In Her Own League — 23 Reese

23

REESE

“Drinks are in here,” I tell Michael, showing him the mini fridge in my suite. “But if there’s anything you want that you’re not seeing, we can get it for you.”

“This is amazing. The view is . . .” He shakes his head in disbelief.

“Thank you for hosting us.”

“I’m happy to.” I gesture to Ed. “Your dad has watched quite a few games from up here with my grandfather, so he can show you anything I may have missed.”

Michael slowly migrates through the suite, checking out the television screens and the spread of food as Ed stays by my side.

Since Michael moved back to Chicago last month, Ed has practically been floating on cloud nine, having his son home again. And after Michael mentioned that his dad had been wanting to get him to a game, I figured why not let them enjoy their day together from my suite.

I’ll probably watch the game from my office or see if I can get away with doing a couple of incognito laps around the stadium, but I’ll leave the suite to just the two of them.

“Thanks so much, Reese,” Ed says to me quietly. “I can’t think of a better way to spend the day with my son.”

“Of course. You’re both welcome anytime. After all the years you’ve worked with my grandfather and now me, it’s the least I can do.”

He nudges his shoulder into mine. “Michael mentioned that you two went to dinner a couple of weeks ago.”

I offer him a placating smile. “We did. It was nice, but I think we’ll be better off as friends.”

Ed chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what he said too, but a father can dream.”

“Well, I hope you two have fun together today.”

“We will.” Ed takes off to join his son. “Thank you again.”

Before I go, I check the view, watching the seats slowly fill with fans.

The sun has begun its descent, the stadium lights have just kicked on, and I couldn’t ask for a more perfect Sunday night for baseball.

I adore these kinds of early summer nights. The weather is starting to warm up, but the humidity is still low. Though there are still plenty of rainy days, they just make these dry ones all the more special.

I want to get out there. To feel the buzz of the fans, to experience that pregame energy in the dugout. To get a quick moment alone with the field manager before the first pitch is thrown out.

Letting my eyes drift down to the dugout, I find Emmett in his usual spot, leaning his elbows on the railing that acts as a barrier from the field. He’s alone, and it just makes me that much more eager to get down there for my new favorite pregame ritual.

I say a quick goodbye to Ed and Michael as I rush out of the suite and down the hallway. I press the button for the elevator a few too many times, and when it drops me on the clubhouse level, I should be embarrassed with how quickly my heels tap against the cement, hurrying my way outside.

“Hi, Reese!” Isaiah calls out, jogging past me in the tunnel to the field.

“Bye, Reese!”

“Good luck!” I shout at his back, where the number nineteen is stitched on his jersey.

In the distance, I watch Isaiah smack Emmett on the back as he passes him, jogging up the steps to the field. But once he’s out of the way, I realize Emmett is no longer alone in the dugout the way he was when I was spying on him from my suite.

The reporter who has made it clear on multiple occasions that she’s interested in him is out there too. Kelly, I believe is her name.

I’m not usually the type to stand back instead of going after what I want.

But in this case, I’ll never get to have who I want, so I stay hidden in the empty tunnel.

Emmett’s back is to me, but I can see Kelly’s face clearly from here. It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful, as is that beaming smile she’s wearing while talking to my field manager. I can’t hear what they’re speaking about, but the body language is far too casual to be an interview. Not to mention, she doesn’t have a recorder or a notebook in her hands right now.

Whatever they’re talking about is personal. And all I can focus on is how lucky she is that she gets to speak to him in a personal manner while in

public.

She’s got this twinkling glint in her eye as she looks up at him, and I know that sparkle all too well.

And I hate knowing he has the same effect on others. I feel a bit possessive over his attention, though I have no right to it. With what he told me at the potluck, now that he’s starting to focus on himself more, what if that includes dating? What if he meets someone he’s allowed to be with publicly? And what if it happens while he’s working for me?

At some point, I’m going to have to figure out how to be okay with seeing him with someone else. But today is not that day. Today, I have no intention of being okay with it. Today, I’m going to be irrationally jealous over the idea.

I don’t ever remember being upset at the thought of Jeremy moving on after me. Jeremy and I were married, so I suppose that idea should’ve stung, while Emmett is simply someone I’ve kissed once. He’s someone I thought I couldn’t stand only a few months ago. He’s my employee.

And yet, the idea of Emmett being with someone else ties an uncomfortable knot low in my stomach that makes me feel a bit sick. And that alone is terrifying to admit.

