In Her Own League — 33 Reese

33

REESE

For the first time since moving into this condo, I don’t wake up alone.

Warm sun spills into my bedroom, and when I take that first deep breath of the day, it smells like summer and sunshine and Emmett combined.

Though I’m not sure there’s much of a difference between those things.

Warm and dreamy. It’s the best time of the year. He’s the best part of my day.

A firm, protective arm is wrapped around me, keeping me close, and as consciousness begins to creep in, I’m reminded of where I am and who I’m with. With my face pressed to Emmett’s chest, I brace for the incoming dread to seep in. For the worry and the anxiety about the line we not only

crossed last night, but obliterated.

But it doesn’t come.

The only thing I feel is peace, lying here next to him.

Even in his sleep, he keeps me close. He covers me, protects me. The same way he does with all his people. I’ve watched him for months now, even last season when we hardly knew one another. I’ve witnessed him take care of everyone. How could I not want to be included in that?

This was inevitable in a way. In my bones, I knew eventually we’d be waking up tangled together. We’ve been tangled up for months now, haven’t we? Blurred lines. Boundaries crossed. Enemies. Friends. Coworkers.

Lovers.

A tangled web, indeed. And I’ve never enjoyed a mess as much as I do this one.

The sun shines over his face too, and I steal the opportunity to look at him. Really look at him. We’ve woken up a couple of times together, but not like this. I’ve never had the chance to take him in like this.

Emmett is handsome when he sleeps. Lashes a bit too long. Jaw that’s a bit too sharp. A big hand, that only a few hours ago was all over my body, rests against his chest.

Perfectly content with himself after ruining me last night.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks, eyes closed, voice laced with sleep.

I attempt to hide my face against him, but I’m sure he can feel my smile form on his skin.

“I was just checking on something.” I run my fingers through a bit of the salt that lives around his temples. “Is that new? Did you age in your sleep? I remember you looking younger last night.”

His chest moves in a laugh. “I didn’t hear you complaining about my age while I was fucking you through multiple orgasms.”

No, no he didn’t. I had never been with an older man until last night, and I learned that they know exactly what they’re doing in bed. At least, this older man does. The soreness between my legs is evidence of that.

Finally, he cracks his eyes open, turning to look down at me. “Morning, Reese.”

His sleepy rasp does something sinful to my body. It has me shifting my legs, rubbing my naked skin against his. “Morning, Em.”

The hand that’s keeping me close reaches up to run softly through my hair. “You’re beautiful in the morning.”

“I just called you old, and you call me beautiful?”

“Yeah. And I hope you feel terrible about it for the rest of the day.”

I crack a smile. “You’ve woken up with me before, you know.”

“I know. But not like this.”

Definitely not like this.

Scooting up, I press my lips to his, then cross my arms over his chest, leaning my chin on my hands.

Emmett’s attention bounces over my face, soft smile on his lips, and fingers toying with my tangled hair.

He’s so comfortable. So at ease in my bed, like he’s got nowhere better to be today, even though both of us are aware we need to head to the field soon for a game.

“How’s that brain of yours?” he asks. “Running in circles?”

“Nope.”

There’s an edge of surprise on his face.

“Just happy.”

“Yeah?”

“Very happy. You look awfully good in my bed.”

His smile turns boyish, a stark contradiction to the gruff man I’m accustomed to.

“And you look awfully good naked and on top of me.” Lifting, he kisses me once more. “But we should probably discuss what’s going on here. I know we mentioned it last night, but maybe you were right. Maybe it’s best if we have this conversation while I’m not inside of you.”

“Your dick didn’t hypnotize me into saying something I didn’t want to, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I guess I’m worried you might walk it back. The way we’ve tried to so many times before.”

“I’m not,” I tell him easily. “I’m in it. With you. I just need to figure out how this is going to work at work. But I want this. I want you.”

“Okay.” He softly smiles. “We’ll keep it between us for now. Until we

decide what we’re going to do.”

I nod in agreement. “Thank you.”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah. That sounds nice. I’ll make us some.”

When I move to peel myself off him, he tightens an arm around me,

keeping me in place.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“I was asking if you wanted some, not if you’d get up and make me a

cup.”

“I know, but I can do it.”

“Good for you. So can I.” He slips out from under me, flipping me onto my back and cradling my head until he rests it against a pillow. “Lie down.

I’ve got it.”

Emmett stands from the bed, proud naked body on full display. Big, thick, and all man, walking around my bedroom without a shy bone in his

body.

