the act of sophisticated younger sister, impressing two of Charlotte’s Wall Street-broker cousins and a New York Times bestselling political analyst from New Haven.
The dress would hug her, cling to her hips, the front draping down, leaving nothing to the imagination. It was a woman’s dress, and Ryder had never seen Reese as a woman. It would be tight now because Reese had gained five pounds of muscle leading up to the Steamers’ tryout, but it would still fit. Too well, in fact.
She spotted the silver heels and smiled, deciding just then if she wanted her teammates’ attention, she could win it easily with the dress. Their respect would come at a higher price, a thirteen-hundred-dollar bottle of Very Old Fitzgerald to be exact, but it was a price worth admission.
Ryder might still hate Reese, he might even want her off his team, but she was going to fight like hell to make sure he was the only Steamer who did.
3.
RYDER
POKER WAS RYDER’S GAME, almost as much as football, everyone on the captain’s team knew it. Still, that didn’t stop Hanson from bragging that he could ace the quarterback. The guy went all in on a high pot. Newbie move. Seemed Hanson was making a lot of those today.
Ryder reminded himself that it was the guy’s second season. He should have learned better by now. Besides, he could spot the worry behind that false bravado. It was in the shift of the man’s eyes as he moved his attention around the table. There was twenty grand in the pot, two half-naked dancers leaning on either side of Hanson’s chair, and three guards securing the VIP section of Decadence, the exclusive club that catered to the Steamers and their crew.
Kenya Wilson, Ryder’s other running back, played dealer as a handful of their teammates looked on. Ryder could make out the flush of red over Kenya’s brown skin, despite the darkness of the VIP room, likely from the two empty glasses of scotch in front of him. The music was loud, dry ice billowed from the dance floor, and a wave of laughing, drunk dancers circled at the bottom of the steps, a few catcalling whatever player’s attention they were trying to grab. None of it distracted Ryder. There was no way in hell the quarterback was going to let the crowd or the distractions make him flake on the game. Hanson had it coming.
“This motherfucker gonna take all damn night,” Wilson said, knocking his knuckle against the deck of cards he itched to lay flat on the table. Kenya slipped back against his chairs, folding his arms as he moved his gaze between Hanson and Ryder, his black eyes lit with a humor as he taunted Hanson. “Come on, man.”
“Shut up,” Hanson said, chewing on the inside corner of his mouth, eyes tight and focused as he watched Ryder. “I’m thinking.”
“You thinking ’cause you scared as hell.”
“Motherfucker…” Hanson started, his light brown skin flushing as he gave Wilson a side-eye that told Ryder the man was using the distraction because he needed it.
He’s young, Ryder told himself. Two seasons in and he still wants to prove himself.
But if the guy thought Ryder’s bluff was bullshit, then he still hadn’t gotten the make of the quarterback. Ryder had set the tone, the others followed, and Hanson hadn’t caught up yet.
“Do or die,” Ryder said, moving his chin at the running back. “Make your move.”
“What’s the bet? Five grand? That ain’t shit,” Hanson tried, curling his hand, the chips clinking together like ice in a tumbler. Another newbie move, something that shouldn’t have surprised Ryder but did. The guy had been blustering all night about the practice, the moves he’d made, his rushes and returns. Though Ryder told himself he didn’t care about it, the way Hanson had fucked with Reese—that shit got under his skin more than he was willing to admit to himself.
“I’ve seen your ass shop. That’s probably five grand more than you got, rook,” Wilson said, laughing when Hanson shot him the bird.
Ryder watched him, ignoring his teammates as they moved their attention between the two men. He wouldn’t say anything else. He wouldn’t need to, and, by the silence that left the men around him, they knew it, too. Ryder Glenn was their captain, their team leader, their quarterback, and he’d shown them early on how easy it was to intimidate without much more than a steady stare and a slow pull from your drink. He never failed