Chapter 2 #2
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 na?ve 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.”