In Her Own League — 2 Reese

2

REESE

“Reese, are you with us?”

Hearing my name pulls my eyes up to find five too-intimidating stares mirrored back at me.

I have no idea what I missed from this meeting, focused instead on the printout sitting on the conference table in front of me. The column of red numbers has been stealing all my attention.

I clear my throat, finding Phil, one of the five members of the advisory board my grandfather had assembled when he was in charge. “I’m sorry,” I say, holding up the red-riddled papers. “We need to go back to this. These

are our yearly projections?”

“Correct.”

“Most of the departments are operating in the red.”

Phil laces his hands together, resting them on the table, a wholly unimpressed look on his face. As if he’s about to have to repeat himself for the hundredth time to a child who can’t seem to grasp a basic concept.

Except, I fully understand what’s going on here. I simply don’t understand how this has been going on for as long as it has been. Or why my grandfather’s so-called “advisors” are so nonchalant about the club bleeding money.

And by the club bleeding money, what I actually mean is me. I’m bleeding money.

Because now that my grandfather has passed along our family legacy to me, I am the sole owner of the Windy City Warriors, and this money we’re losing is coming straight from my own pocket.

I knew we were overspending. I just didn’t realize how far it had gone.

The MLB doesn’t implement a salary cap for teams, so this budget is more so an arbitrary number we try to work off to avoid certain league taxes and to make sure we’re not spending money simply because we want to.

And clearly, judging by these numbers, my grandfather enjoyed spending money.

“Yes, Reese.” Phil’s words are said slowly, as if giving me the extra time to understand them. “As we discussed, with it being your first year as owner, we think it’s best if you don’t make any major changes, and instead build off the framework we built while Arthur was in charge.”

“By operating in the red,” I finish for him.

“If I’m remembering correctly, you were the one who decided to fire a long-tenured team physician mid-season last year, forcing your grandfather to pay out that contract while also paying Ms. Rhodes a new salary.”

“Doctor,” I correct. “Her title is Dr. Rhodes. And Dr. Fredrick is a sexist pig. I refuse to have someone like that associated with my club.”

I catch the slight roll of his eyes and when I look around the room, I find that same annoyed expression mirrored back to me from the rest of the advisory board.

Well, everyone but Ed. Ed has always been my favorite. He’s my dad’s age and has worked under my grandfather for as long as I’ve been alive.

He’s also the only man on this advisory board who doesn’t try to intimidate me.

Don’t get me wrong, he still does. They all do to a certain extent, but Ed doesn’t mean to. I simply want to do well in this new role, and they’ve all had a front-row seat to watch my grandfather’s forty-year success.

“That salary bump was hardly a drop in the bucket,” Ed reminds the group. “Reese is right. Arthur was too loose with the budget his last few years here, but that’s going to be a problem for her long-term if this continues. We’re here to make sure she doesn’t fail.”

Again, there’s this shared look among the other four, as if they were to silently say, “Actually, we’re hoping that she does.”

I’m well aware how polarizing my new position is. There’s been a long- standing and very outdated position of “no women in baseball” and now, here I am, the first female team owner in MLB history.

There are far more people out there than the four sitting at this conference table hoping for my failure.

But I refuse to fail. I will do everything in my power to make my time

here a success.

I’ve given up far too much to fail now.

And yes, I know that because I’m a woman, I will most likely have to work twice as hard and make our club’s success twice as noticeable to have any hope of being viewed as the right person to operate this team.

“So where are we making cuts?” I ask the group.

Scott leans back in his chair, hands laced behind his head. “You tell us, Stanford.”

He tacks on my alma mater with a patronizing edge.

“Why don’t you say what you mean there, Scott.”

“You spent all that money on a fancy MBA.” He sits forward with confidence, hands folded together on the table. “Don’t you think your time would be more valuable behind closed doors, focused on the business side of things? If you’re so concerned about the club’s financial state, why don’t you leave the baseball operations to someone else.”

“Someone else as in you.”

This arrogant smile lifts on his lips. “Great idea, Reese. Look at you, making smart decisions for yourself.”

Scott might be my least favorite of the bunch. While the rest are older, he’s the youngest, closer to my age, and unbelievably entitled in his position.

