Chapter 4
Reese
The elevator opens right into the living room of my condo on the penthouse floor.
The floor-to-ceiling windows that encompass my kitchen, living, and dining rooms are my only source of light, thanks to the glow of the surrounding buildings and the bustling city on a Saturday night.
I flip on the lamp on my entryway table and toss my keys into the small bowl next to it. I don’t waste time before kicking off my heels, dropping my bag, and beelining for the kitchen.
Finding my favorite Pinot among the bottles of red, I uncork the bottle, pour a small taste into my favorite wineglass, and try it before deciding it’s good enough for me to fill up the rest. As soon as it hits the back of my throat, I relax against the counter in the one place I feel like I can let my guard down.
I love this condo. It’s luxurious and clean and mine. Furnished with the things I purchased or collected over the years. Decorated with the artwork I chose.
But most importantly, there’s not an ounce of tension living between these walls. There are no feelings of resentment lingering in the air.
I never understood how much I would value my own space until I shared one with the wrong person. And having a place that I can unwind at the end of the day, now that I spend my days doing a job that is under a constant microscope, has become priceless to me.
Sure, this penthouse is massive and meant for more than one person, but I’m not going to attempt to justify it.
I understand I’m privileged to be born into the family I was born into, but I’ve also worked hard to get to where I am.
I work hard so I can buy myself nice things.
I shouldn’t have to sacrifice what I want just because I’m alone.
If that were the case, I’d be sacrificing for the rest of my life.
And I’m okay with being alone forever. I’ve already had to choose between my career and a life that would look a whole lot different than the one I’m living now.
I chose my career and would make the same choice again.
I’ve learned and accepted that most men don’t find my job impressive.
They find it intimidating. They don’t want a woman who works twelve-hour days.
They don’t want someone who travels half of the year.
No, not all men. Just all the men I’ve met.
Sure, there are times I feel lonely, but that’s a rarity. I grew up as an only child and learned how to entertain myself. I enjoy my own company. I’m happy with who I am. And at this point, I’ve switched off the part of my brain that actively looked for a partner.
When I was given the choice between two different life paths, I chose this one, and if this is everything life has in store for me, I’m still happy I made that decision.
I take a long sip of my wine and take in the view I paid for. The sun has almost fully set, leaving a slight glow through the endless skyscrapers, and the combination of the sunset and the city lights is breathtaking.
There was a time in my life that a Saturday night was a bit livelier than how I tend to spend them now, but then I turned thirty and learned that a hangover could last multiple days.
Or if I’m missing out on sleep, it could take me an entire week to catch up on it.
So, if I’m not at the field watching a game or lingering in my office, I’ve come to stick to my single glass of wine and a hot bath on a Saturday night.
With my glass in hand, I head to my primary suite to do just that.
This week was exhausting from travel and games, but when we landed at O’Hare this morning, instead of heading home, I went straight to my office at the field.
I spent the day watching film of the other teams, working on ways to reallocate funds, and checking in on our minor league system. Those kinds of things.
The work doesn’t stop, and that’s what I like. It keeps me busy. I like to be busy, but every once in a while, I also like to wind down.
Keeping the bathroom lights dim, I light a few candles and turn on some music as the bath fills. I do all the extra stuff too, adding Epsom salts and grabbing my latest book. Why the hell not, you know? If I’m going to do something nice for myself, I’m going to indulge in every second of it.
After tossing my clothes into the hamper, I slip into the bath and let the water soothe my tired body.
I didn’t give myself a moment all week to realize how tense I’ve been. It feels like I’ve been in a constant state of fight or flight. Fighting to prove I can do this job when most people want me to run away and hand the team over to someone else.
Take last night’s press conference, for example. It took everything in me not to let them see how those questions affected me. Sure, I’m confident enough in myself that I can handle some scrutiny, but it’s human nature to want to be liked. To be accepted.
To have just one person tell you they think you’re doing a good job instead of being told the opposite while also being recorded for your response.
Then there was Emmett, sitting right next to me at the time.
Sure, we started off going at each other, but then he was kind of . . . protective.
I could sense how badly he wanted to step in during those questions. I could see how offended he was on my behalf. I would imagine a lot of that comes from him being a girl dad, but I couldn’t let him defend me.
I’m a woman working in a man’s world and the last thing I need is for a man to speak on my behalf. I have to do it myself.
But I don’t have to defend myself tonight. Tonight, I’m off the clock.
I take another sip of my wine before closing my eyes and resting my head back on the bath pillow, ready to fully relax.
Until my phone dings.
The audible whine that involuntarily comes out of my throat is a bit pathetic for a thirty-five-year-old, but come on now.
For a split second, I consider not looking at it. But then there’s a bigger part of me that’s convinced this could be another team and with an amazing trade opportunity. And if I don’t answer, I’ll always be known for my first act in office being that I missed a historic trade deal.
