In Her Own League — 14 Emmett

14

EMMETT

When the team plane landed back in Chicago, I didn’t go from there to my apartment.

I probably should have. There’s no reason for me to be at the clubhouse on a Friday night when everyone else has gone home to their families.

But I guess that’s also exactly why I’m here, and already forty minutes into a grueling leg workout.

My job and my daughter are the two biggest pillars in my life, and with one of those occupied tonight, I’m left with my work. And even if there’s technically no work to be done with the night off from practice and games, I’d still rather be alone here than alone in my apartment.

Miller invited me over for dinner, but Kai was on the road all week too, and as sweet as her offer was, I know she’d rather spend time with just the three of them.

I’ll grab some takeout for dinner on my way home, but until then, I plan to waste as much time here as possible. The gym connected to the training room has enough equipment to keep me busy for hours, and with how frustrated I’ve been this week, I could use the outlet.

With my music blasting over the gym’s speaker system, I add another plate on either side of the squat bar before ducking under it to position myself for another set. I haven’t lifted the bar off the rack just yet. I allow myself to stand and fume a little first.

A couple of months ago, I would’ve appreciated a little time away from my boss. I probably wouldn’t have even noticed if a stretch of time had passed without seeing or speaking to her.

But this week, I fucking noticed.

I noticed the stench on the team plane without Reese sitting behind me.

I’ve grown accustomed to her perfume distracting me on those flights. I noticed her absence from the dugout pregame. I noticed the extra room key that was left behind at the front desk when we checked into our hotel.

And the worst part about it is I have no idea what her sudden distance is all about. Last time Reese gave me the cold shoulder, I earned it. But I thought things were good between us now.

Something new I learned this week? How Reese signs off on her emails.

Best Regards, Reese Remington.

Initially, I didn’t listen to her request that I only contact her via email.

After our first game on the road, I texted her about an injury that was bothering one of our players and letting her know I was going to sit him for

game two.

She didn’t respond.

I called her after our second game to keep her in the loop of why I needed to pull our pitcher in the middle of the fourth inning.

She didn’t answer.

And after the third and final game, I relented to emailing her the way she asked me to.

I didn’t have anything new to say that day. I just wanted to see if I’d ever hear back from her. And via email, I finally did.

Thank you for the update. Best Regards, Reese Remington.

Best fucking regards.

I’m tempted to add yet another plate onto the squat rack because there’s a part of me that believes the frustration thrumming through me could help me set a new personal best tonight. But there’s no one here to spot me and though I may be irritated and want to take it out in the gym, I’m not an idiot.

With the bar balanced across my shoulders and my hands firmly wrapped in place, I lift the bar off the rack and power through my set of squats while watching my form in the mirror.

The music helps. The dark gym helps. But mostly, it’s the maddening question of what I did wrong that fuels me.

Maybe I shouldn’t have told Reese about Miller’s mom. Maybe it freaked her out that I haven’t dated anyone seriously in over twenty years. Or maybe I read it all wrong, and misunderstood what I thought was flirting all this time. Maybe she truly does just see me as her employee and I crossed a line with her.

I re-rack the bar before standing to my full height, taking deep breaths to try to calm my pounding heart.

That felt good, though. I could go all night. Pushing my body is a welcome distraction.

Pulling off my shirt, I use it to wipe down my face before giving my muscles a couple of minutes to recover before my next round. I stand behind the squat rack, leaning my arms over the bar to rest and catch my breath.

It shouldn’t bother me so much. I have too many other things to focus on.

My kid. My kid’s kid. My team. Whether I’m going to have a job at the end of this season.

I should be concentrating on the future of my career, but instead, I’m too busy pondering if my boss knows I’m crushing on her and wondering if she ever felt the same. I thought you grew out of this phase after your early twenties, but here I am, smack-dab in my forties and wishing I could read

that woman’s mind.

Get your shit together, Emmett.

I don’t hear the door open, my music is far too loud for that, but the light that reflects off the mirror in front of me, coming from the crack in the doorway, draws my attention.

Through the reflection, I watch as Reese walks into the gym.

She probably didn’t know I was in here with how dim I keep the lights, but as soon as she steps inside and hears the music, even though she’s wearing her own earbuds, she looks around the room until she meets my own waiting gaze through the mirror.

Reese stays frozen by the door, and I don’t move from my spot at the squat rack.

We simply watch each other through the reflection, not saying a word, once again in the same room after nearly a week.

