contract. It would be nothing to buy her out. Not compared to what they’d lose if Ryder got mad enough to play hardball.
All that potential swam in her head, telling her to walk away, reminding her that she was trying to earn the respect of this team and the people who supported it. All those warnings rushed and moved around her head like a beacon, and yet, Reese only saw the red-hot flash of anger at Ryder’s taunting smirk.
She couldn’t help herself, no matter that her hand was weak.
“Try me, asshole,” she threatened, standing so close to him, her voice lifting so high that the noise of the crowd quieted. Reese knew they were making a scene. She knew she’d likely come off as a bitch, provoking the Steamers’ golden boy, but the glare he gave her felt like slaps over her skin and his words clawed into her chest, reminding her of what she’d let slip away.
“Noble,” he said, voice flat now, glare gone, as though he was done with her and the pathetic threats she made. She was nothing to him but a kicker on his team. Not worth a second thought. “Go fuck yourself.”
Then Ryder walked away from Reese and the crowd, leaving her out on that field with the weight of disgusted, suspicious glares beaming over her, hotter than the scorching southeastern Louisiana sun.
2.
REESE
THE WAREHOUSE DISTRICT was no place for a single woman. At least, that’s what Reese’s father pronounced the first time he’d entered her second-floor apartment.
“There aren’t enough streetlights and only one security guard.”
“Papa...”
“You’ll be murdered in your sleep, I just know it.”
Reese hoped the realtor had a sense of humor or at least knew something about overprotective fathers and the nightmares they had when their daughters left to live on their own.
Regardless of the modest lighting and the lonely security guard, Reese still liked the look of the place as they’d walked through the lobby. The building was old, pre-war from the looks of it, and appointed in the center of Baronne Street, surrounded by broken green pavers that ran in front of the building and up to the intersection.
“The Civic,” the realtor had shared with Reese when her father was out of earshot, “the one across the street, is the nicest building on the street, but this will do in a pinch.”
There was a pinch, it turned out. Reese’s contract had come through last minute. Gia had assured her manager that the half a million Reese had been given, and the signing bonus, would be in her bank before she landed in New Orleans. It was, but that still left little time for her accountant to sort through the minutia of taxes, fees, and all the other nickel-and-dime business that would determine the real estate budget.
That had led her to the Baronne Street apartment just two weeks before she was set to practice with the Steamers, with her father grumbling at every stain on the original pine floors and crack in the clean-but-worn exposed brick walls. It had been on purpose, Reese had realized, all that New Orleans charm, laid out in every ding and scrape along the wood floors and stained concrete that covered the hallway and bathroom.
She’d fallen for it five steps into the large front room. The commute would be nothing—just a quick ride would have her at the stadium and beating traffic on game days. The garage was secured, and that at least seemed well lit. It also didn’t hurt that everything in her new place had been spartan and sparse. Limestone washed-brick walls. The pine floors stained dark. Thick cedar beams running along the ceiling and ductwork overhead and the kitchen, living room, and dining room taking up much of the unit. There was a little over a thousand square feet, one nice-sized bathroom and a large master at the back of the apartment. The windows were large and soundproof, blocking out downstairs noises and the constant drum of traffic that moved right outside her window. The large en suite bathroom was sleek and modern, with a free-standing tub and Carrara marble around every surface of the floor and half of the walls, and a rainfall shower head directly above the tub.
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.