by Eden Butler
“Careful, Glenn, you might be paying me a compliment on accident.”
“Accidentally on purpose,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, not looking at her. “I always thought Coach should have let you and Witherspoon run that fake back in school.”
Reese frowned, surprised that Ryder remembered the play. She and Witherspoon, the punter, had devised something sneaky that would have landed Duke an easy score because no one would expect Reese to do more than kick the ball. The first time they’d practiced it, Ryder had clapped, laughing like a fool at how quickly the play worked. Her father, on the other hand, hadn’t been impressed.
“Papa thought it was cheap.” Next to her she felt the bench move as Ryder looked up at her, still resting against his knees. She didn’t like his cool quietness or how the man kept staring at her like he expected something remarkable to happen. “He didn’t like fakes.”
“Yeah,” Ryder said, sitting up. He leaned so close to Reese now that she couldn’t play anything. “Like how you fake me out all the time?”
She jerked her attention to him, that dimming temper beginning to rise again. “The hell is that supposed to mean, cabrón?”
Ryder tilted his head, his breath hot, bourbon-soaked when he whispered against her mouth. “Kiss me and walk away. Tempt me and ignore everything between us.”
Reese leaned back, needing space. “You said there was no everything between us anymore. Remember that?”
“Maybe,” he continued, moving a hand to her face, pressing his palm against her cheek. “Maybe I changed my mind. Maybe I don’t like seeing you without me. Maybe I’m drunk and being an asshole.”
“Maybe,” she said, insides lit with something that liquefied her patience. “You should stop being such a selfish prick and remember that you left me. I owe you nothing, Ryder.” She pulled his hand from her face and stood up, grabbing her bag before she glared down at him. “Not one damn thing.”
There was relief as she walked away, that no one was there to witness one of America’s favorite quarterbacks acting like an ass. Reese knew Ryder was a good guy. Other than how things had ended with them, Ryder had always been a decent person who’d never intentionally hurt anyone.
He was just drunk, she told herself, hearing the click of her own heels as she walked toward the elevator. Drunk and stupid, for some reason, about shit that died a long time ago.
“No,” she said to no one in particular. “Damn that.”
Her temper now a blistering inferno, Reese weighed the wisdom of turning back to find Ryder and scream at him. She didn’t care if he was drunk. She didn’t care if he had trouble dealing with her being on his team and the memories of all the sins they’d committed together in the past.
“Grown ass man supposed to be…”
“Supposed to be what?” he asked, coming up behind her just as the bell for the elevator chimed.
“Leave me alone,” she told him, intending to walk away, but Ryder took her arm, moving her against him and shuffling them both into the empty elevator.
“I can’t seem to do that, now can I, Noble?”
He rested them against the wall, the dim light overhead flickering as the elevator moved. Reese didn’t know what to think of Ryder like this. She didn’t appreciate him blaming her for things that weren’t her fault. She didn’t like the jealous ex-boyfriend attitude from him because it made him look petty.
But, God, did it feel good to see him making a move right toward her. It was good to feel wanted—desired—after such a long time of nothing special at all.
“You’re confused,” she told him, making a vain attempt to push him back. Ryder didn’t budge, and if she was honest with herself, she was glad he didn’t. He smelled like cheap bourbon and expensive cologne. Both scents worked some kind of seduction on her senses that had her heart hammering and a wicked, sweet tingle thrilling between her legs. “You never dealt with…everything, and now I’m here, a daily reminder. That’s all this is.” He moved closer, hand against her face again, thumb under her bottom lip as he watched her.
Ryder was tempting, even if he was blitzed out of his head. He never lost control. He never let his composure slip, and just then, while he moved closer, right hand slipping to Reese’s thigh, fingertips against the bare skin he brushed along the back of her leg, Reese understood that this was him doing exactly what he wanted.
“This isn’t real…” she tried, going quiet when he curled his fingers higher up her leg and pressed her right against his hard dick.