Emmett says something and it must be the most hilarious thing to ever come out of that man’s mouth because Kelly falls forward in laughter, long hair brushing over his chest, a hand circling his forearm for balance.

When she stands up straight again, she waves him off, trying to catch her breath because she simply can’t find it in her to stop laughing at him.

Okay. Well, he’s not that funny.

From here I can see his back shake in a laugh as well and decide that’s about all the torture I can take for tonight. Without making it out to the dugout to visit pregame, I turn around and head for my office.

Yeah, I’m jealous.

But I’m not jealous of just her.

I’m just jealous of anyone who is not me.

I’m jealous of anyone who doesn’t have to keep up professional boundaries, because the last thing I want is to be professional with Emmett Montgomery.

The gym is mostly dark, but of course it is.

Everyone is long gone from the stadium by now, leaving me here alone.

It’s the first time I’ve left my office since the game started, and I waited around in hopes of getting the place to myself.

I’m amped up. A little bit pissed off, though that’s not necessarily aimed

at anyone in particular.

I’m just mad.

I’m mad at the headlines that haven’t been written yet, but will inevitably circulate regarding tomorrow’s trade.

I’m mad at our 6-4 loss tonight. I guess.

And I’m mad at Emmett, for making me like him so much. Truthfully . . . screw him for doing that.

I connect my music to the surround-sound speakers, turn the incline up on the treadmill, and start my evening workout with an uphill walk.

I don’t even make it a mile before the gym door opens, and through the mirror, I watch as Emmett barges in, breathing heavy and dripping sweat. It cascades down his bare torso, down his abdomen, following that same trail of dark hair that leads right to his . . .

Nope. Not thinking about that.

Definitely not looking in that direction either. Because again, screw him.

For what? I don’t know exactly, but whatever I’m so upset about, he seems like a solid choice to direct my anger toward.

His chest rises and falls in quick succession as he attempts to steady his breathing, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to piece together he just came from a run.

As soon as he hears the music playing, he pulls out his earbud and finds me in the reflection of the mirror.

He doesn’t say hi, he just grinds his molars, allowing his jaw to tic, as if my mere presence is offensive to him tonight.

Well, right back at you, buddy.

What the hell is that about? I didn’t do anything to deserve a cold shoulder. He’s the one who . . . who . . . well, he didn’t do anything wrong either, I suppose, but two seconds of being in the same room and he’s already annoying me.

The way he doesn’t say anything annoys me.

The way he gave someone else his attention tonight annoys me.

The way I can’t have him annoys me.

The way he looks so fucking good after a run especially annoys me.

The fact that he even likes to run.

Honestly. Who the hell likes to run? He’s a monster, I swear.

Emmett opens the small cabinet near the door, pulling out a hand towel to wipe over his face, and I notice he doesn’t put his earbud back in. As if he’s waiting for me to be the one to break the silence. Expecting me to.

Well, joke’s on him because I’m suddenly petty as hell tonight. I refuse to be the first one to say something. I’d rather work out in silence anyway.

He tosses the towel over his shoulder and heads to the free-weight section, taking a bench—a bench I now realize has his shirt sprawled over it and a set of heavy dumbbells on either side. He must have been in here long before me, and though this is technically my gym, I suddenly feel as if I’m intruding on his alone time the way I assumed he was interrupting mine.

That annoys me too. I thought I was here first.

Ten minutes in, we’re focused on our own workouts, neither of us saying a word. The silence wouldn’t bother me so much if I could stop catching his eye in the reflection or if I could find a hint of willpower and stop watching the way he’s moving those dumbbells with ease.

My brain is a little traitor and quickly does the math on how much he’s lifting in continuous reps. It’s half my body weight and he’s making it look easy. Seems like he could easily lift a hell of a lot more if he wanted to.

If he had the right motivation.

Good to know or whatever.

The weights land on the ground in a heavy thump after he’s done with each set, and it doesn’t take long for me to realize he’s not dropping them because he’s worn out and no longer has the energy to set them down carefully. He’s dropping them loudly because he’s throwing a fit.

And why? What did I do?

Is this because we lost? We lose plenty. Losing every so often is a part of the endlessly long season.

I stop the treadmill and before it’s slowed to a complete stop, I hop off and head for the exit, deciding I’ll come back when he’s done, and I can work out in peace. Without all the noise. Without all the tension. Without all the daggers he’s sending me through the mirror.

My hand is on the doorknob when he finally breaks the silence.

“What are you so pissed off about?”

Finding him in the reflection, he’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees and attention on his phone.

