by Eden Butler
Hanson shook his head, using his thumb to slide his cards around. “She’s fine.”
“She’s a teammate.” There was no laughter in Wilson’s tone now, and if Hanson noticed that, too, he didn’t look at the man to see what had killed the mood. “She’s a nice chick.”
“You talk to her?” Ryder asked, frowning.
Wilson’s shrug was subtle, quick, like his answer should be self-explanatory. “She was on the rookie tour of the city. I had to play host.” He moved around the melting ice in his glass, taking a sip at what was left of his scotch. “She’d never been to New Orleans. Loved the food, hated the steamboat.” When he glanced at Ryder, probably spotting his frown, Wilson shrugged again. “She wasn’t feelin’ the ghost bullshit the guides talked about.” Something caught in Ryder’s throat and he wasn’t sure if it was the fact that Reese was already barging her way into his circle or that Wilson had spent time with her that worked his nerves. He didn’t quite know where that little spark of jealousy came from or who he was jealous of, Reese or Wilson.
But Ryder also knew what had sparked Wilson’s irritation with Hanson when he asked about Reese. The man liked to mess around off the field. He had jokes all the time, but he didn’t fuck around about the team and the work they did on the field. Ryder guessed Wilson didn’t like Hanson’s observation about their new placekicker.
“She’s a fine ass teammate,” Hanson continued, still giving the pretense that he was debating his next move. Ryder wished he’d fucking call already and get the shit over with. The half-naked dancers at his sides got bored, nodded to each other before they left for the bar.
“She’s off limits,” Wilson answered, finally taking Hanson’s attention away from Ryder’s hard stare.
“Why?” The man turned, watching his fellow running back like he’d just told him he’d been put on punishment.
“Because,” Wilson continued, glancing at Ryder, then to the others sitting around the table like he wanted their confirmation but wouldn’t wait for it. Wilson pulled the toothpick from the corner of his mouth and pointed at Hanson. “You deaf? She’s. A. Teammate.”
“For how long?”
It was a question that had bounced around in Ryder’s head, too. He didn’t want Reese in New Orleans. He didn’t want her on his team, but some deep-down part of him remembered how hard she’d worked. He remembered how good she’d been, even as a kid. She’d hustled and tried harder than anyone he’d ever known to get where she was.
Didn’t mean he had to like it.
How long would she last? He’d wondered that when Hanson had started in on her. How long could she handle the shit that was already coming down on her? Ryder didn’t know. He just hoped that how long would end up not too long.
Hanson’s laugh died at something he saw over Ryder’s shoulder, and the man sat up straight. Something familiar, something that reminded Ryder of the past came right at him, instantly warming his chest, but he couldn’t place the smell. And then, there she was.
“Long enough,” came that unmistakable voice, and Ryder’s poker face shattered as he looked up, spotting her walking to the center of the table.
There were low, amazed sounds of awe around the room, and every eye that could look was aimed at the new Steamers’ placekicker. Ryder had seen Reese naked. He’d seen her sick. He’d seen her sweaty from a workout and sunburnt from a long day at the lake.
But he’d never seen her like this.
Decadence had an unspoken dress code. They catered to the Steamers. They loved the professional athletes mingling with the rich and famous at their establishment. Therefore, there were expectations—dress like you had money and knew how to spend it. Men wore tailored suits and subtle jewelry. Women, dressed to the nines in designer dresses, navigated the club, confident, proud, like their uplifted heads were as natural as the embellished lips, eyes, and breasts they pretended were real.
Reese put them all to shame.
The dress was black, quality silk from the look of it, but hugged every curve Reese carried on her solid frame. And, hell, were there plenty of those. The dress hit her about five inches above her knee and draped down the front, nearly to her navel, with only elegant black lace hiding her ample, perky tits from view. She paired the dress with three-inch silver pumps and complementary silver and black bag, diamonds on her ears and around her wrist, and classy, subtle makeup that made her stand out around the overdone socialites in VIP.