Dramatic, yes. But that’s the kind of pressure I’m under to get this right.
Water dripping from my hand, I grab my phone. But it’s not one of the other clubs in the league messaging me.
It’s my field manager.
Emmett: It’s a Saturday night, so I’m sure you’re busy, but when you get a moment, can we chat?
My thumbs hover over the keyboard, unsure of what to reply. Should I reply? Or should I let him believe I have a more exciting life than the one where I’m home alone, sitting in the bath on a Saturday night off work?
Me: Why are you working on a Saturday night?
Emmett: I’m always working. It doesn’t stop.
Me: Yeah, I get that.
Emmett: Can I call you?
Can he call me?
My eyes immediately dart downward . . . to my bare tits. To my stomach and thighs just below the surface of the extremely clear water.
Really not the most flattering angle on anybody, I swear.
It feels . . . inappropriate to take a phone call from my employee while bare-ass naked in my bathtub. But before I can tell Emmett it’s a bad time, my phone starts buzzing with a call from him.
Shit.
I quickly turn my music off before answering the call, attempting to make my voice sound as professional as possible. Because a professional tone would indicate that I’m definitely not naked right now.
“Hello?”
“Bad time?” Emmett asks.
The worst time, actually.
“Of course not. What’s up?”
“I just got a strange email from Scott asking me to join your advisory board meeting on Monday. Arthur never had me join those, so I wasn’t sure if that was your idea or . . .”
It’s impossible to mask the frustrated huff of air I blow out. “Nope. Sure wasn’t.”
Scott is really trying to go around me to add another person that doesn’t agree with me into our meetings. I’m already outnumbered. What more does he want?
I guess that’s an easy answer. He wants the city’s beloved manager to see him as the better fit for president.
“I’ll tell him no, then,” Emmett says easily. “It’s your meeting. I’m not sure why he’s asking me to get involved.”
“I’d appreciate that. And thank you for checking with me first.”
Look at me, being cordial.
“Of course. You’re the boss, Reese.”
“I do love when you remember that.”
He laughs under his breath and, shockingly, I find a smile on my mouth from hearing it.
“Have a good night,” he says.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
His chuckle is this warm rumble that fades into a still silence on the line. It stays that way for a while, allowing this shift that feels a bit more personal than professional. Not quite friendship, but maybe allies.
“Emmett?”
“Yeah?”
“I just . . . thanks for trying to have my back during the press conference last night. I didn’t get a chance to thank you. So . . . thank you.”
“That was all you, Reese. You held yourself together far better than I would’ve if I were in your position.” He pauses for a moment. “Don’t let them push you around, okay?”
“Only you?”
“Yes,” he says, his tone attempting to remain serious. “Only I can push you around.”
That shift feels even stronger. Like maybe, just maybe we could call a truce and work together amicably.
It’s what has me asking the next thing without fully thinking it through.
“Actually, Emmett. Maybe you should come to the advisory board meeting. If you want to. I might need an ally.”
“Is that what we are now? Allies?”
“We could be. We have a long season ahead of us. It would be nice to get on the same page with how we’re running this team.”
He hums into the line. “You know allies are sometimes referred to as friends.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’m still upset about what you did to Nate.”
“I know.”
“But if you want me to go, I’ll be there. Whatever you need.”
It’s strange. Every now and then, I’ll see this gentle side of him.
It’s probably the side that raised a daughter.
It’s probably the side that the players get when they need it, which has them all so attached to him.
You wouldn’t know it from the way he looks, all big and broody, covered in tattoos, but I’ll admit, I could see the appeal of Emmett Montgomery if I looked for it.
As I hold the phone to one ear, a strand of my hair falls into my face on the other side. I lift my hand out of the water to push it back and, without thinking, create a splash loud enough he can hear through the line.
That’s confirmed when he asks, “Are you swimming right now?”
Yes. “Yes” would be the right answer. Or taking a dip in the hot tub. Or doing the dishes. Literally anything other than, “I’m taking a bath, actually.”
There’s far too long of a silence on the other end, until finally his deep voice says, “Oh.”
Why the hell did I just admit to that? Now he’s probably picturing me naked.
“But don’t picture me naked or anything.”
What is wrong with me? Who says that to their employee? Don’t picture me naked, you know, just in case you were thinking about doing that.
I’m expecting him to tell me he’s hanging up so he can call HR, but instead I’m met with my very own retort. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
Now I’m the one left speechless on the line.
After I can’t seem to come back with any sort of response, Emmett fills the lingering silence. “I’ll let you get back to your naked bath, Reese.”
“Yep. Thanks.”
“Enjoy it.”
Before I can find some words that somehow might push this conversation back onto the professional side of things, Emmett ends the call.