by Eden Butler
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.”
It wasn’t that much of an exaggeration to call that pathetic encounter with Ryder and the fans torture. Even her father hadn’t been able to keep her mind from it, though she hadn’t offered him any real reason why she was in such a funk.
“Reesie, you knew it would be hard,” he’d told her, sitting across the old wood table near the back of the crowded restaurant. “But you can do it.”
“Yeah, Papa,” she’d told him. “I know I can.”
In the morning, Neil Noble would know that his daughter and his former player had yelled at each other in front of media and fans and their team. Reese expected a long, biting message when he heard the rumors.
She expected that reaction anytime she’d done something so stupid her father’s only response was a grunt of annoyance. Like the day he saw her in the bikini she planned to wear to the university party on Lake Wheeler.
“Papa, it’s a bikini. I won’t be naked.”
That had earned Reese the low, gasping grunt that made her father frown, turn, and leave her in the kitchen, towel draped over her shoulder.
Then, there was the scowling, low grunt that warned he was losing his patience, like when he caught her staring wide-eyed and wanting at Ryder the Easter Sunday he’d spilled sweet tea all over his dress-up shirt and had to strip off in the laundry room while Reese brought him one of her brother’s too small Duke tees.
She’d stood there like an idiot, mindlessly gawking at Ryder as he twisted and stretched and slid his large chest into Nathan’s medium-sized t-shirt. The scowling grunt greeted Reese over her shoulder and she blinked, cheeks flaming as Ryder grinned at her and her father grunted like he had something stuck in his throat.
But none of her father’s non-verbal reactions were as bad as the guttural, angry raging grunt that sounded like a tiger mid-pounce. That one came to Reese the night Ryder snuck into her bedroom at two a.m. to do things that would make her father’s admonishing grunts go lethal and nuclear, mainly because Ryder fell asleep, naked, draped across Reese’s equally naked body. The ragey-lion grunt her father emitted was preceded by the slam of her door against the wall and the loud refrain of “son of a whore!” before Ryder jerked awake, shielding Reese from her father’s impossibly wide eyes with his wider chest and pair of boxers across his lap.
“Coach! Oh, shit…I mean, sorry…oh, God!”
Reese had never seen her father move that fast, chasing Ryder out of her room or grunt so viciously that it didn’t sound like a grunt at all. It took weeks for him to even look at Reese and longer than that for him to stop referring to Ryder as “that knucklehead” or giving his young quarterback miles of extra laps to run.
He never quite accepted their relationship, but he did start knocking at her door before he opened it after that.
Now, though? Reese groaned about the grunting admonishment she knew her father would give her after today’s practice and her little tiff with Ryder.
Shit, she thought, shoulders sagging.
Hell. That’s what practice had felt like. Reese had taken the quarterback’s insult in stride, managing not to show much emotion as he told her to fuck off and left her amid their laughing players and irritated fans.
She’d lifted her chin, muttered a low “Tu eres un pendejo, Ryder Glenn,” straightened her shoulders, then left the field, catching a few loud insults as she left.
“Guess he told her.” She’d heard from some jackass in the stands, but Reese hadn’t stuck around to even throw a glare his way.
“Guess he did.” That got repeated by one of the players—she guessed Hanson—but again Reese didn’t do more than shake her head as she went back toward that long hallway decorated with a mural of the city and all the players that clearly didn’t want her on their team. Ryder Glenn, especially.
Reese tried brushing off the cold, disgusted look he’d worn when she snapped at him. She’d only seen it once before from him, and that had to have been on the worst day of both their lives. There was so much cruelty in that look, and disgust—the snarl of his top lip that showed the bottoms of his teeth and the narrow shift of his glare as he watched her. Reese had seen it ten years ago, and it had nearly undone her. Today that look had made another appearance, and she realized the impact cut nearly as deeply as it had back in that hospital waiting room as they received the worst news they’d ever hear.
She leaned against the kitchen island in nothing but her underwear and sports bra, both sticking to her like a second skin as she rested against the marble surface. The coldness of the bar bit into her skin like a knife, but Reese still lay against it, temple and cheek near the sink, chest and stomach on the waterfall edge. She wanted to stay there until the chill of the marble made her forget Ryder’s look or the insult he’d delivered in front of their team, fans, and the stupid media.
“Reese, why don’t any of the Steamers like you?” one asshole had asked as she thundered through the parking garage and toward her Challenger. “Do you think you’re too intimidating, or is it because you’re so inexperienced?”
It had taken monumental self-control to keep her mouth shut. She wasn’t ashamed of who she was. She wasn’t sorry for what she wanted. Reese sat up straight, her skin sticking to the marble counter as she moved.
Intimidated, she thought, moving from the kitchen and into her bedroom. There was a scatter of clothes across the floor, remnants of the mess she’d made that morning trying to decide what to wear to practice. There had been a lot of gold and black workout gear to choose from, but none of it had seemed right to her. The practice jersey was black, and Reese had stared at her name across the back of it for a half hour straight before she pulled it over her head along with a pair of simple black shorts with gold trim along the hem. It hadn’t mattered. That perfect kick she’d landed from the 40-yard line had been forgotten the second Ryder told Reese to fuck off.