Ryder didn’t need this shit. Greer would be back soon, ready to warm his bed and get the irritation from his mind. She always did, whenever he needed her. It wasn’t a relationship. It was a situation. One that should have kept his gaze from raking over Reese’s body.
Ryder’s mouth watered at the sight of her, and he was filled him with an uncommon sense of dread. He hated that she could still work anything other than rage and hatred inside his head. He hated that she could look that good, likely know she did, and was clueless what just being near her did to him.
“Can I deal in?” she asked the men, frowning a little when they all glanced at Ryder.
He’d held himself calm, relaxed, as he played that last hand with Hanson—arm stretched along the back of the chair next to him, fingers wrapped around a sweating tumbler of whiskey. It had all aided, he hoped, in giving off the intimidating demeanor he thought would make Hanson nervous. Now, some of that composure fractured, and he let his tumbler slip to the table in front of him as Reese, along with his other teammates, waited for him to answer.
He couldn’t. Not immediately. Not with Reese looking the way she did, purse under her arm and a gift bag hanging from her long fingers. A fleeting thought of what her father would say about her looking that good—that on display—in the tiny black dress, slipped to the front of his head, but he pushed it back.
“I’m about to tap out,” Ryder admitted, not looking at her.
“Knew it,” Hanson said, smiling. “You didn’t have shit, did you?”
It physically hurt Ryder to back out and leave that smug asshole with the pot, but he didn’t want to be there. No, that wasn’t true. He didn’t want Reese to be there, but before he could answer Hanson or tell Reese to leave, Wilson stood, smiling at her when she greeted him. He waved her to the empty seat next to him, like they were friends, and Ryder felt his lips tighten into a frown.
“We’re not dealing again,” Ryder tried, still not bothering to look at Reese, but he still caught her profile from the corner of his eye. He knew she looked good; he’d spotted that on the field today. Her skin was still so fucking beautiful, all brown and smooth, and she looked more like her mother now than she had ten years before. But he hadn’t been able to see her eyes— hazel, not brown in this light—from the sidelines today. He wanted to look closer, but anger and hurt kept him focused on the men around him.
“We not?” Wilson asked, frowning at Ryder as he called for another drink.
“Don’t bother,” Reese offered, putting the gift bag in front of Wilson. “My treat.” She motioned for the waitress and the woman hurried to the table. “Por favor,” she said to her, waving around the table, “for everyone.” That accented phrase made Ryder’s chest tighten. Fuck, he’d loved it when she let a few Spanish words slip out in her casual conversation. And when she got pissed? Holy shit, it was like seeing something so terrible it was beautiful.
Shit, Ryder thought. She was pulling out the stops. This was Reese’s thing—liquor and charm. It was how she’d wiggled her way onto the Duke team. It was how she’d managed to get Ryder to pay more than a passing attention at her, initially. Then, he’d watched her practice, watched her work, and all that charm and her daddy’s expensive bourbon had nothing to do with why Ryder liked her.
She was working on this team now. His team. Not happening.
“I see what you’re doing,” he said, finally sparing her a glance, but just then Wilson tore into the bag, whistling when he spotted the gold and green label, then grinning like an idiot when he held the b
ottle of Old Fitz between his wide hands, and Ryder knew it was pointless to complain.
Reese ignored him anyway.
“Oh, hell yes,” Wilson said, nodding at Reese with approval. “This is the good stuff.”
“1962, I believe. I was saving it for a special occasion.” Their teammates watched her like they expected her to announce her early retirement or maybe tell them it was her birthday, and Reese caught on. “Can’t think of a better special occasion than the start of a new season.”
“Hell yeah,” Wilson agreed, cracking open the bottle. He poured seven glasses when the waitress set down empty tumblers in front of him, hurrying to top them off as Reese slid them over the leather surface of the table.
She got nods of thanks from Anthony Pérez and Miles Baker, neither one much concerned with the glare Ryder gave them or the kick Hanson delivered when they inhaled the rich scent of bourbon. Hanson, though, kept his gaze on Ryder, watching, waiting as though their game hadn’t ended or maybe like he wasn’t sure if his quarterback would be cool with him taking Reese’s olive-branch shot. Hanson had been the one to mess with Reese, and even though Ryder had told him to leave her alone, everyone on their team had heard Ryder tell the woman to fuck off. It was no secret Ryder wasn’t happy about her being on that field. They just didn’t know why.
