by Eden Butler
Reese wasn’t sure if it was a lie. She didn’t know Greer, but she knew women like her: vindictive. Calculating. Opportunistic. If she believed Ryder was her gravy train, it would take a lot more than an ex-girlfriend back in his life to make Greer worried.
She didn’t wait for Reese to answer. Greer turned around, hand still over her belly as she moved back into the club.
Reese grabbed her coat and bag, deciding to meet the valet away from the entrance as he went to grab her Challenger. A few feet from the entrance, Reese heard someone calling her name. She knew that voice. It was warm and sweet and deep. But she didn’t respond to it, not when the valet pulled up next to her, opening the door. Not when Greer’s voice carried over the slow-moving traffic around them.
Reese looked over the moving cars and cabs, spotting Ryder waiting outside the club, his face tight, his mouth set hard as Greer pulled on his shoulder. She watched him, memorizing his face, the pout of his bottom lip and the soft curve of his cupid’s bow.
“Reese!” he yelled again, a question in his tone, but she didn’t answer. Reese got in her car and slammed the door, leaving Ryder behind, staring after her as she drove away from him.
20
Ryder
There were things Ryder understood. He got athleticism. His job required skill. It demanded talent, both things Ryder had, or so he’d been told his entire life so far.
The mechanics of the game: how to spot his boys near the end zone, the ones open or who could get that way.
Those things were easy to understand.
But no matter how often he made attempts at really knowing women, he failed again and again. Especially when it came to Reese. She knew him. She wanted him. She’d packed away the past right along with Ryder and seemed ready now to move ahead. Sure, there was the complication with Greer, and Ryder needing to find the time to tell her he wanted out, but Reese knew him. She should understand.
“Good, Rochelle! One more time.” He heard Reese yell from across the field. Her kicking group was the biggest in the camp, putting to shame Wilson’s running backs and Ryder’s throwing group. Around Reese there stood a half-dozen teenage girls listening to everything Reese said, absorbing the details and tips like they would save their lives.
From the looks of it, Reese was running a mini-camp of her own and Ryder guessed she did it to have an excuse to avoid him.
“Hey, Mr. Glenn.” He heard, tearing his attention from Reese as Jack approached, decked out in brand-new Steamers’ gear chosen for Ryder’s team. “Like it?”
“Man, it’s dope as hell,” he said, straightening the kid’s collar. “You look like a starting QB to me.”
Jack’s reaction was immediate, a smile so wide Ryder could make out two missing teeth near the back of his mouth. “Starting? You serious?”
“That’s the honest truth, bud.” He offered Jack his hand, laughing for the first time in the two days since their last regular season game—the last time Reese had bothered to acknowledge his existence.
“That’s the coolest, Mr. Glenn. I mean, I know I’m small and all…”
“Not to me, man,” Ryder told the kid, kneeling down to his level. “You got heart. You got talent, and you love this game. To me, that makes you a giant.”
The kid didn’t answer, and Ryder guessed it was because he’d rendered Jack speechless. It hadn’t been bullshit. Jack was good. Didn’t matter that he’d likely never see anything of the world from more than five feet. He still had heart and passion. That meant everything to Ryder.
“Now,” he said, squeezing Jack’s shoulder. “Let’s practice.”
Ryder knew a little something about heart and passion. In the past ten years he hadn’t lived with very much of either. As he glanced at Reese across the field, he realized that without her with him, he probably wouldn’t again.
Other things that made little sense to Ryder, aside from women: how hummingbirds hover, racking up the clout in the bird word as King Ballers. How whiskey could hurt so bad going down and still make you feel so damn good. How orgasms made you feel like your body was quickly falling to pieces, but humming with such fucking pleasure. And, in this moment, how the hell Greer had gotten into his apartment.
“Baby,” she said, that saccharine tone in her voice grating. “I missed you. Did you have fun with those kids?”