“How do you take yours?”

How do I take my coffee? I don’t know if I’ve ever had to tell someone else that. I don’t remember a time anyone has ever made me a cup in the morning, though it’s something I do for myself daily. I’m about to tell him I’ll take my coffee any way he wants to prepare it for me, even though I have a very specific order, simply because I’d be thankful for anything.

“Um,” I hesitate. “Splash of cream. A bit of brown sugar.”

I don’t tear my eyes off him as he bends to pull his boxer briefs back on.

But that’s all he puts on his body.

“You got it.” He comes back to me, crouching down on the side of my bed. “And to make this clear, I don’t do things for you because I don’t think you can do them for yourself. I do them because I want to. And because you should know what it feels like to be taken care of.”

He kisses me one more time before he heads into my kitchen, which I have a perfect sightline to from my bed.

Emmett opens a couple of cupboards until he finds the mugs. He locates the brown sugar and the utensils. He opens my fridge like he’s done it a thousand times. And before he leaves the kitchen, he washes the spoon he used to stir my cup.

It’s a bit mesmerizing to watch him. He moves around my place with so much confidence, as if he innately belongs here. As if he fits seamlessly between these four walls.

Laying in sheets that smell of him, watching him treat my condo as his own, I realize that maybe he does. Maybe he belonged here all along. With me.

Those were my suspicions last night. As soon as he stepped off the elevator, he looked like he belonged. And that’s what this morning confirms.

It’s so simple, this coffee he hands me in bed. But when you go so long with no one else taking care of you, something as simple as a cup of coffee takes on a whole new meaning. I’m more grateful. More appreciative of the man he is. All because I went so long without him.

Emmett slips under the covers again and we drink our coffee together. We laze around for the morning, talking and touching until we run out of time.

He needs to change before heading to the field, so eventually, I take him home, the way I promised him I would last night. But when I return to my

condo, the emptiness is glaring.

It’s lonely.

In a place that, up until yesterday, I loved to be alone in, even craved its solitude, today I don’t. Today I want him to be here too.

That’s the only dread that finds me today. The realization that my own company no longer compares to his.

I may have no idea what I’m doing or how I’m going to go about keeping Emmett on my staff, but one thing I’m certain of is that he’s the biggest risk

I’ve ever taken and simultaneously the surest decision I’ve ever made.

I just need to figure out the rest.

My pregame visit to the dugout was short-lived. There were too many players milling about that I knew it wasn’t safe for me to stay long. I couldn’t keep a straight face around Emmett today if I tried. Not when images of his tattooed hands gripping my hips to help me move on top of him are replaying on a loop in my mind. I can’t look at the man without thinking of last night. Without hearing his sounds. Without seeing that grateful expression he wore as we laid together afterward.

And anyone with eyes would see the shift between us today. It’s too fresh. Too obvious.

So, I hid in my suite and have stayed here for the entirety of the game.

We’re heading into the bottom of the ninth with a tied game and possible extra innings ahead of us. But the way we’ve played today has me shockingly hopeful and energized.

You’d think I would be tired. I should be tired. Sleep was sparse last night, but the hours I did get were deep and restful. The kind of sleep you get after working your body to the bone all day.

Or alternatively, the kind of sleep you get after being fucked so well you’re not sure how your legs still work.

I cross said legs, watching the game from my suite above the third baseline.

It’s the start of a home series against Boston, and we need a win. After a rough couple of weeks, we all just need a win.

We’ve played well. Our starting pitcher went deep into the game, and our defense has been on point. But it’s the hits that have been lacking on both sides, keeping a score of 1-1 in the bottom of the ninth.

The sun has long set. The fans are still filling the seats, but they’re growing restless with the lack of scoring today. And even with a glass wall of windows separating us, I can still feel their frustration when Boston’s closer strikes out our first two batters of the inning.

Then that frustration quickly shifts to a collective dread when the crowd realizes that Milo is next in the lineup.

I notice a lot of them looking around, as if they’re contemplating calling it a night, since it’s already late, or staying for the extra innings. As if those

extra innings are inevitable because of their lack of faith in the new guy on the team.

I find myself briefly allowing those same thoughts before I catch myself.

I know what he’s capable of. It’s why he’s here.

The first pitch is a slider and a strike.

The crowd groans.

Milo steps out of the box and even from here, I can see the change in his demeanor from the last game he played. He’s calmer. He’s able to collect himself.

