Roughing the Kicker (Saints and Sinners Book 1) Read online

  A week? The thought distracted him as he felt his own orgasm crawl close. No, that wasn’t right.

  Ryder blinked, focus centering on the woman above him, the jiggle of her breasts as she continued to slap her pussy against him, her long, blonde hair falling over her face, hitting his chest as she moved. Blonde?

  Shit.

  Realization hit him just as his orgasm slammed into him, and Ryder was unable to think of anything other than the shudder and crest of his body as he came. He held his hands against whatever the fabric was beneath him, arching his back as the spasms went on and on.

  “Fuck, baby. That was good,” Greer said, managing a small shudder before she slipped away from him and rolled off the mattress.

  He lay there with one arm over his eyes, hearing only his slowing heartbeat and the pad of Greer’s feet as she walked into the bathroom. Then, the shower running, and her low, off key singing as she cleaned herself.

  “Motherfucker,” he said.

  No gym. No soft, folded towels.

  No Reese naked and waiting for him.

  “Mother. Fucker.”

  The guilt felt like a brick settling in his gut. He should not feel this way. He had no ties to anyone anymore. Greer was there when he wanted her. She didn’t ask for anything from him. She didn’t want a ring or kids or a future beyond what would happen at the end of the night. The kiss with Reese had been nothing, and they were just getting close to some semblance of friendship again. Beyond that, he had no ties to Reese.

  So why did Ryder feel like he’d done something monumentally wrong?

  And why in God’s name had it been Reese’s face he saw, her sweet, supple body he thought he felt over him? More to the point, why the hell had Ryder gotten pissed when he spotted Wilson standing next to Reese as he left the parking garage?

  He sighed, tearing back the thick duvet cover from his body and lurching upright. If he smoked, he’d do that now. If he thought Greer would leave him alone, he’d grab a shower with her, but that would only have her thinking he wanted another fuck.

  He didn’t. Not with her.

  Hell.

  Ryder didn’t want to fuck Greer anymore. The realization didn’t sting him as much as the other thought darting around his head like a mosquito looking for tender flesh to bite.

  He didn’t want to fuck Greer anymore because she wasn’t Reese.

  She never would be.

  12

  Game One, Regular Season

  Ryder

  Ryder never liked playing South Carolina. Their quarterback was talented, but not humble. Their defensive line was too aggressive and damn full of themselves. The team, as a whole, seemed to see the game as a battle. They were soldiers on the front lines and anyone not wearing the same uniform was the enemy.

  They also seemed a little too eager to fuck with the Steamers’ new kicker. That fact became clear throughout the game, when Carolina’s quarterback, Paul Dean, started an obnoxious chant of “iron my shirt” as Reese stepped up for her first field goal attempt. The Steamers were close, and it was an easy extra point shot, but Carolina’s fans had caught wind of the stupid chant, and by the time Reese stood in front of Wilkens, lining up her footing, the entire stadium was echoing the same “iron my shirt” mantra. She still made the shot.

  But Reese wasn’t some amateur. This kind of chest-thumping bullshit was something she’d endured at Duke, sometimes from her own teammates, but that didn’t mean Ryder had to like it. So when another field goal attempt came around, Ryder thought Reese would manage it, no problem.

  Their teammates, though, seemed worried.

  “Come on, Noble.” He heard from his side, glancing over his shoulder at Pérez as he watched her readying to kick. “I don’t like this,” the man admitted, standing next to Ryder.

  “She can handle it,” he told Pérez. “She’s been through this shit before.”

  Next to him, Pérez clenched his jaw, eyes narrowed, wary, biting his thumbnail like he could barely stand the effort it took to watch Reese trying another field goal. Not when the game was close. Not when Carolina looked anxious and mean and ready to strike. Another glance around the sidelines and Ryder spotted Wilson and Baker standing back with the same worried expression on their faces.

  “These assholes are getting ballsier,” Pérez said. “They’re trying to spook her.”