“That feel real enough for you?” It did. It felt like perfection. It felt real and ready and everything Reese had been missing for the past ten years. When she didn’t speak, was able only to make stupid, small noises of protests she didn’t mean to leave her mouth, Ryder took advantage and angled her head up, putting her waiting mouth close enough for him to take. “Thought so,” he said, closing the small space between them to kiss her.
She could have stayed there with him, delighting in the low, deep sounds he made—sounds of heat and lust and aching damn need. It would have been easy, taking something that wasn’t hers. After all, he had been hers first, all those years ago. For just a few seconds, she gave Ryder back what his drunken body offered.
“Fuck, I want you,” he said, fingers now on the curve of her ass, moving toward her thong. “You’re wet already, aren’t you?”
“Ry…” she tried, knowing she should stop him, knowing that it would be very bad to be caught with him like this. But, God, his strong, eager fingers felt so good when he lowered his hand, shifting, moving his fingers to the front of her, smoothing the tips against her aching, pulsing clit. “Oh…ay dios…”
“Yes. Shit, Reesie, look how wet you are for me.”
Everything about this moment was electric— her skin, his body, the scent of her wet and ready for him, the heat of his breath against her neck as he kissed her, pushing one finger closer and closer to the seam separating her thong from her skin.
She needed this. She needed him, no matter how badly he’d wrecked her. All this time and she hadn’t forgotten this. She hadn’t forgotten anything about him.
“Ry,” she said, the invitation to come to her room already on the tip of her tongue, but then the elevator slowed, and the numbers rose higher. Reese knew someone was getting on. “Ryder, stop. The elevator’s stopping.”
He grunted, a low frustrated sound that only worsened the throb of her pussy as he pulled away from her, hurriedly straightening his jacket, closing the button to cover his proud, bold erection.
“This isn’t done,” he told her, voice thick with need, gaze a rake of fire over her body, training on her naked thigh when she adjusted her skirt.
Whoever got on when the doors opened, Reese could kill. They’d interrupted something she’d been thinking about almost constantly since that night at the gym. Her imagination was nothing to how Ryder tasted now and how good he felt. Whoever got on was a detour on her stroll down memory lane, and Reese had no desire to leave just yet.
Ryder wiped his wet bottom lip dry, gaze still fierce, controlled, as he watched her. There was so much in that look. So many things that made her wet and willing and ready to finish what he started.
The elevator doors drew back and a tall, leggy blonde who smelled of vodka stumbled into the elevator, laughing at herself then squealing with delight as she spotted Ryder on the opposite side of the elevator.
“Baby!” Greer Larson said, opening her arms as she moved inside. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Ryder swallowed, and some of that cool composure slipped as he took Greer’s hug, sloppily holding his hand to the back of her head. “I’m here,” he told her. His attention was on Reese, and it seemed in an instant, Ryder lost that glorious buzz. His expression fell, and his eyes softened, as though this was something he’d never meant to happen.
Reese wanted to be sick. She wanted to claw out the eyes of a woman who’d done nothing to h
er. A quick glance at Greer as she turned around, smiling at Reese as though she’d only just realized she was there and the blonde’s expression changed. That smile became a sneer, something smug and ridiculous as she pulled Ryder’s face toward her, taking his mouth in an open mouth kiss that had Reese’s stomach turning.
“Stop…” Ryder tried, gaze flashing back to Reese as she looked at the numbers changing as the elevator moved.
“Come on, baby,” Greer said, a thick drunken laugh in her tone. From the corner of her eye, Reese noticed the couple watching her. “She’s your teammate. She won’t care if we fuck in the elevator, will she?”
This was the woman Ryder slept with. This was the pretty, obnoxious woman who’d been on his arm the past two years?
“Stop being disgusting,” Ryder said to her, pushing her back when she tried resting her head on his shoulder, curling an arm across his chest. She had a grip on Ryder that he didn’t seem able to keep away from, and Reese shook her head, feeling dizzy, definitely nauseous as she waited for the elevator to climb faster.