He nodded, letting the woman kiss his cheek but not otherwise responding. She moved around his place like a queen, so comfortable with where he kept his good liquor or what glasses were clean and stored away in the cabinets.
“Whiskey?” she asked, reaching for a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label on the rack next to the sink.
“Nah,” he said, falling onto the sofa as she finished making her drink. “Not in the mood for drinking.” She sat in front of him, that ever-present smile not lowering as she moved her bare feet on the sofa between his legs. She wore blood red polish on her toes, the nails perfect and trim. That didn’t make him any easier about how she wiggled her toes closer. Ryder frowned, pushing her feet from his junk when she stroked his inner thigh. “I’m also not in the mood to entertain you.”
“Oh?” Greer asked, watching him over the rim of her glass as she drank. “Got some other plans tonight?”
He nodded, wondering why her showing up—which she never did without an invitation—and being mildly aggressive, something else she’d never done, seemed like the act of a desperate woman. He should have cut her loose. He wanted to, but the time never seemed right. There was always a distraction. Ryder guessed he’d gotten too comfortable with Greer. Now, though he was determined.
He left the sofa, heading to his fridge for a bottle of water. He only stayed in his kitchen to avoid her, already irritated by her presence.
Greer was everywhere the last few days: at Decadence after the game, at church on Sunday, at Lucy’s Monday night. She knew Ryder’s routine and he guessed he couldn’t blame her. She had spent the past two years as his woman. She wanted to keep him, he supposed. But why the sudden upswing in her attention?
Then it hit him like a baseball to the temple.
Decadence. Greer. Reese.
“Holy shit,” he said, slamming the fridge shut. Ryder took two steps out of the kitchen and met Greer in the middle of the room. “What did you do?”
“I don’t know what—”
He stepped closer, his quick movements shutting her up, and Ryder took her glass. “Now,” he said, voice low and dangerous.
Subconsciously, he thought, Greer rubbed her stomach, gaze around the room, to his large stone fireplace and the driftwood mantel, to the neat row of signed helmets situated in glass cases along the wall; anywhere, it seemed, but at Ryder.
“Greer,” he said, hand on her bicep, touch light, but steady. “What did you say to her?”
The blonde rubbed her neck, finally glancing at Ryder like the sad, pathetic plea in her eyes would completely eradicate Reese’s memory from his mind.
“We could be great together. Just us. We could build a legacy.” She stepped close, ignoring the grip Ryder had on her arm. He tightened his touch, and she didn’t seem to care. “Our sons, they’d follow in your footsteps. You could be one of the greatest with my help.”
Greer had never been anything other than mild company to Ryder. That might make him seem like an asshole, but it was the truth. She wanted a player to get her into the right clubs and buy her shit no other man in the city could. She wanted a warm body, just like him, and a day-by-day commitment.
That wasn’t enough for Ryder anymore.
She wasn’t.
When she slid her fingers over his chest, Ryder caught them, throwing her hand away from his body. “What did you tell her?”
“I…” Another step and Greer backed up, turning to get away from him, ready to leave as she neared the front entrance and picked up her bag. Ryder stopped her from leaving with an easy but steady glare on his face that warned he wanted an answer. She knew his moods, had always been great at
knowing what he wanted and when. It was mutual. She got the same treatment, but now wasn’t for her. He wasn’t giving her pleasure that would leave her sore and satisfied the next day. He wasn’t leading her into the owner’s Christmas party or flying her to New York to see the latest Broadway show.
For once, Ryder asked for something from her. He wanted a return on his investment that wouldn’t lead them into his bedroom. Greer broke the battling of wills between them, looking away from his careful attention, then she exhaled, the movement defeated. “I might have implied that I was…pregnant with your child.”
Ryder’s mouth dropped open, and he looked up at the ceiling, head in a shake as he closed his eyes. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” She only stared at him, eyes wide, but Greer kept silent. Rage filled him, edged him back, two steps he needed to keep out of her reach. “You’re on the shot and we’ve never, ever had sex without a condom, Greer. You didn’t think I’d call bullshit on that the second I heard about it?”