It’s not completely common for a team owner to be heavily involved with the everyday operations of their baseball club, but that’s not how we run the Windy City Warriors. Yes, my grandfather was the team owner, but he was also the President of Baseball Operations—a position the other twenty-nine teams choose to hire out. Some clubs have both a general manager and a president. Some have only a GM to handle the day-to-day business of the team. Whereas in our club, the president takes on the role of a team’s general manager. And now, that president is me.

In the past handful of years, before I was ready to take over, it all became too much for my grandfather to juggle on his own. He hired Scott to join the advisory board, but really, Scott was handling most of the baseball operations while my grandfather publicly held the title.

When he decided it was time to retire, though everyone knew I’d be taking over as owner of the team, most people expected me to name Scott

as President of Baseball Operations.

I didn’t.

Four of the five men in this room are still hoping I change my mind. And shoot, maybe everyone in the front office feels the same way. The players

probably would want that too. And judging by the hate I’ve seen online, it feels like most of the fans in Chicago agree that I should hire out the position to someone who isn’t me.

I mostly believe that I can do it. I know what I’m talking about when it comes to both business and baseball, but I can’t lie and say it hasn’t crossed my mind more than a few times that I might not be the right person for the job.

And it’s hard not to let those thoughts creep in when the only person who believes in me is me.

I gather a bit of courage, not allowing anyone in this room to realize it’s forced. “As I’ve already stated, the President of Baseball Operations position is not up for discussion.” Standing, I tap the stack of papers against the table to straighten them. “However, Scott, if you’d like to continue to be a part of this advisory board, I look forward to hearing your ideas on how to tackle this budget.”

I catch a ghost of a smirk on Ed’s lips as I bend down to retrieve my bag.

“Have a good day, boys,” I call out over my shoulder as I exit the conference room.

And as soon as the door closes behind me, I allow the façade to drop.

I’m screwed.

I already knew this new role was going to be a massive undertaking with very little support from those around me. But now I have to start the year off by making even more budget cuts than I originally planned, and people are going to hate me for it.

It shouldn’t matter. This is a business after all, but I already feel like the outcast when it comes to the rest of the league owners, and I’d rather my own club not completely despise me too.

Bag slung over my shoulder, I bypass my office and head straight to the one place I know I’ll get to be alone right now.

Things aren’t so bad that we’re at the point where I need to sell off shares or anything drastic like that. We have money. But people will be losing their jobs if their position is unnecessary. Players who aren’t producing will be traded. When we hit the trade deadline this summer, I want to be buying players for the playoffs, not selling them, and I need room in the budget to do so.

I take the elevator down to the clubhouse level. Practice has been done for hours, so I don’t expect to run into anyone down here, but as soon as the

elevator doors open, I find one of the players standing on the other side of it.

And he’s probably my least favorite of them.

Harrison Kaiser—one of the outfielders my grandfather picked up late last season, who gets paid way too much for what he does for the team. Not to mention I can tell that he doesn’t mesh well with the other guys. Oh, and he’s also kind of a patronizing prick and I find myself annoyed every time I have to sign one of his paychecks.

“Hey,” Harrison draws out. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”

“Just have a bit of business to attend to,” I say with a forced smile as I slip past him. “Have a good night.”

“Do you need me to help you find where you’re going, sweetie?”

My back is to him so he can’t see me roll my eyes, partly due to the pet name, but mostly because this guy has been here for only a handful of months, most of which were the offseason, while I’ve grown up in this clubhouse. I think I know where I’m going.

“It’s Reese,” I remind him, projecting my voice for him to hear as I continue down the hallway. “Or Ms. Remington, if you prefer.”

I can hear his knowing chuckle from here. “Don’t work too hard today.

We don’t need you messing up that pretty manicure of yours.”

I wait until I hear the elevator doors close with him inside before holding out my hand in front of me.

My manicure does look good. The perfect neutral pink trimmed into a flawless almond shape.

I’ll be sure it looks just as good on the day I sign his trade papers to a different team.

Thankfully, I don’t run into anyone else. I don’t need anyone to know where I’m going. This is my secret spot.

Well, I suppose the dugout isn’t all that secret, but it’s the last place anyone from the front office would look for me.

Once I’m out there, instead of taking a left to sit on the players’ bench, I take a right. There’s a small alcove on this side, just enough room for one or two people to sit. It’s where the dugout phone lives on the half-wall. The same half-wall that gives this seat a bit of privacy and will block anyone’s view of me if they happen to come out here.