I haven’t seen her since I ran into her in the dugout, and I assumed I wouldn’t until some point tomorrow during our afternoon game. I purposely avoided the top floor tonight just in case, and I didn’t check for her car in the parking lot because why would I? Why would she be here on a Friday night anyway?

Reese opens her mouth and says something, but when I can’t hear her, I realize my music is still blaring over the speaker system.

I push off the bar to grab my phone, lowering my music almost all the way down before turning to face her.

“I was just saying sorry,” she says, and for a moment I allow myself to believe she’s referring to the distance she’s kept this week. But then she throws her thumb over her shoulder toward the door. “I didn’t know you were here. I’ll go.”

That’d be for the best. My only hope of concentrating on the rest of this workout would be if she left.

I shrug casually. “You own the place. Do what you want.”

I find myself hopeful to hear one of her little quips. “You’re right. I do,” or “It’s always nice when you remember that.”

But instead, Reese stays silent, and I hate that more than any jab she’s ever thrown my way.

“Do your thing,” I continue. “I’m almost done anyway.”

She offers me this small, almost pitying smile and I decide I absolutely hate that too.

Reese grabs a yoga mat and lays it out on the floor in the corner of the gym. Unfortunately, that corner just so happens to be the one directly behind the squat rack, and I’m given a prime view of her through the mirror on the wall when I return to the bar for another set.

She puts her earbud back in and starts with a stretch, reaching up toward the sky before folding in half to touch her toes.

And I’m fucking staring.

I don’t know how long it’s been since my last set, and I can’t seem to pull my attention away from her long enough to start my next one.

She looks good.

Her blonde hair is halfway clipped up, keeping it out of her pretty face.

She’s in a matching workout set because of course she is. The woman is always polished and perfectly coordinated, and clearly that extends to her time in the gym.

The berry-colored leggings paint her thick legs, and the matching sports bra just barely holds her in. She’s soft everywhere and I fucking love that. I love that she doesn’t hide it either. She’s confident in her body and my type to a T.

It’s the bit of motivation I need to start my next set because, yeah, she’s my type. I lift heavy for a reason.

Watching my form in the mirror, I’m only three reps in when my eyes drift to her corner. She’s got one arm reaching over her body in another

stretch, but it’s done so a bit mindlessly. Instead, her focus is locked on my reflection, snagging on my thighs as I sit deep in a squat.

As I push through the movement, her attention follows, until finally, her eyes catch mine.

I want to tease her. I want to give her a bit of shit for checking me out.

But I also don’t want her to stop, and with her new professional boundaries, drawing attention to the fact she’s close to crossing them would only cause her to put up more.

But neither of us looks away from the other. There’s a beat of silence and I’m tempted to fill it with the question I’ve been wondering all week.

What the hell happened?

It’s on the tip of my tongue when Reese pulls her eyes away from mine and moves into another stretch. I get back to my workout and sink into another squat, doing my best to focus on my form, and only my form, when I look into the mirror.

That’s only successful for about two more reps because out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Reese spreads her legs into a wide stance, then folds in half at the hips to put her palms flat on the mat.

The dim light sets a moody glow over her body and good God, she’s about to spill out of that fucking bra with the way she’s bending forward. If she does, there’s no doubt my knees will give way under this amount of weight.

Without finishing my set, I slam the bar back onto the rack, partly out of frustration, but mostly because I’m going to drop it if I don’t get it secured as quickly as possible.

The bang startles Reese, her eyes shooting up to me. “Are you okay?”

“Yep.” I pace the small area around me, hands on my hips and keeping my eyes down. “Fine.”

I take a few deep breaths before returning to the bar. I lift it off the rack again and sit myself into a deep squat at the exact moment Reese decides she needs to stretch her calves. Hands and feet on the mat, ass in the air and done so facing the opposite wall from me.

Is she fucking with me?

She has to be fucking with me, right?

I barely get through the one single rep, too distracted and too mesmerized by the way her body moves, by the way her ass jiggles. By the way she won’t fucking talk to me.

Giving in, I re-rack the bar for the last time. And I’m still as frustrated as I was when I started my workout, aggressively removing the weighted plates and putting them back where they belong.

“I’m done,” I exhale in defeat. “The place is all yours.”

I don’t know why I announce it. I supposed it’s in the hope she’ll say

something to me in return.

She doesn’t.

Reese has moved over to the free weights, but I don’t look in her direction again as I grab my T-shirt, phone, and water bottle and head toward the small locker-room-type bathroom attached to the gym. I keep my eyes down, locked on my phone screen, disconnecting my music from the surround-sound speaker.

“Emmett,” she says, stopping me before I’ve slipped out of the room.

