

  She paused long enough to sigh, then nodded at Reese. “See you in twenty?” she asked, spotting Reese’s nod before she turned to face Wilson. “Glad to see you got rid of those shades and the hat.”

  “I don’t know,” Wilson said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Shutter shades must have worked for Kanye. He landed a Kardashian, and Jay scored B.”

  “If you say so,” s
he said, nodding to Reese before she walked toward her car.

  Wilson stood next to Reese watching Cat leave, head moving to the left like he needed to pay better attention to the sway of her hips. “Kitty Cat,” he said low to himself. It was only after Reese cleared her throat that Wilson straightened, adjusting the duffle on his shoulder before he exhaled. “Ever have a coulda been, Noble?”

  “Yeah,” she told him, biting back the name on her tongue and the burning jealousy that bubbled in her stomach. “I had one of those.”

  9

  Ryder

  The players had a love/hate relationship with the Little Steamers camp. It wasn’t personal, but when you have a bunch of exhausted, over practiced athletes surrounded by hundreds of kids all under the age of fourteen, crowding the small field at Armstrong Rec Center on Loyola Avenue, then things tended to get chaotic.

  For Ryder, that irritation—the noise, the whining, not just from the kids, and the demands for his attention felt like a weight crushing his skull.

  And then, there was Greer.

  Greer who decided late August, just before the first regular season game, was the perfect time to grab everyone’s attention. She did this by layering pink and purple into her platinum blonde hair and having a little adjustment done to her tits. Turns out the eight grand she told Ryder she needed to fix her car was for her new adjustments, both of which she decided to show off at the first Little Steamers practice.

  “Holy. Shit.” He heard, wincing when Wilson’s loud voice carried over the crowd. “Man, seriously?” he said, nodding toward the gate entrance where Greer walked through, her black, tight capris sticking to her like grease. On her feet were three-inch high wedges that she managed to navigate in, swishing her hips as she hurried onto the field, waving and blowing kisses at the other WAGs as she passed them.

  “Brah…” Pukui started, standing next to Wilson and Ryder as the quarterback tried to block out his girlfriend with the clipboard in his hands. The chart in front of him listed last year’s roster and the status of their participation in the camp. “I’m not trying to tell you your business, man, but…”