No one bothered her. Her teammates, the fans, and media had all left hours before, all, she guessed, converging on the impromptu party being hosted by Wilson’s sister at a club downtown. Reese had loved it—the attention, the praise—but she’d packed it in early when her father called. That forty-five minute conversation with him had been better than a swimming pool of champagne or the smooth attempts some of her teammates had made trying to get her drunk.
“I can’t tell you…” her father had tried, voice cracking before he sighed, giving up any pretenses that he wasn’t emotional. “Hell, baby, I’m just so damn proud of you.”
She was in her moment, reliving the kicks over and over, especially the bone-rattling illegal hit she took as her second field goal flew through the uprights. Her hip and thigh still hurt from the impact, and a small fire burned in her chest when she remembered the way the damn Carolina blocker—she hadn’t bothered to catch his name—had taunted Baker for stepping up to defend Reese.
“The fuck is your problem?” Baker had grunted, helmet to helmet with the blocker.
“Teaching that bitch that females don’t belong in our house!”
It would have been easy to limp away. The blocker was huge, could easily topple Reese, but that simmering well of fury the injury worked up in her could not be ignored. Still, she made the pretense of pulling Baker away, half a thought given to something said to that asshole off field already working in her head, but then, he couldn’t let it go.
“Next time, bitch, stay on your back where you belong.”
Baker stood behind her, hand to her shoulder to lead her back to the sidelines, but then Reese charged the jackass blocker, managing at least a hard shove against his chest. She knew it didn’t do much damage. The only reason he moved at all was because he’d let his guard down, but the reaction was quick. The crowd around them roared and clapped, egging on Reese’s anger and Baker came behind her, grabbing her around her waist to keep her off the jackass as he got towed back to his side of the field.
Then came the congratulations.
Then came the smiles and slaps on the back.
Tonight, Reese became part of the team.
“Knew it!” Wilson had shouted, tugging her close to his sweaty chest in a one-armed hug. He led her around the crowd field, howling out a laugh as he pointed at her, motioning to the crowd. “This is my girl right here. This bitch is a baller!”
She hadn’t minded him calling her a bitch. Truth was, she liked it. She liked it more than she thought she would.
Reese finished the song, the last note echoing against the slick tile floor, and she nodded when two couples passed by her, offering her quick, low claps that made her blush. Her skin felt electrified, and her insides still buzzed with the excitement and adrenaline one great game had caused. She wasn’t tired. Reese wasn’t restless—she was euphoric.
She was also a little hurt.
Ryder had stood next to her during most of the game, passing along details about Carolina’s defense, things he thought she should know when she got her shot at a field goal. Their quick exchange about being friends had stood, something that surprised Reese, but Ryder had seemed a little uncomfortable around her. He wouldn’t stand too close, would lean away from her when she asked him a question or two.
Maybe he was distracted by the game. Maybe some part of him still regretted the kiss in the gym. Whatever his reason, Ryder had only looked her way when she came off the field after her last kick, not checking to see if she was okay or getting the rundown on what the blocker had said to her. He hadn’t even joined in with the rest of the team after the game to celebrate their win.
It was Ryder and his weird behavior that distracted Reese as she sat behind the piano, staring down at the keys. She was debating another song, maybe something a little faster than Morrison’s melancholy ballad, when the bench she was sitting on slid against the floor and Ryder dropped down next to her, his back against the keys. Several notes crashed together as he leaned back, and Reese caught the distinct smell of hard liquor coming off him like gasoline from a pump.
“Evening, Noble,” he said, that crooked smile lazy.