The second pitch is a fastball, and Milo gets a solid swing on the ball. It sails deep. The fans gasp. It’s deep enough to be a run, but at the last second, the ball curves wide outside the foul pole in right field.

Two strikes.

Milo steps out of the box again, and this time turns to Emmett in the dugout. I can’t hear what Emmett says to him, but whatever it is Milo takes it in, nods to himself, then repositions himself at the plate.

I don’t need to know what he said. I know Emmett. The guy is steady.

Steady enough for everyone around him.

The typical anticipation for a tied game in the bottom of the ninth is lacking tonight. It feels as if everyone in this crowd has counted Milo out already.

But then he decides to prove everyone wrong on the third pitch he’s given.

The crack of the bat is sharp. It practically screams at the crowd to pay attention to him.

It sails deep, deep, deep into left field.

Boston’s pitcher stands with his hands on his hips as we all watch the ball sail over the fence and into the bleachers.

The stadium erupts. The added shock to their elation causing an insane buzz throughout the building. It’s deafeningly loud in here as Milo tosses his bat to the side and starts his jog to round the bases.

Because he not only got his first hit in the majors, but he just got us a walk-off win.

I’m on my feet, screaming and cheering for him, slapping the glass as if I were anywhere close enough for him to hear me.

The boys rush out of the dugout to meet him at home plate, and I don’t miss the relieved smile he wears as he rounds second.

I could not be happier for him. Immeasurable pride sits on my chest as he touches the third base.

My attention ticks to the dugout, the way I’ve tried not to all night.

I wish I could be down there to celebrate with the field manager.

This is a victory not only for the team or for Milo, but also for us. After going through hell in the press, this feels like a big fucking win.

There’s a stunning smile on Emmett’s face as he cheers for his new player, clapping his hands together. I half expect Emmett to be out there with his team, waiting to greet Milo when he touches home, but apparently, he’s going to leave that moment to the players.

Instead, when Milo runs into the pile of his teammates, Emmett turns his back to the field to look in the opposite direction.

Up. Right at me.

He claps his hands together along with the rest of the crowd, but unlike them, Emmett isn’t celebrating this moment with the team and the fans. I think he’s still in the dugout so he can celebrate this moment with me.

His proud smile and discreet wink confirms my theory.

The elevator opens on the top floor with only Emmett inside.

He’s got this knowing look on his face, as if he knew I’d be the one waiting on the other side when the doors open. As if he rode this elevator to the top floor for no other reason than to see if I’d get on it with him.

I step inside, slightly in front of him, both of us facing the doors and trying our best to keep things professional while other people are still here from the game.

“You seem excited,” he says low in my ear.

I smile at my reflection. “Of course I am. We just won. Milo just hit a homer off one of the best closers in the league. And I got laid last night.

Life is good.”

Emmett chuckles from behind me. “Are you sure you’re not just excited for this postgame press conference you’re about to walk into?”

He knows me far too well.

“I might be a little eager to put some of these reporters in their place after

last week.”

“Any idea of what you’re going to say?”

“Might not say anything. Might just hold up two middle fingers and call the press conference done.”

Emmett slides a hand over my ass to my hip, squeezing me there. “You’re

spicy today.”

“Thank you.”

As we slowly descend to the clubhouse level, a heavy forearm wraps around the front of my chest, pulling me until my back is flush to him.

“I’m proud of you,” Emmett says quietly, punctuated by a tender kiss on

my hair.

I swallow. “For what?”

“For getting through the worst of it. You have every right to go in there and tell them they can all go fuck themselves for how they spoke about you.”

I grasp his arm with both my hands, eager for that small amount of physical touch. “I’ll kill them with kindness. Answer their questions politely. Act professionally and all that. But they’ll have to ask them while knowing I read the things they said about me.”

“And that’s also why I’m proud of you.” His lips move to my neck for another kiss, and I can’t help the upturn of my smile, feeling him nuzzle

against me.

“Good game today, Coach.”

“Thank you, baby.” Another kiss. “Good game to you.”

When the elevator stops on the clubhouse floor we break apart without hesitation, creating a bit of distance. Through the reflection I see that both of us have regained our straight faces in time. When the doors open, there’s a swarm of players and staff celebrating, but no one is really paying us any attention.

Still, we’re careful to ensure that when we walk off the elevator, there’s nothing warm or flirty about our departure from one another.

“Emmett,” I say, retreating to the media room.

“Reese,” he responds, headed in the opposite direction.