“Me?” I exhale in disbelief. “I’m not the one throwing dumbbells around like a fucking drama queen.”

He doesn’t look up from his phone. Doesn’t answer me.

“Is this because we lost?” I ask.

“I’m just having a night, Reese.”

“Yeah. Well, I’ll let you have it alone.” I push the door open to leave.

“You never answered my question.” His words work, stopping me in the doorway. “I know why I’m upset, but I can’t piece together why you would be.”

“Funny.” I spin back to face him. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Finally, he glances up from his phone, and this time he doesn’t use the reflection to find me. He looks me straight in the eye.

His attention draws me back into the room, closing the door again, but keeping my back flush to it.

“I saw your favorite reporter,” I let slip.

His dark brows raise. “You’re joking, right?”

I keep my shoulders straight, owning the statement, though I didn’t necessarily intend to be the first of us to be honest.

“You don’t get to be upset about that,” he decides.

“I can be upset about whatever I want.”

“Bullshit.” He stands from the bench seat, shirtless and angry and so goddamn delicious to look at. “I have no idea what would make you upset about that anyway, but whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter. Not when you

brought a fucking date to the game.”

A date?

“What are you talking about?”

He stalks toward me. “Matt or Mike or whatever the hell his name is. The guy you spent the whole game with, in your suite. Did you forget about him already? Kind of how you forgot about him real quick after your last date, huh?”

I have the boiling urge to tell him to fuck off, but I’m also so confused and need him to keep explaining himself.

Then I realize what and who he’s referring to. The date that I used as a

way to try to forget about him.

“Michael?” I ask for clarification.

“Sure.”

He’s pissed because Michael was here?

I scoff a disbelieving laugh. “Okay, now you’re the one who’s kidding, right? You don’t get to be mad about Michael.”

The muscles under Emmett’s beard clench as he takes another step in my direction. “I know I don’t. Just like you don’t get to be mad about that reporter. Because we’re just coworkers, right, Reese?”

“You do know that Michael is Ed’s son, right? Ed, who is on the advisory board. Ed, who knows that I am not interested in his son. Ed, who watched the entire game from my suite. With his son. Just the two of them.”

I watch as a bit of realization dawns on Emmett’s face.

“I take it you didn’t look up there once today, did you?”

He doesn’t respond, but I already know the answer.

“So no, you don’t get to be pissed off that Michael was here,” I continue.

“And especially not when you were busy giving one-on-one interviews in my dugout.”

He takes a few more calculated steps toward me, and I can sense the frustration thrumming though him as he watches me. “On game days, it’s my dugout,” he says coolly. “Is that why you didn’t come see me before the first pitch? Because that reporter was there?”

“Is that why you were flirting with her? To get back at me because you

thought I brought a date today?”

“Answer my question.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

He takes one final step, looming over me, big and pissed off. Sweat drips down his temples and continues to run over the dark splattering of chest hair. It takes everything in me not to reach out and run my fingers through it because fighting with him is kind of turning me on.

“Fine,” I answer. “Is that what you want to hear? That you made me into a jealous and petty woman for the first time in my life? Does that make you

happy, Emmett?”

“Yes.”

I startle, head rearing back, but I have nowhere to go with the door behind me.

He bends, making himself eye level, and the attention is intoxicating. The way he smells. The palpable energy radiating off him. That possessive spark in his eye.

“I want you as irrational as you make me.” His tone is laced with frustration. “And I wasn’t flirting with her.”

“You were laughing with her.”

“Well, Reese, what would you have me do? Yell at the woman and tell her I’m only allowed to laugh around my boss?”

“Yes.”

He lifts a brow in surprise.

I shrug, entirely unapologetic. “You said you wanted me irrational.”

There’s the smallest, almost undetectable twitch of his lips. “I can’t be a dick to a random reporter. Besides, you tend to steal all my fight these days.

I don’t have much left to share when I use it all on you.” Emmett cages me in with his arms on either side of me, palms flush against the door and eyes locked on mine. “You should know better than anyone that I wasn’t flirting

with her.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure looked like it.”

He shakes his head, his breath fanning over my lips as he speaks. Then he kicks my feet wider, slipping his big thigh between my legs as he presses me against the door. “Have you somehow forgotten already? Do you need a reminder of what it looks like when I want a woman? You should know that better than anyone.”

The evidence is right there, resting on my hip.

He’s so close, his lips are so close. All I’d have to do is tilt my chin up and my mouth would find his. All I’d have to do is slip my hand into the space between us and wrap it around him.

