In Her Own League — 26 Reese

26

REESE

I don’t know if I’ve ever walked as slow as I am now, going from the parking lot to the team plane out on the tarmac at O’Hare. Trying to delay the inevitable of seeing everyone on board.

I’ve already addressed the team of course. I’ve spoken to the staff. But we’ve been under constant question since I made that trade, and it doesn’t just extend to me. Every person in this organization is being scrutinized for my decision. And now, I have to get on an airplane with each and every employee I’ve unintentionally added stress to.

Are the remaining players good enough to bring this team to the playoffs?

Are the coaches supportive of losing a power hitter like Kaiser?

Is Reese Remington setting the tone of being the most impulsive owner in MLB history?

Actually, I think the wording was “emotional and impulsive,” if I remember that headline correctly. Because of course I had to be labeled emotional by a bunch of fucking men. I’m a woman, after all.

I’m not an emotional person when it comes to business, but it feels as if I’m real close to becoming one. I pride myself on having a thick skin, but these past few days have shaken me. The headlines have been far worse than I was mentally prepared for. They’ve made me question my confidence, and I hate that I’m allowing other people’s thoughts and feelings to cause me to second-guess my ability to do my job.

People were loud when I took over the team, but the hate was never to this extent. And the overwhelming thought that’s been playing on a loop in my mind since the trade announcement became public is that maybe my ex- husband was right. Maybe he should’ve been the face of this team.

Maybe if a man made this same trade, the chatter would’ve died down by now. Maybe my entire staff wouldn’t currently be operating in crisis mode because the first big decision that the first female team owner ever made was to trade away a majorly sought-after vet.

I’m not ready for this plane ride, but we need to get Milo’s first game under his belt and hopefully everyone will just move on.

I pass my suitcase off to one of the linemen just outside the aircraft and make my way up the stairs. As soon as I turn the corner and stand at the front of the aisle, every pair of eyes lands on me in a way I’ve been dreading all day.

Standing here splayed out for my entire staff to see, looking like shit because I’ve hardly been able to sleep or eat, all while knowing they’ve seen the headlines. They’ve seen the forums and the name-calling. They’ve seen me be undermined by every single reporter who has covered the story.

They’ve seen the horrible things Harrison had to say about our club.

It’s humiliating. No one wants to look weak in front of those they’re leading, but it’s a whole added layer of complication when it comes to my particular role. Me being my age. Me being a woman.

If a different owner makes a mistake, it’ll be forgotten soon enough.

However, if this trade is my first business mistake, it’ll follow me forever.

I, more than anyone else, have to be perfect, and right now, I feel anything but.

My skin prickles with embarrassed heat as I stand in the aisle for everyone to see, and I wish I could just run away. I want to hide. To let this blow over. To apologize profusely for adding stress to anyone else’s plate.

But I’m in charge here. I made this decision. So, I do my best to hold my head up high and own it as I get to my seat in the third row.

Except today, my seat is currently taken. My entire row is taken, in fact, by a man and woman I don’t recognize.

“These are the Walkers,” one of my staff members tells me. “They were the winners of the charity fundraiser’s silent auction we held toward the beginning of the season. They’ll be joining us for this road trip.”

Fuck. I completely forgot we were going to have guests with us on this trip and I’m in no shape to be seen by fans.

“Of course.” I find my most convincing smile. “Welcome. I hope you have a great time with us.”

They beam up at me, thanking me for allowing them to join, and expressing their excitement to see the behind the scenes of team travel.

I don’t have it in me to tell them I completely forgot they were coming, but they also donated a ton of money to Chicago’s public school system in

exchange for this trip, so the least I can do is give up my seat on the plane for the week.

Emmett stands from his seat, the one that’s directly in front of my usual place on the plane, and for the first time today I make eye contact with him.

It’s shocking to me how centered I feel when he’s around now. A bit more confident too, like I have a partner in this mess. Yes, it’s just a work-related partnership, but it’s nice being part of a “we.”

I don’t know if I’ve ever been part of a “we.” It’s becoming more and more evident that my previous marriage wasn’t a partnership at all, and with Emmett . . . at least I know that even if every other person in Chicago hates me, he doesn’t.

“Saved you a seat,” he says, brown eyes equal parts soft as they are concerned. “Window okay?”

I nod, thankful that I have a place to hide away from everyone’s attention.

“Thank you.”

He steps out into the aisle, giving me room to slip into the window seat next to his. I tuck my purse under the row in front of me then practically exhale a sigh of relief when I sink into the chair.

Emmett doesn’t say anything when he sits back down, and I find myself thankful for the silence. It doesn’t draw added attention, but just having him next to me feels like I can breathe a little easier.

He’s really great at taking care of people, even if he doesn’t mean to be.

It’s taken everything in me not to call him the past couple of nights like he told me I could. Especially when he’s the only person I’ve wanted to talk to about any of this. I’ve found myself wanting to hear only his opinion, in hopes it might drown out the others. To maybe let his steady confidence in me reignite my own sense of assurance.