She forgot her scattered clothes, forgot the pretty décor around the room that made her feel like a house guest and not the sole resident. Her mother would love the room, despite the pale colors around it. Veronica Noble might have married a gringo who preferred quiet tones that ventured on the western, cowboy side, but Reese’s mother’s personality, her preference and her taste, was as flavored as the spices she used in her homemade ropa vieja.
She liked vivid, bright colors. She wanted her space to match her personality. But this bedroom was Reese’s, not her mother’s. There was intricate molding and trim surrounding the cabinets that encased her built-in white farmhouse bed. Two sconces hung over the headboard, old, yellow lights that gave off a soft glow, and the walls were bathed in a soft lilac color that calmed Reese. She had nothing to do with the décor. She wouldn’t know how to evoke calm and serenity in anything she’d choose for her home, hence the houseguest feeling, but the room still managed to keep her settled, serene.
At least, normally. Now she was too irritated for even the soft palette of her room to do her any good.
It was a reality that had come to her early on, back when she realized soccer wouldn’t get her where she wanted to be. It had been the sport that made her father realize what kind of talent she had. One request from him for Reese to meet her at Wallace Wade stadium after his players had left for the night, and sixteen-year-old Reese had found herself shooting off kicks, one after another. Two perfect kicks from the 40-yard line had informed both Reese and her fath
er which game she should be playing.
“Shit,” he’d said, more to himself. “You’re a fucking placekicker.”
But that realization, and the praise her father had given her, kept reality from inching into their big, lofty NFL dreams for her.
“This is gonna be a struggle,” her father had said. “Men, rough men like the players in the league, they don’t like getting their manhood challenged.”
“Who says I wanna do that?” she asked him.
“Don’t have to. They’ll invent challenges where there aren’t any. It’s in their nature.”
The first test had come from Lucas Clifton, a senior on her father’s team who at first thought it would be funny to embarrass the coach’s daughter in front of his teammates.
He missed four kicks to the six Reese made and started claiming she cheated. Then, he started in with the insults.
“Doesn’t matter, She-Ra,” he’d called her, watching her father as he’d moved around the field, careful not to let on to his coach that he was insulting his daughter. “No team will sign you unless you wanna go for the Lingerie League.” Then Lucas had looked long and hard over Reese’s body, gaze lingering on her breasts. “But then, they may not want some dyke on their team.”
She’d gut-punched him right then, and the punter went straight to his knees.
“You’re not intimidating,” her father warned her, leading her away from the field. “He was intimidated. They all will be.” He’d reminded her of a Pinterest board filled with inspirational quotes, but the advice made sense to her.
It still did.
But if Reese wanted a place at the table—if she wanted her teammates to see her as an equal—she’d have to show them she wasn’t there to test their manhood. She was there to do exactly what they were: win games.
She cleared away her frustration with long, lathered swipes of her loofa and let the steam and spray of hot water beat into her skin. She liked the smell of vanilla and sugar from the soap she used, the same scent that lingered from her soy candles around her apartment. That scent did the job when she wanted to feel soothed and settled. And as she moved the soap over her tight muscles, the flat, smooth contours of her stomach, Reese remembered how she’d managed to finally win over those Duke alpha males set against her. Liquor and information. It had irritated her to do it, but she knew her father’s players. She knew their stats and their triumphs. She also knew about good bourbon and how it could win over even the sourest of alpha males grumpy from being beaten by a girl.
“Worked once,” she told herself, stepping out of the shower and onto the plush, white floor mat her mother had picked out weeks before. Reese stood in front of the large beveled vanity mirror, her body naked and wet from her shower. Once, a hundred years ago it seemed, this body had managed to get the notice of Duke’s most eligible player. Every girl on campus wanted him, and Ryder had chosen Reese. It had taken years. It had taken convincing, but he’d finally chosen her.
No matter what Lucas had tried spreading around the campus about Reese, after she continued to trounce his ass on the field, Reese wasn’t gay. She didn’t care what anyone called her. Fact was, she knew plenty of lesbians that were way cooler than Lucas ever would be. But the lying… any lie about Reese at all irritated her.
She watched herself in the mirror, tracing the cut lines of her biceps and the ridges along her stomach, the heavy quad muscles and contoured calves. She’d begun looking more and more like her mother as she got older. Reese had noticed the changes, how similar her mannerisms had become—the way she tapped her finger against her leg when she stood in the middle of her closet trying to decide what to wear, or how she pressed her lips together when someone spoke to her. That was her mother, all those things. Her eyes, too—same black irises, same small upturn at the creases. Cuba was written in her DNA, and as she got older, it had started to show itself in small ways over her body. Reese was strong. She was an athlete, but she was still a woman and looked the part.