I tilt my hips, rubbing against the muscles in his thigh, and God, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than I want him right now.

His calloused hand circles my throat. Light pressure. Warm skin. “You were right.”

I attempt to hide my moan. “About what?”

“My hand.” His eyes appraisingly assess my neck. “It does make an awfully pretty necklace.”

He uses his hold on me to tilt my jaw toward him before he bends down and kisses me.

And holy hell does he kiss me. There’s this deep ache in the pressure with which his mouth presses to mine. A desperation in the way his tongue slides over my lower lip, begging for me to open for him.

I do.

Willingly. Compliantly. Like putty in his hands.

He groans this primal sound when I slip my tongue into his mouth and it acts as a sounding alarm. Reminding me where we are. Reminding me of who we are.

We can’t do this. Not again. And especially not here.

“Emmett.” I find the will to turn my face away, breaking the moment.

“You know we can’t do this.”

It’s exhausting, trying to constantly do the right thing, but the consequences of doing the wrong thing in this scenario feel too big to ignore.

Heavy breaths are shared between us as a beat passes. His brown eyes search my face, as if he were looking for the moment I’ll change my mind.

But when I don’t, he drops his forehead against mine for only a second before he pushes himself off the door, leaving an aching emptiness between my legs.

“And that’s why I’m having a night.” Turning, he walks away, creating some much-needed distance. “Because it can’t be me.”

“How do you think I feel?” I ask in a raised voice directed at this back. “I was perfectly happy running this team alone. Being alone. I hadn’t even looked in a man’s direction until your stupid hot face started showing up everywhere. With your stupid big body and your stupid big heart.”

He watches me over his shoulder, a bit of surprise etched on his face by my sudden honesty.

“You’re so worried about some other man? I wish I could want someone other than you. That would solve a lot of problems for me, Emmett. So, you’re not the only one who gets to be mad about it. I’m pissed off too!”

“Well, that’s just fucking great, Reese!” He throws his hands up, turning to face me. “Do you know how frustrating it is that the only person I want to talk to, I can’t, unless I make up some ridiculous work-related excuse?

Do you realize how maddening it is to want someone for the first time in twenty years only for that woman to be my boss? Just being around you is the biggest fucking tease of my life, and most days I can hardly stand it.

Your presence is infuriating to me, and still, I can’t stay away. I hate that you made me want you.”

Alone, some of those statements should sting, but they don’t. Not even a little bit.

I scoff. “You did the same damn thing! You made me want you, so why the hell are you fighting with me about it?”

“Because! If I’m not fighting with you—” He stops his shouting, scrubbing a palm over his mouth, as if he were tearing off the filter. “If I’m not fighting with you, then I’m too busy wanting to fuck you.”

And there they are. The words are out in the open for both of us to hear.

We stand off with one another, heaving chests and unsteady breaths. Just waiting for the other to break the rules. To cut the tension. To just give in

already.

Neither of us do.

Emmett exhales a resigned sigh. “And we both know that can’t happen.”

His shoulders slump and I feel mine deflate the same way, both of us giving up the fight. There’s not much more to fight about. We both want something we can’t have, and there’s not a whole lot either of us can do about it.

Emmett shakes his head and slowly makes his way to the bench he was using earlier, sitting and leaning against the back support. He runs his fingers through his hair before linking them behind his head and staring off into nothing. Too exhausted. Too defeated.

I should leave. We both need space to let that heated moment cool. But when I reach for the door, I don’t have the will to push it open and go.

My head is screaming to create some distance, but my head is the last thing I want to listen to right now.

I take the door handle and pull inward, making sure it’s closed. Then I turn the lock.

To keep others out? To keep us in? I’m not sure. I’m not thinking all that clearly at the moment.

Crossing the room to meet him, I don’t let myself second-guess what I want. This is his fault, I decide. Looking like that. Fighting with me like that. Wanting me like that.

Emmett’s corded thighs are spread with the bench between them, so facing him, I swing one of my legs over to straddle his lap. There was a time I might be too self-conscious to drop my full weight, but then I turned thirty years old and stopped giving a shit. So I sit, resting my entire body on his.

He doesn’t even have to adjust to hold me, his muscular legs having

absolutely no issue balancing me.

“Reese—”

“Just . . .” I take his face in both hands, fingers smoothing over the short hair behind his ears. “Shut up for a second.”

Then I do the most reckless thing possible, and while at our place of work, I press my mouth to his.