By the look Hanson gave him, Ryder suspected he wanted to know, and that shit wasn’t gonna happen. Resigned to the inevitable, Ryder ignored Hanson’s worry and waved at the running back, motioning toward the pot in the center of the table.
“Aces high. You would’ve lost. My luck is golden.”
Hanson laughed, reaching across the table to slap the quarterback on the shoulder before he fisted the wad of bills and chips left there. “Fucking knew it,” he said, shifting his attention from Ryder to Reese, who laughed at something Wilson said as he poured her shot, then back at Ryder again. “This okay?” He motioned to the glass in front of him, and Ryder shrugged.
“I won’t begrudge anyone a shot of good bourbon.” Ryder nodded a thanks to Wilson when he slid the shot in front of him, but the quarterback didn’t pick it up.
“Here we go,” Reese started, standing with her shot in her hand. She looked nervous, despite the wide, beautiful smile she offered to their teammates. He knew her deep down and dirty in a way no one else ever would again. Ryder could always tell when she wasn’t in her element, and speaking in front of players she probably thought didn’t think much of her was definitely not her element. Still, she lifted the small glass and inhaled. “To a new season, a new city and…” she swallowed, the nerves making her lips quiver, “to…to new friends.”
Around the table, all the glasses got raised, all but Ryder’s, and they mimed clinking their glasses before they slammed them back. Reese paused before she drank, that smile faltering for only a second as she watched Ryder staring up at her. They didn’t speak or smile. Instead their look got long, breathing to life tension and awkwardness that should have disappeared the second the bottle got cracked open. Then Reese moved her head the smallest shift to the right before she plastered that smile.
“Fuck, that’s good,” Wilson said, staring down at his empty glass like it had held liquid gold and he’d just grown a craving for it. “Another?” he asked around the table, barely pausing for the half-nods he got before he started to pour. “So,” he said, watching the glasses as he turned his head toward Reese when she sat back down. “You got chops.” Wilson sat back, admiring the amber liquid inside his glass then the woman at his right before he drank again. “That fucking kick was sweet.”
“I had a point to prove.”
“Clearly,” Pérez called from across the table, and Ryder didn’t much like the way he watched Reese or how he shifted his eyes over her face and down to the expanse of skin peeking out from her lace. “That was baller,” he said.
Pérez was a player, and not just for the Steamers. He might be in the NFL, but the asshole could have passed for someone you’d find strutting on a catwalk in Paris—if they could fit his massive chest and thick thighs. He used that tawny skin and hazel brown eyes to his advantage. The man looked good, and he knew it. It was nothing for Pérez to flash his light eyes and wide smile and make panties drop for a 50-yard radius.
Ryder had seen the man with a different woman every time they left Decadence and even more than that when they were on the road. He shouldn’t care about Pérez moving in on Reese. Why would he? He fucking hated her, but the looks Pérez gave her, the way he worked that Dominican Republican swagger in her direction, pissed Ryder off.
“It was cool,” Hanson said, seeming unimpressed by Reese’s kick, likely still irritated that she called him out in front of his teammates and the fans. “But a one-off kick like that ain’t shit. Consistency matters.” He motioned around the table with his glass, as though he was trying to make a point. “Consistency wins playoffs.”
Ryder knew Reese. He knew what this appearance was about. She wanted to win them over. Maybe she wanted him to realize she planned to stick her cleats in the ground and plant herself in New Orleans for the long haul. If that was her game, then he knew she’d keep trying until they all loved her.
But, that didn’t mean she’d let anyone walk all over her. Especially not cocky second season rookies, no matter what trophies rested on his mantel. Ryder could sense the smack down before Reese delivered it.
