Chapter 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 facade 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.