  Ryder nodded but didn’t speak. He was too focused on Reese’s face and the way she swept her hand against her pants. Shit, he thought, recognizing the small nervous tell. He’d picked up on a few things that had him worried throughout the game—how pale she’d gotten, how whenever they were close to scoring, she’d look ready to puke. He got it. This was her first pro game. She was supposed to be nervous, but hell, he hoped she could suck it up and do her job.

  He hated seeing her like this.

  Come on, Reese, he thought, holding his breath when she charged forward.

  Her foot connected perfectly, and her form was ideal. Reese’s strong leg shot out in front of her, and she kept her attention on the ball as it flew forward. But Ryder saw what no one else did, least of all Reese. Number forty-two, and one of the biggest blockers on South Carolina’s team, came straight at Reese just as she engaged with the ball, her kicking leg still uplifted, her focus on nothing else but the trajectory of the ball heading right between the uprights.

  “Fuck!” Ryder screamed, close to rushing the field when the blocker went straight for the leg still planted on the ground.

  The roar of the crowd was unlike anything Ryder had heard before. All around them, on the Steamers’ sidelines and in their side of the stands, the indignation and fury came out like a wave. Players stepped forward, but all got held back by the assistant coaches, except for Ricks who ran straight at a ref, tearing off his hat to throw it to the ground.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he screamed when the ref claimed to not see a thing, and then, finally, one of the other men in black and white blew his whistle, throwing a flag on the field.

  Ryder didn’t care about penalties or fouls. He didn’t care about anything at all but heading out on that field to get at Reese. When the blocker ran into her, taking out her planted leg, her body flipped completely, and she landed hard on her left side. She lay there for a few seconds while pandemonium wailed on around them. Ryder didn’t care about disrupting rules or earning himself any penalties. Without thinking, he ran onto the field, getting only four steps from the sideline when Reese got up, limping just a bit, right as Baker, the quiet, giant guard, went straight for Carolina’s blocker.

  Baker got right in the blocker’s face, head turning, spittle and curses flying from his mouth. Ryder stopped, eyes rounded, as Reese ran for Baker, tugging him back and then whirling back to the blocker, shoving him once so hard that the man stumbled back.

  It took Baker grabbing her for Reese to get off the field, but it was a movement Baker couldn’t have timed more perfectly. The ref’s call got announced, and the man came near the sidelines, adjusting his mic as he called the foul on Carolina’s blocker.

  The crowd was quiet, waiting for the call. “Roughing the kicker,” the man said. “Personal foul to Carolina. 15-yard penalty.”

  It might not have been her skill alone that won the Steamers’ the game, but she still landed the field goal, and more than that, Reese had stood up to a giant, getting in his face, cursing him, raging against his low-class action just like any other man on her team would do.

  The Steamers won the game, 28 to 31, and Reese Noble was finally part of the team on that field and in the stands.

  After the last whistle sounded and the game was called, Reese was surrounded. Ryder started for the center of the field to meet that punk-ass Dean and offer a pat on the back the man didn’t deserve, but Dean was a little more than a spoiled kid, and kids like that don’t offer congratulations. He left the field without a backward glance at Ryder, but the quarterback didn’t care.

  He made it halfway to where Reese was
taking her pats on the back, her face red and lit up with the widest smile he’d ever seen her wear. Just seeing it did something to Ryder’s chest, and he didn’t know if it was want or pride or a general sense of relief that she had proved herself, but that sensation didn’t dim the closer he got to her. But Reese was more than a player. She was an athlete. She was part of the team, and though Ryder hated to admit it, she was a woman getting the attention of a bunch of men who didn’t have a past with her they wanted to forget.

  Baker pulled Reese away from Pérez and Wilson, pulling her against him in a tight, affectionate hug that Ryder didn’t like. The guy was massive, but it wasn’t fat and girth that made him so big. Baker was well over six-four and nothing but solid muscle. He was a freight train, and that train seemed pretty interested in Reese.

  When she hugged the man back, Ryder changed direction, tossing a wave to Wilson and Pérez as he walked by them, disregarding how they called his name. He didn’t need to be told how good Reese was. He knew that enough already. And he didn’t want to see more of his teammates fawning after her because she was strong and talented and very fucking beautiful. Ryder reached the darkened entrance to the back stadium, shooting a wave at the fans who leaned over the bleachers to catch his attention, then that ever-constant weight of worry and guilt in his gut got heavier as he came closer, spotting Greer waiting for him near the locker room door.

