so much cruelty in that look, and disgust—the snarl of his top lip that showed the bottoms of his teeth and the narrow shift of his glare as he watched her. Reese had seen it ten years ago, and it had nearly undone her. Today that look had made another appearance, and she realized the impact cut nearly as deeply as it had back in that hospital waiting room as they received the worst news they’d ever hear.
She leaned against the kitchen island in nothing but her underwear and sports bra, both sticking to her like a second skin as she rested against the marble surface. The coldness of the bar bit into her skin like a knife, but Reese still lay against it, temple and cheek near the sink, chest and stomach on the waterfall edge. She wanted to stay there until the chill of the marble made her forget Ryder’s look or the insult he’d delivered in front of their team, fans, and the stupid media.
“Reese, why don’t any of the Steamers like you?” one asshole had asked as she thundered through the parking garage and toward her Challenger. “Do you think you’re too intimidating, or is it because you’re so inexperienced?”
It had taken monumental self-control to keep her mouth shut. She wasn’t ashamed of who she was. She wasn’t sorry for what she wanted. Reese sat up straight, her skin sticking to the marble counter as she moved.
Intimidated, she thought, moving from the kitchen and into her bedroom. There was a scatter of clothes across the floor, remnants of the mess she’d made that morning trying to decide what to wear to practice. There had been a lot of gold and black workout gear to choose from, but none of it had seemed right to her. The practice jersey was black, and Reese had stared at her name across the back of it for a half hour straight before she pulled it over her head along with a pair of simple black shorts with gold trim along the hem. It hadn’t mattered. That perfect kick she’d landed from the 40-yard line had been forgotten the second Ryder told Reese to fuck off.
She forgot her scattered clothes, forgot the pretty décor around the room that made her feel like a house guest and not the sole resident. Her mother would love the room, despite the pale colors around it. Veronica Noble might have married a gringo who preferred quiet tones that ventured on the western, cowboy side, but Reese’s mother’s personality, her preference and her taste, was as flavored as the spices she used in her homemade ropa vieja.
She liked vivid, bright colors. She wanted her space to match her personality. But this bedroom was Reese’s, not her mother’s. There was intricate molding and trim surrounding the cabinets that encased her built-in white farmhouse bed. Two sconces hung over the headboard, old, yellow lights that gave off a soft glow, and the walls were bathed in a soft lilac color that calmed Reese. She had nothing to do with the décor. She wouldn’t know how to evoke calm and serenity in anything she’d choose for her home, hence the houseguest feeling, but the room still managed to keep her settled, serene.
At least, normally. Now she was too irritated for even the soft palette of her room to do her any good.
It was a reality that had come to her early on, back when she realized soccer wouldn’t get her where she wanted to be. It had been the sport that made her father realize what kind of talent she had. One request from him for Reese to meet her at Wallace Wade stadium after his players had left for the night, and sixteen-year-old Reese had found herself shooting off kicks, one after another. Two perfect kicks from the 40-yard line had informed both Reese and her father which game she should be playing.
“Shit,” he’d said, more to himself. “You’re a fucking placekicker.”
But that realization, and the praise her father had given her, kept reality from inching into their big, lofty NFL dreams for her.
“This is gonna be a struggle,” her father had said. “Men, rough men like the players in the league, they don’t like getting their manhood challenged.”
“Who says I wanna do that?” she asked him.
“Don’t have to. They’ll invent challenges where there aren’t any. It’s in their nature.”
The first test had come from Lucas Clifton, a senior on her father’s team who at first thought it