looked good, and he knew it. It was nothing for Pérez to flash his light eyes and wide smile and make panties drop for a 50-yard radius.
Ryder had seen the man with a different woman every time they left Decadence and even more than that when they were on the road. He shouldn’t care about Pérez moving in on Reese. Why would he? He fucking hated her, but the looks Pérez gave her, the way he worked that Dominican Republican swagger in her direction, pissed Ryder off.
“It was cool,” Hanson said, seeming unimpressed by Reese’s kick, likely still irritated that she called him out in front of his teammates and the fans. “But a one-off kick like that ain’t shit. Consistency matters.” He motioned around the table with his glass, as though he was trying to make a point. “Consistency wins playoffs.”
Ryder knew Reese. He knew what this appearance was about. She wanted to win them over. Maybe she wanted him to realize she planned to stick her cleats in the ground and plant herself in New Orleans for the long haul. If that was her game, then he knew she’d keep trying until they all loved her.
But, that didn’t mean she’d let anyone walk all over her. Especially not cocky second season rookies, no matter what trophies rested on his mantel. Ryder could sense the smack down before Reese delivered it.
“Consistency,” she said, reaching for the bottle to refill her glass and Wilson’s. “Like how you consistently fumbled in that Sugar Bowl game your junior year at Tennessee?” To Ryder’s left, Hanson choked on his shot, his eyes going a little wide. Reese seemed to ignore the expression. “Or how last season when the Steamers were down by six against Atlanta, you caught the butter fingers again, then tried to recover and ended up losing yardage? Thank God, Wilson was there to drive the win home.”
Hanson didn’t seem to like the low curses and laughs at his expense, especially when his teammates didn’t put up much of an effort to hide them. He pushed his empty glass away and glared at Reese. “Don’t act like you know shit about me, woman.”
“Oh, but I do.” She stood then, dragging the bottle across the table when she did. Reese leaned a hip against the table and poured more bourbon into Hanson’s empty glass. “Robert Hanson. Third round draft pick out of Tennessee.” She moved away from him, smiling at a waitress when she took the bottle from Reese to finish topping off the again-empty glasses. Reese folded her arms as she walked around the table. “Fourteen touchdowns, eight rushes, and three returns—all in his rookie season.”
Hanson sat silent, his light brown skin reddening and his expression moving to stunned as he followed Reese’s movements. She didn’t sit, choosing instead to linger next to Pérez. “You still landed Rookie of the Year with twenty-eight votes, something even our tight end Pérez here didn’t do when he finished a stellar rookie season with Seattle. Of course,” she said, patting the man in question on the shoulder, “it was only when Pérez signed with the Steamers that he was able to manage forty-freaking-three touchdown receptions and ended up as the single biggest pain in the ass for any defender coming at him in the past four seasons. His performance hasn’t altered since he first signed.”
Pérez wore a ridiculous grin, moving his chin up as he smirked at his teammates while Reese continued, reaching across the table to grab her own glass. “Then we have Miles Baker, one of the best offensive linemen in the past decade. Fifth round pick.” She brushed his shoulder but didn’t linger before she walked around him. “Zero damn penalties and four sacks last season.” Reese stopped next to Wilson, throwing the man a grin. “Baker got his mom out of the Lower Ninth a full year before Katrina and started a nonprofit benefiting victims of domestic violence…” Her voice lowered, and the smile left her face. “Because of the services they provide, twenty-eight women have left their situations in the past two years and stayed gone.”
Reese nodded at the waiter as she came to her chair, and the man pulled it out. The bourbon forgotten, she folded her fingers together and let another warm smile move across her mouth. “Then we have Mr. Kenya Wilson. New Orleans’ current second most eligible bachelor.”
“The poll was fucking rigged,” Wilson said, slamming back another shot.
“Probably.” Reese didn’t bother looking at Ryder as