bottle of Old Fitz between his wide hands, and Ryder knew it was pointless to complain.
Reese ignored him anyway.
“Oh, hell yes,” Wilson said, nodding at Reese with approval. “This is the good stuff.”
“1962, I believe. I was saving it for a special occasion.” Their teammates watched her like they expected her to announce her early retirement or maybe tell them it was her birthday, and Reese caught on. “Can’t think of a better special occasion than the start of a new season.”
“Hell yeah,” Wilson agreed, cracking open the bottle. He poured seven glasses when the waitress set down empty tumblers in front of him, hurrying to top them off as Reese slid them over the leather surface of the table.
She got nods of thanks from Anthony Pérez and Miles Baker, neither one much concerned with the glare Ryder gave them or the kick Hanson delivered when they inhaled the rich scent of bourbon. Hanson, though, kept his gaze on Ryder, watching, waiting as though their game hadn’t ended or maybe like he wasn’t sure if his quarterback would be cool with him taking Reese’s olive-branch shot. Hanson had been the one to mess with Reese, and even though Ryder had told him to leave her alone, everyone on their team had heard Ryder tell the woman to fuck off. It was no secret Ryder wasn’t happy about her being on that field. They just didn’t know why.
By the look Hanson gave him, Ryder suspected he wanted to know, and that shit wasn’t gonna happen. Resigned to the inevitable, Ryder ignored Hanson’s worry and waved at the running back, motioning toward the pot in the center of the table.
“Aces high. You would’ve lost. My luck is golden.”
Hanson laughed, reaching across the table to slap the quarterback on the shoulder before he fisted the wad of bills and chips left there. “Fucking knew it,” he said, shifting his attention from Ryder to Reese, who laughed at something Wilson said as he poured her shot, then back at Ryder again. “This okay?” He motioned to the glass in front of him, and Ryder shrugged.
“I won’t begrudge anyone a shot of good bourbon.” Ryder nodded a thanks to Wilson when he slid the shot in front of him, but the quarterback didn’t pick it up.
“Here we go,” Reese started, standing with her shot in her hand. She looked nervous, despite the wide, beautiful smile she offered to their teammates. He knew her deep down and dirty in a way no one else ever would again. Ryder could always tell when she wasn’t in her element, and speaking in front of players she probably thought didn’t think much of her was definitely not her element. Still, she lifted the small glass and inhaled. “To a new season, a new city and…” she swallowed, the nerves making her lips quiver, “to…to new friends.”
Around the table, all the glasses got raised, all but Ryder’s, and they mimed clinking their glasses before they slammed them back. Reese paused before she drank, that smile faltering for only a second as she watched Ryder staring up at her. They didn’t speak or smile. Instead their look got long, breathing to life tension and awkwardness that should have disappeared the second the bottle got cracked open. Then Reese moved her head the smallest shift to the right before she plastered that smile.
“Fuck, that’s good,” Wilson said, staring down at his empty glass like it had held liquid gold and he’d just grown a craving for it. “Another?” he asked around the table, barely pausing for the half-nods he got before he started to pour. “So,” he said, watching the glasses as he turned his head toward Reese when she sat back down. “You got chops.” Wilson sat back, admiring the amber liquid inside his glass then the woman at his right before he drank again. “That fucking kick was sweet.”
“I had a point to prove.”
“Clearly,” Pérez called from across the table, and Ryder didn’t much like the way he watched Reese or how he shifted his eyes over her face and down to the expanse of skin peeking out from her lace. “That was baller,” he said.
Pérez was a player, and not just for the Steamers. He might be in the NFL, but the asshole could have passed for someone you’d find strutting on a catwalk in Paris—if they could fit his massive chest and thick thighs. He used that tawny skin and hazel brown eyes to his advantage. The man