This spot is meant for the field manager—though I’ve never seen a field manager who could sit through a game—but I’ve always viewed this little

area as mine.

When I was a little girl and my grandfather was too busy working, I’d hide out here. It felt like my own little fort. I’d read or color in this spot. I’d hide from my parents if I wasn’t ready to go home.

Last year, when I came back to start training to take over the team, I found myself out here once again. Not to hide from my parents this time, but to hide from everyone else.

All eyes have been on me since the moment I walked back into this organization last season, and every so often, I need a moment away from the scrutiny.

So, I get a bit of reprieve out here, and with the empty field and the silent stadium, it’s a good reminder of why I’m doing this.

I take a seat and inhale what feels like the first deep breath I’ve had all day.

It’s a beautiful evening in Chicago. The sun is starting to set, and the air is turning crisp from the lake.

It had been so long since I’d been back here, I almost forgot how much I love living in this city.

I almost forgot how much I love this team.

I always knew I’d come back, but I took enough time away to separate how I once felt about this team to how I need to view it now.

I grew up around this club, and this field holds most of my best childhood memories. I spent countless hours in my grandfather’s office, listening to him talk about all things baseball. I spent endless summers staying up late to watch live games from his owner’s box, all while cheering the players on by their first names because six-year-old me viewed them as my family. I mean, I practically lived at the field, and they did too, so I didn’t quite grasp the concept that the reason I was spending every day with them was because this was their job, and they worked for my grandfather.

At the time, it just felt like one big extended family. From the front-office staff to the players to the ushers and concession stand workers. I had this naïve perspective of this place, and as much as I wish I could let myself view this team that way again, I can’t.

Now that I’m in charge, I have to see it for what it is—business.

Baseball is a business.

Pulling my eyes away from the field, I refocus on the budget in my hands and flip to the coaches’ salaries.

Where there are still three video coaches listed.

Because Emmett freaking Montgomery still hasn’t let one of them go the way I told him to.

I still can’t believe he offered up his own salary to cover someone else’s.

I let my attention trail to his salary.

That number isn’t listed in red.

It’s printed in black ink but may as well be green because we’re practically making money off his contract. My grandfather signed him at a steal years ago when he was coming into the majors as a field manager for the first time, but this is the final year on that contract. His value is too high that next year that number is going to skyrocket, and any team in the league who has the space in their budget will jump at the chance to pay him if we don’t.

I truly don’t know how we’re going to afford him, and I’ve spent every day since joining this club trying to convince myself that he’s not worth re- signing.

Talk about being disliked. If I were to get rid of him, the team would hate me. The city would despise me. The guy is beyond beloved here and had my grandfather equally wrapped around his finger.

That reason alone makes me want to hire someone new because there’s not a world in which I’m going to bend to Emmett Montgomery’s whims the way my grandfather did.

A couple of years ago, the Warriors’ ace pitcher had a baby and needed a nanny. Emmett convinced my grandfather to have the club pay the nanny’s salary.

Oh, and the new nanny? Yeah, she was Emmett’s adult daughter.

Convenient.

And of course, the pitcher’s little boy and the new nanny needed to travel with the team, so my grandfather reconfigured a whole freaking airplane at Emmett’s request.

It’s no wonder we’re so far in the red. My grandfather was throwing money at anything that would make his field manager happy.

That’s not going to be the case this year, and if Emmett doesn’t like it the way I suspect he won’t, then maybe he should find himself a new team next season.

There’s this buzz in my veins, this bubbling frustration just thinking about it.

I don’t know what it is that gets so under my skin when it comes to him.

It might just be this anxious gut feeling I have, knowing that he’s not going to be able to view me as his boss. I’m a bit more than a decade younger than him. He’s spent the last seven years working for someone else.

Then there’s the fact that we couldn’t view this club more differently.

Emmett has the freedom to treat this team like his family—shit, half of them are his family—while I’m over here having to make the tough decisions that will cause people to hate me. Because this is a business.

I mean, he still hasn’t let one of his video coaches go, and now I’m going to have to do it myself. He’ll stay loved by everyone and I’ll be the bad guy.

Lovely.