I can feel how hopeful my expression is when I turn back to face her, eager that she’ll talk to me for longer than one clipped sentence.

There’s an apology in the way she looks at me from across the room. It’s enough to tamp down a bit of the frustration I’m feeling toward her.

Because whatever is going on, that look on her face lets me believe there might be a part of her that dislikes her new rules too.

Reese opens her mouth, then closes it again, and when she finally does speak, all I get is a simple, “I hope you have a good night.”

I hate this.

“Yeah,” I force out. “You too.”

With that, I round the corner behind the half-wall that separates the

bathroom from the gym.

Hands on the sink, I dip my head.

I need to let this go. Who cares if I can’t remember the last time I was this attracted to someone? Who cares that I can’t remember the last time I was this interested in every word that came out of someone’s mouth?

She’s my boss. It was never going to happen anyway.

Turning on the sink, I splash a bit of water on my face. I was planning to shower here before heading to my apartment, but knowing Reese is right on the other side of this wall, working out in that tight little outfit, it seems like a terrible idea. I’ll let my imagination run wild in the privacy of my own shower at home.

I wash my hands and slip my sweat-soaked shirt back on when the creak of the gym door opening grabs my attention.

Did she leave already?

I’m about to go check when I hear one of my players speak.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Harrison says. “I didn’t think anyone else was going to be here. What are you doing here on a Friday night?”

Every one of my senses goes on high alert as I listen in.

“Reese. Ms. Remington. Boss,” she says, no humor to be found in her tone. “Any of those would work.”

It’s hard to hear everything that’s said between them, but what I do catch, I don’t fucking like. He’s patronizing in both his tone and his words.

Everything Kai said about him has already given me a new view of the guy, and I’ve had a hard time with him since. I’ve tried to keep it as professional as I can, but I’m learning I’m not great at that.

Not with Reese and, in a different sense, not with Harrison.

He makes a few snide remarks about how she may want to use smaller weights. He tells her he missed her on the road trip to Detroit. And he once again asks her what she’s doing here on a Friday night.

It takes everything in me not to go out there and rip into him for the way he’s speaking to her, but I also know that Reese would hate it if I jumped in to rescue her when she can handle it herself. So instead, I continue to listen.

“I own the place,” she says simply. “So what exactly are you doing here?”

Harrison chuckles in this demeaning way, and this whole interaction is showing a side to him I’ve never witnessed myself before. “I left my car here during the road series, so my buddy here dropped me off.” And apparently, there’s two people in there with her. “I was just showing him around the beautiful facility that you, as you pointed out, own.”

That checks out. I remember parking my truck in the private lot next to his car earlier tonight. Didn’t think much of it until now.

“Is there a bathroom around?” Harrison’s buddy asks.

“Through there,” Harrison says. “I gotta use it too.”

It’s not that I care if he knows I’m here, but I’m real curious to hear what else he might have to say when he thinks no one is listening. So, for that reason, I slip into a shower stall before Harrison sees me.

“That’s your boss?” his friend asks.

He scoffs. “Yeah, exactly.”

“She’s hot.”

Okay. Get fucked.

“Dude, it’s embarrassing,” Harrison whispers. “I play for the one fucking team that’s run by a woman. She’s out of her league.”

All I see is red.

That anger that had begun to tamp down from that last interaction with Reese quickly amps back up. My blood goes hot, and any energy I may have expended on that leg workout comes flooding right back, giving me the overwhelming urge to punch this guy straight in the face.

They finish their business and exit the bathroom, but before they leave the gym, Harrison says one more thing to Reese. “If you need Friday night plans, I know of some ways to keep you busy.”

As soon as I hear the door to the gym close, I leave the shower stall, exit the bathroom, and immediately find Reese already looking in my direction.

As if she knew I overheard everything and would have something to say.

“Has he spoken to you that way before?”

She sighs. “Emmett—”

“Reese.” There’s even more anger and urgency in my voice the second time. “Has he spoken to you that way before?”

She doesn’t say anything, but her silence is enough of an answer for me to know that that little interaction was nothing new.

I already know why she doesn’t want to confirm it. She doesn’t want me to think her idea of trading him has anything to do with the way he addresses her. And I know by now that Reese would put all of that to the side for the good of the baseball club. If she felt he was the right player for her team, she wouldn’t dare think of getting rid of him simply because he’s

a patronizing little prick.

But I fucking would.

I shake my head, utterly pissed off that I didn’t know about it sooner.

Then I look her dead in the eye, arms crossed over my chest when I say, “Trade him.”