  “I’m messing with you, Noble,” Ryder remembered telling her that day at the kids’ camp. In a way, he guessed part of him still was. She was everywhere—on his team and in his head, infiltrating his life with a kiss she didn’t offer and a smile she couldn’t help.

  Greer had a hug for him when he reached her, and he took it, pulling back from her kiss when she tried to give it to him. “Sweaty, babe. Give me a few.” She wasn’t offended. Greer was like she’d always been—amenable. But Ryder still felt like a shit for doing it.

  He managed to make it into the locker room and showers without saying much to anyone. He stood under that spray a long time, hoping that the hot water and steam would eradicate the memory of a shower with Reese a long time ago. He rubbed his eyes, forcing back the recall before it became clear.

  Memories of Reese didn’t help Ryder. They had no place in his head, and Ryder realized as he continued showering away the Carolina grime from his body, she should have no real place in his heart.

  Funny how that didn’t change a thing.

  13

  Reese

  Three in the morning and the lobby was empty. There were stragglers, a buzzed couple hanging around the front desk, fascinated with the revolving door leading to the valet drop-off, but otherwise, it was Reese alone in front of a decent baby grand piano.

  She played “Into the Mystic,” a song that reminded her of better days, though not many of them would rank now with her first two field goals scored in the NFL. Still, Reese wanted to remember a time when everything was laid out in front of her. She wanted to remember how simple things had been back then, and Van Morrison offered the perfect soundtrack.

  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.

  “Captain,” she replied, moving over to give him room. He watched her shift her position, gaze on her legs when she pulled her skirt down, but otherwise Ryder didn’t speak. The silence went on for so long that Reese tried ignoring it, resting her fingers against the keys as a distraction. “Any requests?”

  “How about, ‘Thinking Bout You?’”

  “Talking about anyone in particular?” She banged out the first chords of Pearl Jam’s “Come Back” and ignored the low snorting laugh he released. Her back straight, Reese leaned over the keys, playing the chord lower. “I did hear that your girlfriend was at the game. She still around?”

  “Is Baker?”

  Reese stopped playing, taking her fingers from the keys to turn toward Ryder. “You trying to imply something?” />
  “Big guy like that saving the day? Lot of women would be flattered.”

  Reese tightened the muscles at her jaws, trying hard to control her mounting temper. “I wonder if you’d say that to Wilkens or any other kicker that was new to your team. You know…if they had a dick.”

  “Careful, Noble. We’re just having a friendly chat about your potential plans with one of our teammates.”

  She ignored him, returning her focus to the keyboard beneath her fingers, not caring that Ryder watched her, that he leaned closer as she played. He smelled of bourbon—and nothing like the good stuff Reese had brought for her new teammates that first night at Decadence.

  “You were good,” he said, and Reese’s playing slowed, but she didn’t ask him to explain the compliment. After a few more chords, she didn’t have to ask him a thing. “The kicks were golden, and you handled the bullshit like a pro.”

  “Careful, Glenn, you might be paying me a compliment on accident.”

  “Accidentally on purpose,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, not looking at her. “I always thought Coach should have let you and Witherspoon run that fake back in school.”

  Reese frowned, surprised that Ryder remembered the play. She and Witherspoon, the punter, had devised something sneaky that would have landed Duke an easy score because no one would expect Reese to do more than kick the ball. The first time they’d practiced it, Ryder had clapped, laughing like a fool at how quickly the play worked. Her father, on the other hand, hadn’t been impressed.

  “Papa thought it was cheap.” Next to her she felt the bench move as Ryder looked up at her, still resting against his knees. She didn’t like his cool quietness or how the man kept staring at her like he expected something remarkable to happen. “He didn’t like fakes.”

  “Yeah,” Ryder said, sitting up. He leaned so close to Reese now that she couldn’t play anything. “Like how you fake me out all the time?”