“Reese,” Ryder said, his voice low, her name barely a whisper, but she wouldn’t look at him. Instead, she willed the numbers to climb quicker. It took three minutes to reach the twenty-fifth floor, and when the bell finally chimed, Reese hurried through the doors, hearing a sleepy call from Greer behind her.
“What’s the matter?” she asked Ryder, her laugh obvious, cruel.
“Nothing,” he said. “It’s nothing at all.”
14.
REESE
THE HEADLINE WAS BITING. Reese had been expecting more snark. The sarcastic commentary from the media hadn’t surprised her. She’d been facing it since her junior year. Every week since she signed with the Steamers there had been some discussion in the media, local and nationwide, about her as a woman, her as some sort of mythical ceiling crasher that was to be either reviled or celebrated. It wasn’t often that they went too deeply into her skill. There were a few sportscasters, mainly the female ones, who weighed in on Reese’s abilities and talent. But for the most part, the focus had been all about her gender. She was a woman playing in a men’s sport. There were bound to be some egos fractured and old, traditional sports journalists that just didn’t want women on the field. They didn’t know what to say to her, or what questions to ask that would be relevant and not make them look like assholes still stuck in the seventies chasing women around their desks to grab ass.
In all that time, though, Reese had never expected crack shots that were just downright mean.
“You look…” Gia started, holding the newspaper out in front of her, arm outstretched. “Um…”
“Powerful,” Cat offered, taking the front page of the Times Picayune from her boss. When Reese and Gia both stared at the woman, Cat shrugged, hiding her grimace behind a large glass of red wine. “I’m just saying…”
“Well, please don’t,” Reese said, grabbing the front page to crumble it between her fingers. “This is ridiculous. Ryder and Wilson and freaking Pukui get to do a calendar with a celebrity photographer, and I get Billy Bob from the local paper and a shot of me snarling at some asshole blocker who knocked me ass over ears.”
“That wasn’t my idea,” Gia said, slipping off the sofa to grab the half-empty bottle from Reese’s island. “This calendar thing was on the books before I took the job.” She poured a healthy glass and stretched her neck. “I argued that all the players should be featured.” She nudged her chin at Reese, earning a frown from the woman before she hurried to explain. “Turnabout is fair play. They wanted hot football players, and here we are.” She waved her glass at Reese, coming to sit across from the kicker on a small ottoman Reese’s sister-in-law had given her for a housewarming. It was designer, a name Reese had never heard but was assured was very important.
“I wouldn’t have done it,” Reese said, throwing her legs over the arm of her plush, upholstered chair. The headline had been more insulting than the picture. ‘Real Woman?’ it read. The second she read it, Reese’s stomach twisted with worry, and her face had flushed crimson.
“Why not?” Cat asked, downing the rest of her glass. Reese liked Gia’s assistant. She’d helped her move in and get settled. She’d become a Netflix watching-buddy and knew all the best bars in New Orleans. Even if Reese wasn’t a Steamer, Cat probably had enough clout to get them into any restaurant or club.
“Because it’s hard enough doing this job not having a penis and all. Not many fans, or players for that matter, think I can do what I’m supposed to.” She leaned her head back, moving it against the headrest. “Adding me, all half-naked and smiling at the camera would only make them think it’s okay to treat me like shit.” She spun around, finishing her glass, and set the empty on the small wooden table in front of her. “Besides, do you know what my parents would do if I did something like that? Ay dios, I’d be dead.”
“But your parents aren’t here,” Gia offered, smiling behind her glass as she watched Reese. “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, and so what if everyone thinks you can’t do your job? You’ve already proven you can.” She stood, her eyes taking on a glint that made Reese nervous. “And they’re all gonna treat you like shit regardless of what you do.” She came to Reese’s chair, full lips stretched across her perfect teeth as she smiled.
“Ay, no…” Reese said, sitting up straight when her manager’s smile became a wicked smirk. “What are you plotting?”
She ignored her and shot a look right at Cat. “Your cousin still in town?”
