“So, that bitch,” Hanson tried when Ryder lifted his glass, eyes focused on the running back. “The kicker…” He stared at Ryder, unblinking, but couldn’t keep the small twitch from pulsing on his top lip.
“Reese Noble,” Wilson supplied. Ryder didn’t know what to make of the tone in his teammate’s voice. He didn’t know why that awed, amazed sound got under his skin the way it did. “What about her?” Wilson asked.
Hanson shook his head, using his thumb to slide his cards around. “She’s fine.”
“She’s a teammate.” There was no laughter in Wilson’s tone now, and if Hanson noticed that, too, he didn’t look at the man to see what had killed the mood. “She’s a nice chick.”
“You talk to her?” Ryder asked, frowning.
Wilson’s shrug was subtle, quick, like his answer should be self-explanatory. “She was on the rookie tour of the city. I had to play host.” He moved around the melting ice in his glass, taking a sip at what was left of his scotch. “She’d never been to New Orleans. Loved the food, hated the steamboat.” When he glanced at Ryder, probably spotting his frown, Wilson shrugged again. “She wasn’t feelin’ the ghost bullshit the guides talked about.” Something caught in Ryder’s throat and he wasn’t sure if it was the fact that Reese was already barging her way into his circle or that Wilson had spent time with her that worked his nerves. He didn’t quite know where that little spark of jealousy came from or who he was jealous of, Reese or Wilson.
But Ryder also knew what had sparked Wilson’s irritation with Hanson when he asked about Reese. The man liked to mess around off the field. He had jokes all the time, but he didn’t fuck around about the team and the work they did on the field. Ryder guessed Wilson didn’t like Hanson’s observation about their new placekicker.
“She’s a fine ass teammate,” Hanson continued, still giving the pretense that he was debating his next move. Ryder wished he’d fucking call already and get the shit over with. The half-naked dancers at his sides got bored, nodded to each other before they left for the bar.
“She’s off limits,” Wilson answered, finally taking Hanson’s attention away from Ryder’s hard stare.
“Why?” The man turned, watching his fellow running back like he’d just told him he’d been put on punishment.
“Because,” Wilson continued, glancing at Ryder, then to the others sitting around the table like he wanted their confirmation but wouldn’t wait for it. Wilson pulled the toothpick from the corner of his mouth and pointed at Hanson. “You deaf? She’s. A. Teammate.”
“For how long?”
It was a question that had bounced around in Ryder’s head, too. He didn’t want Reese in New Orleans. He didn’t want her on his team, but some deep-down part of him remembered how hard she’d worked. He remembered how good she’d been, even as a kid. She’d hustled and tried harder than anyone he’d ever known to get where she was.
Didn’t mean he had to like it.
How long would she last? He’d wondered that when Hanson had started in on her. How long could she handle the shit that was already coming down on her? Ryder didn’t know. He just hoped that how long would end up not too long.
Hanson’s laugh died at something he saw over Ryder’s shoulder, and the man sat up straight. Something familiar, something that reminded Ryder of the past came right at him, instantly warming his chest, but he couldn’t place the smell. And then, there she was.
“Long enough,” came that unmistakable voice, and Ryder’s poker face shattered as he looked up, spotting her walking to the center of the table.
There were low, amazed sounds of awe around the room, and every eye that could look was aimed at the new Steamers’ placekicker. Ryder had seen Reese naked. He’d seen her sick. He’d seen her sweaty from a workout and sunburnt from a long day at the lake.
But he’d never seen her like this.
Decadence had an unspoken dress code. They catered to the Steamers. They loved the professional athletes mingling with the rich and famous at their establishment. Therefore, there were expectations—dress like you had money and knew how to spend it. Men wore tailored suits and subtle jewelry. Women, dressed to the nines in designer dresses, navigated the club, confident, proud, like their uplifted heads were as natural as the embellished lips, eyes, and breasts they pretended were real.