But I need to take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for years at this point and he’s got too much going on because of my decision to worry about the burden of my shaken confidence. And at the end of the day, I need to remember that he’s still my employee, and though we’ve fucked around with some professional boundaries, I need to stay strong even around him.

I don’t know if any field manager has been called for more interviews than he has in the past two days. And in each and every one he’s taken accountability and blame, recounting the game he grabbed Harrison by the jersey. When asked what prompted the trade, Emmett has been constant with saying Harrison and the coaching staff couldn’t get on the same page.

He and I both know that’s not the case, but I appreciate what he’s trying to do.

It’s strange. After being married to someone who wanted to take this role from me, I haven’t been able to quite wrap my head around Emmett. A man who not only wants me to have this job but wants me to succeed in it. Wants to protect me as much as he can, and has done so willingly, without even knowing whether he’s going to be coaching here next season.

Emmett leans into the space between our seats, keeping his voice hushed.

“When was the last time you ate?”

I shrug in reply because I don’t actually know. Maybe last night. Or maybe I was so busy reading online forums about how much our fans hate

me that I forgot to.

“Reese.”

“I . . . I don’t remember.”

I tentatively allow my eyes to drift over to him only to find that he is pissed.

Emmett’s jaw goes hard before he quickly stands from his seat and slips into the galley where the flight attendants are waiting to close the boarding door.

Food is the last thing I care about right now. Sleep too. It’s kind of hard to focus on either of those things when all I want is to succeed in this role. I’ve been training for what seems like my entire life for this moment but am currently being told by everyone that I’m failing.

The only saving grace over the past couple of days, besides Emmett’s interviews with the press, are the players’ interviews. They’ve supported the trade, and maybe that’s just a public appearance thing or maybe their field manager threatened them if they said something negative about my decision-making. But whatever the reason, them publicly having my back makes me feel as if I’m part of this team.

“Eat this,” Emmett says, holding out a granola bar as he retakes his seat next to me. “Lunch will be served in the air.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Reese.” His tone holds no room for argument. “You need to eat. Then you need to close your eyes and try to get some rest. I’ll wake you up when food comes around, but you need sleep.”

I’ve come to learn that though Emmett will bend on certain things, there are other beliefs he holds strong conviction in. And judging by the way he’s

forcing this bar in my direction, apparently something as minor as me not eating breakfast is a hard line for the man. Pretty sure he might feed it to me if I refuse to do it myself.

I’m sure that wouldn’t raise any suspicions.

I take the bar from him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I turn my body toward the window to eat this granola bar, but I catch him out of the corner of my eye every so often watching me with concern.

“How’s Milo?” I ask quietly, attempting to get the attention off me.

“Don’t worry about him, Reese. The boys are taking care of him.”

I nod to myself.

“We should sit him the first couple of games, though. Give him some time to adjust.”

I know it’s the right thing to do. Let him learn our system and get a feel for the pace of the game at this level, especially with how much pressure he’s got on his shoulders. But I also know what delaying his first game will do.

“But,” Emmett continues, “I’m worried things are going to get worse for you if we don’t just get him out there and let him shut everyone up.”

My thoughts exactly.

“No.” I shake my head. “We can’t do that to him. I can handle it for a few more days.”

He exhales a deep sigh. “I’m worried about you.”

“I can handle it.”

“Yeah, I know, but that’s not the point. You don’t have to be tough all the time, Reese. What’s happening right now sucks. People suck. What they’re saying online . . .”

I force out a smile. “I promise, I’m fine.”

“Reese—”

“You’re right, Emmett. I should try to get some sleep.”

It’s a three-hour flight to Miami and though I’d rather spend my time getting some work done or doomscrolling through nasty comments online, I don’t think Emmett is going to allow me to do either.

Shifting, I angle my body toward the window and rest my head against the fuselage.

An arm lands on my leg and when I look down, I find Emmett’s arm reaching across the center console to offer me his team-issued hoodie.

“Here,” he says softly, and thankfully the engines have started and are loud enough that we can speak at a more normal volume without anyone else hearing us. “Use it as a pillow.”

“Thank you.” I take it from him, folding it up tightly. “How’d you know I was a pillow princess?”

A smile finally cracks on Emmett’s lips and it’s nice to see him a bit less concerned, even if I had to force out a mildly dirty joke to make it happen.

“Match made in heaven,” he says quietly. “I would happily do all the work.”

The skin around my eyes crinkles and it feels good to be a little lighter around him, even for a second.

Shifting, I situate his sweatshirt against the window and try to concentrate on getting a few hours of sleep. But as soon as I rest my head on it, his scent is the only thing I can focus on. It’s practically melted into the fibers of this fabric and the smell instantly takes me back to the other night.

Images of us in the mirror. The way he could hardly control his breathing as he looked at me. The way his body felt between my legs, deliciously hard.