“Ryder…I’m…you know I’m good for you.” She ignored him, deciding instead to reach for him again but Ryder continued to glare down at her, his face contorted with tension and a heavy frown. Greer instantly thought better of whatever it was she had planned and took a step closer to the door.
“You’re good for no one,” he said, walking past her, beating her to his front door, hand on the knob when he flung it open. “Get the fuck out of my life.”
“You…you can’t be serious. That woman is…she’s a disgusting little…” She went quiet, gnawing on her bottom lip when Ryder’s nostrils flared.
“Women like you, Greer, never see the people who stand taller than them.” Door opened against the wall, Ryder flattened his palm against it. “She’s not disgusting. You are.”
“She is nothing like me, Ryder. There is no competition, and you’re an idiot if you think there is.”
“I might be dumb, but I know something for sure.” Greer moved her eyebrows up, stare sharp as though she wanted his answer, but couldn’t bring herself to ask for it. Ryder explained without her invitation. “You can’t fucking touch her. She’s better than you in every way that matters, and I love her.” He didn’t let her react. He ignored the tutting, insulting noises she made as he nodded toward the hallway. She stepped over the threshold, pausing only once to watch him before Ryder slammed the door in her face.
21
Pre-Division Game
Reese
Reese couldn’t stomach being around Ryder, not since Greer’s confession. Couple her disappointment with their busy playoff schedule and she’d been able to avoid him. It helped a little, having Wilson and Pérez to keep her distracted then when Pukui returned to New Orleans, ready to tackle their last division game, Reese put Ryder out of her mind completely.
Pukui had returned from Hawaii a little broken but not alone. His beautiful daughter Keola joined him and both shared the same haunted look, and the same shadow cast over them. It hurt Reese to see it, and she felt sorry for them both, especially Keola as she clung to her father’s hand, coming to greet Reese on the sidelines of the camp field just two days before the Steamers were set to play Minnesota in the division game. It was the only reason Pukui had returned so soon after the accident. Reese liked his loyalty to the team and to his family back in Hawaii.
“Kai,” she greeted him, kissing his cheek before she knelt in front of him, opening her arms for Keola to hug her. The girl managed it, but it took her several minutes to remember the games Reese had played with the girl at her father’s Christmas party. This much closer to her, Reese could make out the same sadness around the eyes her father always carried. The same tender, tentative smile, like neither of them were sure when or if they should find anything funny. That countenance made the girl seem older, far wiser than what her looks gave away about her.
“Keola, I’m so happy to see you again.” She glanced at Pukui, smiling at him when he moved his chin up, as though giving Reese silent permission to try and relax his daughter. “You think I could have a hug?” It took several seconds of Keola looking up at her father, waiting for permission, before she moved, leaning into Reese’s hug.
They had been told the details of the accident just before the wildcard practice which Ricks confided Pukui wasn’t likely to make. Keola had been with her mother early afternoon two weeks before. It had rained all day. The roads were slick, and the driver of another car, drunk from post-Christmas celebrating, crossed the center line and plowed into the driver’s side of Keola’s car. Her mother had died instantly, and she’d been uprooted, coming to live with her father in New Orleans, a world away from the life she knew on the big island.
“If you’re up to it,” Reese said, pulling the girl back to smile at her. “You could practice with my Minis; maybe you could play a little during the tournament.”
She looked between Reese and her father, smile widening when he nodded down at her. “Okay,” she told Reese, dropping Pukui’s hand. “Where do I go?”
It turned out that Keola Pukui had her father’s talent. She’d dressed out for the first of the playoff games, trouncing the offense much like her father did every week, though she wasn’t as big as the boys they played, she was fierce and, Reese admitted to herself, a little scary.