It doesn’t matter. Who cares if I’m not liked, as long as I’m successful.

It’s all business.

Standing, I grab my bag and shove the budget inside before turning the corner to head back to my office. Only to take one step before slamming face first into . . . a chest, I guess?

And I mean, I really slam into it. So embarrassingly hard that I practically bounce off it.

“Oh my fuck,” I grunt out, taking a step back to balance myself, only to find that the arm wrapped around my waist is what’s keeping me steady. I grab onto the forearm to give myself even more stability.

It’s a nice forearm.

“Whoa, Reese. I’ve got you.”

I’m really hoping this head injury has me hearing things because, unfortunately, without a shadow of a doubt, I know that voice.

Blinking a few times, I attempt to clear the image away of what I’m staring at right now. Who I’m staring at right now.

“Are you okay?” Emmett asks.

More blinking. All it does is completely clear my vision to find my employee towering over me, holding me steady on my feet.

Emmett Montgomery is a massive six-four former MLB catcher who apparently still has all his athletic muscle. Probably more than he did when he was playing in his twenties.

And I’m not a small woman by any means. Five foot-seven and living somewhere between a size sixteen and eighteen depending on the day. But something tells me this guy could throw me around, no problem.

Okay. That was definitely the head injury talking.

“Reese,” he repeats, chin dipped to make himself eye level with me. “Are you okay?”

He’s got brown eyes. They’re shaded by his baseball hat, but they’re warm and concerned and that soft expression he’s got right now is probably how he always gets exactly what he wants.

Not today, Satan.

Reaching behind me, I remove his hand from my waist and take a healthy step back, giving us distance. “My head is fine. Thank you.”

“I’m not talking about your head. Are you okay? You seem off. Like something is bothering you.”

Way too perceptive, this one. I’ll have to remember that.

Straightening my spine, I tuck my short hair behind both ears and watch as his attention traces the stack of gold earrings up the ridges of them.

“The only thing bothering me,” I say, bringing his attention back to my face, “is that you still haven’t let one of your video coaches go.”

He scoffs a laugh. “I see your feelings toward me didn’t soften any with

that hit.”

“Why haven’t you done it yet?”

“Because I already told you I’m not going to.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “You have until the end of the week to make

a decision, or I’ll decide for you.”

“Reese—”

“It’s not up for discussion, Emmett.”

We stand there, squaring off, neither of us backing down from our position. And just as I assumed, he seems to forget that he’s working for me, not the other way around.

His jaw hardens, but then he begins chewing his gum to hide how tense he is, how angry he is with me for forcing him to do this.

“What are you doing in my dugout, anyway?” he eventually asks.

My defenses instantly shoot up. There’s not a chance in hell I’m going to tell him I was having a sentimental moment in the place I used to hide out in as a kid.

“Your dugout?” I ask, brow raised. “Last I looked, my name was listed next to ‘Team Owner.’”

Emmett’s expression relaxes, this glint shining in his eye.

“What?” I ask, skeptically.

“I don’t know. You’re quick. You have a sharp tongue.”

“Well, apologies that I’m not softer for you.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be. I raised a daughter who always had something to say. I don’t mind the challenge.”

I don’t dare ask him why he’s not with his daughter right now. I don’t ask him why he’s spending his Sunday night at the field when all the players and staff have gone home to their families. Instead, I take a step around him to head back to my office and get to work on this budget for the rest of the

night.

“I’ll see you on the plane tomorrow.”

Emmett stops me with a hand around my bicep, causing me to turn back his way. “What are you talking about?”

“We have our first away series, Emmett.”

“We do. And that’s the only reason why you’re coming with us, right?

Because it’s the first series of the season and not because you’re planning to travel with us for every road trip?”

I can see why he’s hopeful for me to confirm this. I didn’t go to every road series last season while I was in training, and my grandfather gave up team travel years ago.

I fake confusion when I tell him, “Of course I’ll be with you for every road trip,” in my most innocent voice. “What kind of owner would I be if I didn’t keep a close eye on how the team is performing? Or on how the field manager is doing?”

His eyes go wide with disbelief. “Your grandfather didn’t travel to every game with us.”

I shrug casually, turning on my high heels and enjoying the click they make against the floor with each step. Before I’m too far down the hall, I add, “Like I said before, Emmett, things are going to be different this year.”