Everything was hard. His . . . yeah, that was hard too. And big.

Not too much of a surprise, I suppose. The amount of big dick energy Emmett exudes, I half expected it to be dragging on the floor. It doesn’t, thank God, but he’s definitely . . . blessed in that department.

I close my eyes and attempt to concentrate on anything other than how utterly fucked I am when it comes to the man sitting next to me.

Using one hand to prop his sweatshirt up, I place my other on the center console between us, fingers hooked over the edge of the mutual armrest.

My arm is draped there for no more than a few seconds when I feel Emmett’s arm join me.

Firm pressure from elbow to wrist, his skin on mine.

Then he reminds me that I’m completely done for when his pinky finger reaches out and grazes my own.

It’s the smallest of touches, completely discreet if anyone were to look over here right now, but the back-and-forth slide of his finger against mine, reminding me that he’s here, is all the comfort I need to finally fall asleep.

We sat Milo for the last couple of games, letting him get acquainted with his new team and how we run our system. I also had a delusional hope that allowing two games to pass would give us some time for the noise to settle down. That it might take some of the pressure off this poor kid’s shoulders.

Unfortunately, it hasn’t.

All this extended time has done is make people even more curious about the new guy on the team.

Will he be able to fill the role that was left by Harrison? I sure hope so.

Is he even ready for this? Again, let’s hope.

Did Reese Remington make her first colossal misstep and take her team out of the playoff run before we’ve even hit the mid-year all-star break?

Maybe.

Some of those questions could finally be answered tonight. Some of the chatter could be quieted if Milo comes out and has a strong first game. If he could just shut them up for me, that’d be great.

I think about that kid I found a couple of years back playing baseball for his local community college in New Mexico and could not feel worse that this is his introduction to the league. No one should have this kind of pressure to have such a solid showing in their first game in the majors, but unfortunately that’s just the situation we’re in right now.

The press interviews have taken it out of me this week. I’m usually on top of my game, ready with quick remarks to shut any bullshit questions down, but now I’m off, stuttering through my responses and finding the need to explain myself and my decision to move on from Harrison Kaiser.

It’s what has me hiding in a visitors’ office and watching the third game of this series from the television on the wall instead of finding a seat with a view.

Nervous energy rattles through me as Milo makes his way to the plate for the first time in the top of the second inning. I can see his tension through the screen too. He’s hesitant in the way he digs his cleats into the dirt, and there’s no fluidity in the way he lifts his bat into position.

He’s stiff and locked up.

It only takes three pitches for him to strike out. He doesn’t even get a single swing in.

In the bottom of the fourth, a pop ball heads in his direction in the outfield. It’s an easy catch. A given out. The sun is in his eyes when he

looks up for the ball and when it drops, it’s not in his glove. It’s two feet away on the grass by his cleats.

He strikes out again during his next two at-bats, and when he comes up to his fourth and most likely final in the top of the ninth, I’m staring at the screen with rapt attention. Praying for a miracle at this point because currently, with the way he’s playing, we’re going to get eaten alive in the press after this game.

He can do this. He has to do this. We’re down one run, top of the ninth.

We’ve got a player on third and one on first with two outs. All he has to do is get on base. Bring home the player at third. Get us a tied game and push us into the bottom of the ninth.

He’s no more confident as he steps up to the plate than he was the first time he did it tonight. In fact, I would say the added pressure of this moment has his shoulders slumping even more. It’s given him less power in his stance.

The first pitch is a slider, but Milo swings, giving me a bit of hope when he gets a piece of it. It’s a foul ball and his first strike, but at least he had the timing to slice part of it. And at least he had the guts to swing.

His second foul ball earns him his second strike, but again, at least he’s getting a piece of it.

The energy in the building grows, eagerly watching the new kid fight off Miami’s seasoned pitcher. If he could just get on base. Give our fans a smidge of hope.

He slices another foul ball, keeping the count to 0-2.

On the fourth pitch, he fully connects, and his swing is solid and strong, sending the ball deep into right field. I’m out of my seat and nearing the television screen praying for it to stay left, to stay in fair play.

It doesn’t. It curves right for his fourth foul ball during this at-bat.

Even from the office I can hear the sigh of relief from the Miami fans outside. If he had kept that in play, it would’ve been a three-run homer, putting us up by two in the top of the ninth.

Okay. He can do this.

The power behind that last hit gives me a little hope. Standing at the screen, I rest my palms on my knees and watch him take his position for the fifth pitch.

“C’mon, Milo,” I mutter to the screen. “Just bring him home. Get on base.”

The pitcher winds up and releases a hell of a fastball right down the center of the plate.

It zooms right past him. He doesn’t even get a swing on it.

Milo strikes out looking, ending the game.

Head dropping between my shoulders, I instantly begin rehearsing all the things I need to say in the postgame press conference.

But the one statement that keeps swirling around in my mind is, everyone else was right. I think I made the wrong decision.