Cat nodded, abandoning her seat to stand, her own smile growing. “Match isn’t for another three days. He’s here through the week. Why?” Then she blinked, eyelashes fanning as she looked between Gia and Reese. “You’re remembering that favor Lennox Murry owes him, aren’t you?”
Gia nodded, bouncing a little on her feet and Cat joined her.
“And that was a big fucking favor.”
Cat nodded, agreeing. “Pretty sure Murry would do it, favor or not.”
“Do what?” Reese asked, stomach twisting when Gia’s expression shifted, and she stood next to Cat, fingers across her lips as she looked down at Reese. What the hell did the top ranking UFC fighter have to do with the shit article that got written about Reese?
“What do you think?” Gia asked, walking to Reese and pulling her to stand.
Cat tilted her head, giving the kicker a close once-over that made her feel like something on a rack that Cat wanted to drape over her thin body. The woman moved Reese’s chin, side to side, then nodded. “We’ll have to do something about her eyebrows.”
“Whose eyebrows?” Reese asked, slapping Cat’s hand from her face. Both women examined Reese, circling her like she was an alien creature no one had ever seen before.
“And the split ends,” Cat offered, tugging on Reese’s long hair.
“Ay, mierda, what are you two talking about?”
Gia stopped, turning Reese by the shoulder. “You, Miss Noble, are about to have your privacy violated for all the best reasons.”
“What reasons are those?” That ache in Reese’s stomach knotted tighter, and she stepped out of Gia’s touch, knowing that the look her manager gave her was something that would lead to either one of two very bad things: the world paying more attention to Reese, or her life becoming something that wasn’t hers anymore.
REESE HATED the shock rock assholes that filled up her car speakers as she drove around the city. The two currently blabbering about shit she wasn’t paying attention to, Billy and Bud, were especially pieces of work who never had a decent thing filtering from their mouths. But Reese’s focus was on the over-full bottle of water between her knees and her chirping cell as she drove her Challenger down a busy Loyola Avenue.
“So, we’ve got some juicy, juicy stuff for you freaks,” the lead host Billy said, his voice a thick haggard sound that reminded Reese of gravel and too many packs of Kool Menthols.
She drove with her knee, spilling the water
when the light abruptly changed. “Shit!”
“Tell me.” Bud, the second host, had a weasely quality to his tone. He sounded a little nasal and obnoxious. “And what level of juicy are we talking about here?”
“Wet t-shirt sorority girls in Jell-O.”
Ugh, Reese thought, slinging water from her hand while she hit her blinker, trying like hell to keep her phone dry.
“Give it to me, oh, Mighty Soda…I mean, Yoda.”
She pulled down Poydras and waited at an intersection for a group of red tutu-wearing tourists to pass by.
“So we all saw the kerfuffle with the Steamers’ new feminazi kicker?” Billy asked.
“Her yelling like a mega-bitch at Ryder Glenn?”
“That’s the one.” There was a laugh in Billy’s voice and the second she heard herself referenced, Reese’s insides burned and her face began to flame. She went deaf to the noise around her, focusing on the radio as though just looking at it would give her some insight to what might come next.
“Word is when they played South Carolina last week, there was another argument right in the hotel lobby. My source tells me Noble and Glenn thought they were alone and started screaming at each other, mainly the feminazi.”
“Can we still call her that?” Bud asked, his tone slipping to something that sounded smug. “I mean, if Lennox Murry clearly finds her hot…”
“And we all love that mother fucker.”
“Hell yeah!”
Reese blushed again, sinking lower down in her seat when she heard the UFC fighter’s name. It had been a stupid idea, but Reese would not complain about it.
“You sure I can’t tempt you, love?” That thick Scottish brogue had done something to her as they waited in the lobby of the hotel restaurant. Lennox knew it was all bullshit, the date, the attention, but that didn’t mean he tried to play off what he thought of Reese as he stepped right in front of her, his massive hand flat against the wall over her head. He wanted her to go upstairs with him. To his room.