Once, she’d floored Ryder with a simple dress. One lake party and the right sundress borrowed from Rhiannon had showed the quarterback that the coach’s daughter wasn’t the awkward, nerdy jock he thought she was. He’d watched her all night at that party, never taking his attention from her once.
Could he manage that now if she pulled a repeat? Would Ryder Glenn remember who she’d been to him?
Dropping the towel, Reese hurried to her closet, attacking each hanger as she looked for the black number her mother had made her buy two summers ago for her brother’s rehearsal dinner. He’d married Charlotte Bennington, a wealthy New York socialite. Her mother wanted her to look like a confident woman, not the sports-loving jock who lived in Lycra and running shorts. She’d pulled off the act of sophisticated younger sister, impressing two of Charlotte’s Wall Street-broker cousins and a New York Times bestselling political analyst from New Haven.
The dress would hug her, cling to her hips, the front draping down, leaving nothing to the imagination. It was a woman’s dress, and Ryder had never seen Reese as a woman. It would be tight now because Reese had gained five pounds of muscle leading up to the Steamers’ tryout, but it would still fit. Too well, in fact.
She spotted the silver heels and smiled, deciding just then if she wanted her teammates’ attention, she could win it easily with the dress. Their respect would come at a higher price, a thirteen-hundred-dollar bottle of Very Old Fitzgerald to be exact, but it was a price worth admission.
Ryder might still hate Reese, he might even want her off his team, but she was going to fight like hell to make sure he was the only Steamer who did.
3.
RYDER
POKER WAS RYDER’S GAME, almost as much as football, everyone on the captain’s team knew it. Still, that didn’t stop Hanson from bragging that he could ace the quarterback. The guy went all in on a high pot. Newbie move. Seemed Hanson was making a lot of those today.
Ryder reminded himself that it was the guy’s second season. He should have learned better by now. Besides, he could spot the worry behind that false bravado. It was in the shift of the man’s eyes as he moved his attention around the table. There was twenty grand in the pot, two half-naked dancers leaning on either side of Hanson’s chair, and three guards securing the VIP section of Decadence, the exclusive club that catered to the Steamers and their crew.
Kenya Wilson, Ryder’s other running back, played dealer as a handful of their teammates looked on. Ryder could make out the flush of red over Kenya’s brown skin, despite the darkness of the VIP room, likely from the two empty glasses of scotch in front of him. The music was loud, dry ice billowed from the dance floor, and a wave of laughing, drunk dancers circled at the bottom of the steps, a few catcalling whatever player’s attention they were trying to grab. None of it distracted Ryder. There was no way in hell the quarterback was going to let the crowd or the distractions make him flake on the game. Hanson had it coming.
“This motherfucker gonna take all damn night,” Wilson said, knocking his knuckle against the deck of cards he itched to lay flat on the table. Kenya slipped back against his chairs, folding his arms as he moved his gaze between Hanson and Ryder, his black eyes lit with a humor as he taunted Hanson. “Come on, man.”
“Shut up,” Hanson said, chewing on the inside corner of his mouth, eyes tight and focused as he watched Ryder. “I’m thinking.”
“You thinking ’cause you scared as hell.”
“Motherfucker…” Hanson started, his light brown skin flushing as he gave Wilson a side-eye that told Ryder the man was using the distraction because he needed it.
He’s young, Ryder told himself. Two seasons in and he still wants to prove himself.
But if the guy thought Ryder’s bluff was bullshit, then he still hadn’t gotten the make of the quarterback. Ryder had set the tone, the others followed, and Hanson hadn’t caught up yet.
“Do or die,” Ryder said, moving his chin at the running back. “Make your move.”
“What’s the bet? Five grand? That ain’t shit,” Hanson tried, curling his hand, the chips clinking together like ice in a tumbler. Another newbie move, something that shouldn’t have surprised Ryder but did. The guy had been blustering all night about the practice, the moves he’d made, his rushes and returns. Though Ryder told himself he didn’t care about it, the way Hanson had fucked with Reese—that shit got under his skin more than he was willing to admit to himself.
“I’ve seen your ass shop. That’s probably five grand more than you got, rook,” Wilson said, laughing when Hanson shot him the bird.
Ryder watched him, ignoring his teammates as they moved their attention between the two men. He wouldn’t say anything else. He wouldn’t need to, and, by the silence that left the men around him, they knew it, too. Ryder Glenn was their captain, their team leader, their quarterback, and he’d shown them early on how easy it was to intimidate without much more than a steady stare and a slow pull from your drink. He never failed at it. He wouldn’t start now.
“So, that bitch,” Hanson tried when Ryder lifted his glass, eyes focused on the running back. “The kicker…” He stared at Ryder, unblinking, but couldn’t keep the small twitch from pulsing on his top lip.
“Reese Noble,” Wilson supplied. Ryder didn’t know what to make of the tone in his teammate’s voice. He didn’t know why that awed, amazed sound got under his skin the way it did. “What about her?” Wilson asked.
