for years—each syllable coming out with a sweet hum of want and heat and regret.
Glenn.
Would she step out of that hallway, look beyond the fans and flashing cameras, and spot him? Kickers and punters didn’t practice long and rarely with the rest of the team. It was the norm of the industry, but each step brought the noise of the crowd and told her the norm wasn’t the make of the day. They wanted to see the circus freak. Her New Orleans Steamers teammates, the coaching staff, the hordes of media, the wild, curious fans—they all wanted to see Reese Noble, first female kicker in the NFL, step onto the practice field and prove her mettle.
But would he show? Ryder Glenn; the quarterback. He was team captain, the hundred-million-dollar man. He was the example setter and the only person in the auditorium with reason to hate her.
“Suck it up,” she told herself, forcing back the flash of Ryder’s face when it came to her. It was handsome, GQ-worthy, an All-American sort that tempted and tried and did all that with just a hint of a grin. That face had always been sweet to Reese—like home. If she had to guess, that face and the fit, athletic body that went with it had guest-starred in every red-blooded New Orleans woman’s nighttime fantasies. Probably a few of the male dancers frequenting Oz on Bourbon, too.
Reese allowed herself a swift inhale, clearing away the dizzy feeling that came over her. She felt sick, sure she’d throw up, and she leaned against the concrete wall, right under the painted likeness of the head coach Malcolm Ricks, cheek against the cold wall as she pushed down the bile. The breath came clear, it calmed her, and Reese reminded herself why she stood behind the closed door, watching the crowd in the narrow windows—she had a job to do.
No need to postpone the inevitable. There would be hisses and boos. There would be muttered name calling and insults. Reese was kicking in glass ceilings. She’d take what they gave her.
“Here we go.”
The hallway behind her flooded with light when she hit the handle, and the windows she’d seen the crowd through disappeared as Reese walked onto that field, gaze searching, shoulders back, as faces and bodies and their loud noise all came at her.
Five feet from the door, some redneck with a confederate flag on his ball cap called her a whore. Twenty feet later came the graveled rasp of “spic” from a woman who sounded as though she’d chained smoke her way into her sixties.
Reese didn’t care.
She was a player, an athlete who’d trained for this for as long as she could remember. Her father had been her guide, providing her with her direction, pointing her as sure as a compass. It was his face she sought among the howling crowd. A hundred feet from the door, she found him, pale “gringo skin”—her mother had coined the phrase—pinking under the sun, sweat covering his wide brow as he hung back, behind the coaching staff and trainers.
Neil Noble was an imposing figure despite his age. He’d sent more than a half-dozen players into the draft, three of them Heisman winners. But Reese had not been among them. She’d been the anomaly—the walk-on oddity who managed to land attention, and with that attention, a spot on the team.
Her father was tall enough that she spotted him over the special-teams coach’s head, with his arms crossed and a clear frown as he watched her. One look told her what she needed to hear.
Ignore the bullshit and do your job.
She planned to.
“Noble,” Coach Ricks greeted, glancing at her as though he’d only just realized she’d joined his practice. His face, like the rest of him, was squat and gave the impression of a man with a severe Napoleon complex. He wasn’t nearly as tall as his staff or remotely close to his players’ heights, but the man was loud and deadly serious about the game. That squat face could be scary, but his bright eyes were warm, and his smile took up most of his pink face.
Most days.
Not now, though...now there was practice and a job to do, none of which required Ricks to make her feel welcomed. The coach was no-nonsense, all business. He didn’t care about gender or what kind of impact signing Reese would mean for his team. He cared about yardage. He cared about percentages. He cared about winning. She could accommodate.