“Consistency,” she said, reaching for the bottle to refill her glass and Wilson’s. “Like how you consistently fumbled in that Sugar Bowl game your junior year at Tennessee?” To Ryder’s left, Hanson choked on his shot, his eyes going a little wide. Reese seemed to ignore the expression. “Or how last season when the Steamers were down by six against Atlanta, you caught the butter fingers again, then tried to recover and ended up losing yardage? Thank God, Wilson was there to drive the win home.”
Hanson didn’t seem to like the low curses and laughs at his expense, especially when his teammates didn’t put up much of an effort to hide them. He pushed his empty glass away and glared at Reese. “Don’t act like you know shit about me, woman.”
“Oh, but I do.” She stood then, dragging the bottle across the table when she did. Reese leaned a hip against the table and poured more bourbon into Hanson’s empty glass. “Robert Hanson. Third round draft pick out of Tennessee.” She moved away from him, smiling at a waitress when she took the bottle from Reese to finish topping off the again-empty glasses. Reese folded her arms as she walked around the table. “Fourteen touchdowns, eight rushes, and three returns—all in his rookie season.”
Hanson sat silent, his light brown skin reddening and his expression moving to stunned as he followed Reese’s movements. She didn’t sit, choosing instead to linger next to Pérez. “You still landed Rookie of the Year with twenty-eight votes, something even our tight end Pérez here didn’t do when he finished a stellar rookie season with Seattle. Of course,” she said, patting the man in question on the shoulder, “it was only when Pérez signed with the Steamers that he was able to manage forty-freaking-three touchdown receptions and ended up as the single biggest pain in the ass for any defender coming at him in the past four seasons. His performance hasn’t altered since he first signed.”
Pérez wore a ridiculous grin, moving his chin up as he smirked at his teammates while Reese continued, reaching across the table to grab her own glass. “Then we have Miles Baker, one of the best offensive linemen in the past decade. Fifth round pick.” She brushed his shoulder but didn’t linger before she walked around him. “Zero damn penalties and four sacks last season.” Reese stopped next to Wilson, throwing the man a grin. “Baker got his mom out of the Lower Ninth a full year before Katrina and started a nonprofit benefiting victims of domestic violence…” Her voice lowered, and the smile left her face. “Because of the services they provide, twenty-eight women have left their situations in the past two years and stayed gone.”
Reese nodded at the waiter as she came to her chair, and the man pul
led it out. The bourbon forgotten, she folded her fingers together and let another warm smile move across her mouth. “Then we have Mr. Kenya Wilson. New Orleans’ current second most eligible bachelor.”
“The poll was fucking rigged,” Wilson said, slamming back another shot.
“Probably.” Reese didn’t bother looking at Ryder as she agreed. That would mean admitting she knew he’d been the most eligible bachelor, according to that damn magazine. “Second round pick who helped Alabama win three bowl games. Raised on his abuelo’s strawberry farm over in Ponchatoula with four older sisters. Hundred-and-five rushing yards per game and no less than sixteen touchdowns in just last season alone.” She picked up her now-refilled glass and raised it to each player she’d mentioned before her attention went back to Hanson. “Wilson’s got a cousin at LSU, which he finds to be the height of rudeness considering all that Roll Tide blood pumping through his family’s veins.”
“Three uncles and two brothers went to Alabama.” Wilson shook his head. “Dumbass kid.”
“So, Hanson,” Reese continued, “I do know you. I did my homework because this is where I wanna be. I know you’ve been very lucky with your success, but let’s be real here. Without the support of your teammates, you might not have landed that Rookie of the Year trophy.”
The man went silent as a tomb, but worked his back teeth together, inhaling through his flared nostrils like there was nothing he could say to her to make up for the truth. Ryder had thought Hanson was a little bit of a kiss ass. He always agreed with Ryder, never really wanted to rock the boat, but Wilson had mentioned Hanson drunkenly talking about his single mother back in Knoxville who worked as a defense attorney and the dead beat white father who never stuck around to see how his son had turned out. It was true Hanson had gotten sloppy and relied on his teammates more than he should have, but no man wants to admit that. Not in front of his boys. After another deep inhale and one more shot, Hanson popped his neck, leaning against the table as he glared at Reese.