“She’s working through her anger,” Pukui admitted, stepping next to Reese as her Minis lined up a new drive against Hanson’s team. “My sister came back with me…to help…” He nodded at the field, gaze on his daughter. “I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.”
It was an honest admission, one that Reese had no answer to. Maybe he felt comfortable around her because she was a woman. Maybe he confided in her because she’d been kind to his daughter. Whatever his reasoning, Reese didn’t comment. If he wanted to speak, she’d listen.
“None of us do when something new gets thrown at us,” she told him when he went quiet. “I guess you just have to figure out what works best.”
Pukui looked down at her, the same non-expression on his relaxed mouth. She didn’t know what he saw when he looked down at her, but she seemed to have said the right thing.
“You didn’t know shit about playing pro ball before you got here,” he observed. She nodded, and they both shouted when the tall blonde quarterback on the Minis got sacked by one of Hanson’s defenders.
“Hey!” Reese shouted, pointing at her downed player. “This is touch, remember?”
From the other side of the makeshift field, Hanson shrugged. Laughing at Reese as she directed the ref to the kids on the field.
“Suck it up, Noble!” Hanson shouted, smile obnoxious and wide. “You should have taught them about how bad it hurts getting taken down or, ya know, how to make a good sandwich.” Reese fumed, knowing that Hanson would have never tried this shit against Ryder’s team. He hadn’t done anything remotely similar when Reese and Ryder worked their teams together during practice.
But now it was tournament play. Now there was no co-coaching.
Karma is just, if not swift, and though Hanson was making an ass of himself as he crowed on about females and sport, the man continued in spite of dark looks being thrown his way. Until the third and second-to-last game of the tournament. The Minis were playing Hanson’s Raiders for a shot at the final against Ryder’s team, The NOLA Ryders. He kept running his mouth, despite the cool warnings he got from Ryder and Wilson and the furious, threatening looks the parents leveled at him.
Around the end of the fourth quarter in the game, Hanson started in on the Minis, shouting for them to fix their hair or stop for selfies. The tension in the crowd was thick and the louder Hanson got, the closer his teammates came to circle him. He didn’t notice Pukui behind him or Wilson to his right. Hanson didn’t catch how Gia had slipped just rows in back of him on the bleachers. They all seemed to have a plan. Throughout the season, the Steamers had rallied around Reese. Hanson had gotten quiet as she shot field goals through the uprights, only insulting her when she performed poorly. But now, it se
emed, when his team was playing against Reese’s and not performing as well as he seemed to expect, Hanson seemed a little desperate, and a desperate man will resort to the most basic of juvenile behavior to deflect his fear.
Karma did not come in the shape of a wide linebacker or the lithe lines of a quarterback. She did not come from the cool, steely side-eye shot from their insulted general manager. Karma, in fact, came right at Hanson in the form of four pre-teen girls. They wore lip gloss and pink strips of tape under their eyes. They smelled of bubblegum, and their skin shined from glittered lotion. They used the word “like” at least fifty times in three paragraphs, and they thought Five Seconds of Summer was far superior to One Direction.
But underneath that perceived girl garb were fierce warriors. They loved the game as much as their lip gloss. They were serious about this tournament and the chance they’d win to see the Magic Kingdom on the Steamers’ dime.
And they really didn’t appreciate Hanson’s insulting blabbering.
“Paint your nails!” he shouted, laughing when his team followed his lead just as Keola tagged out a smaller offensive lineman trying to make a way to the end zone for his QB. “Paint ’em, ladies!” he continued, voice louder when his lineman got stopped on the next pass, too.
He laughed when Keola missed a block, then whistled and taunted Reese when she tried to ease the girl’s worry that she’d somehow lost the game for them before the clock had run out.
“Take a pretty pic for me, Noble!”
That did it.
Those four girls stopped before the drive began. Four angry, insulted girls left the field and ran as one right into a laughing, unsuspecting Robert Hanson.