Chapter 22 Emmett
Emmett
“And I’m sitting Travis tonight,” I tell Reese as we go through tonight’s lineup together, sitting on opposite sides of her desk.
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah, just the usual wear and tear. He took a hard bounce to the mask in yesterday’s game and needs a night off to rest.”
“But you’re sure he’s okay? Does he need anything?”
“He’s a catcher. He’s tough.”
“Okay. But please let me know if he needs anything more than just a night off.”
I lift a brow. “How business-minded of you.”
“Yeah. Well, he’s a piece of the business.”
I hum. “Sure.”
“Leave me alone,” she says playfully, refocusing on her computer sitting on the left side of the desk.
She looks good there, the field and stadium working as a backdrop for her.
I’ve spent a lot of time in this office, meeting with her grandfather over the years.
But Arthur never looked that good sitting there.
The energy in this office was vastly different.
Before this season, I never dreamed of sweeping an arm over this desk to clear it off because I think the team owner would look fucking lovely spread across it.
I also never looked forward to my pregame meetings with Arthur the way I look forward to those same meetings this year. In fact, they’ve become one of my two favorite parts of game days. The other being the dugout visit from Reese that happens before the first pitch.
Pale pink nails type away at the keyboard as she chews on that bottom lip, slipping it between her teeth in concentration as she works.
I’ve come to find out I thoroughly enjoy watching this woman work.
I like how focused she is. I like how smart she is. I like that she loves this team and these players as much as I do, even if she has a hard time admitting that she sees this franchise as more than just a business.
With all her attention locked on the screen, all my attention is locked on her.
Then I remember I’m not allowed to look at her the way I am now. I’m not even allowed to close her office door during these meetings in fear someone might get the wrong impression of us being alone.
Reese reads something on the screen and exhales—the sound part relief, part centering breath. “Well, it looks like this trade will be official by morning.”
Whoa. I’ve been waiting to hear her tell me that for weeks now.
I sit up straighter in my chair. “Yeah?”
She scans the email again. “Obviously nothing is official until the paperwork is signed, but it looks solid.”
I study her for a moment. “Are you nervous?”
Reese allows herself to be honest with me when she nods to tell me yes.
I bask in her vulnerability. Though Reese is always sincere and straightforward when it comes to business, she’s not always open regarding how those business decisions make her feel.
She has to put on a professional and unbothered mask in front of the press, and there’s no way she’d ever tell reporters she’s scared about the backlash from her first major move as president of the team.
But she’s telling me.
“You’ll be okay,” I reassure her. “I’ll back you up with the media. The boys aren’t going to be upset in the slightest, so you don’t have to worry about them. And you’re doing what’s best for your team, so just remember that.”
“Yeah.” She offers me a small smile. “You’re right. Thank you for that.”
“When will you tell him?”
“As soon as the paperwork comes through. It’s going to be my first time telling someone they’re no longer on the team.” She drops her head into her hands, rubbing circles along her temples.
“You have no reason to be nervous about that conversation. However you decide to tell him, he deserves it.”
“He’s still one of your players, Emmett. Wouldn’t you prefer I be gentle?”
I sit back in my chair, arms folded over my middle. “There’s rarely a time I prefer you gentle, Reese. In fact, I prefer most things a little rough.”
She quickly picks up on the innuendo in my tone. “Don’t flirt with me, Montgomery. We’re at work and I’m your boss.”
I huff a laugh. “How could I ever forget?”
Refocusing on Reese’s desk in front of me, I add our backup catcher’s name and number onto the lineup card where I typically place Travis.
I continue to fill the lineup with the guys who are playing tonight when, on my very last name, a set of well-manicured pink nails lands on the back of my hand, contrasting the black ink they’re tracing.
I freeze with the pencil in my grip, watching the way Reese’s fingers languidly follow the outline of my tattoos.
“Your daughter’s sleeve matches these flowers.”
It feels like all the oxygen has left my lungs by her not only touching me but doing so while at work. But I somehow find enough air to say, “I had them first. Miller copied me.”
Reese chuckles, fingers still drawing soft lines over my tattooed hand. “I don’t blame her. They’re awfully pretty.”
“Thank you.”
She eyes them, head cocking to the side. “They’d make a beautiful necklace, don’t you think?”
My eyes shoot to hers, finding a mischievous little grin on her lips after delivering an inappropriate line of her own.
My boss just told me she thinks my hand would look pretty around her throat, and I couldn’t agree more.
“Don’t put ideas in my head,” I warn. “And don’t flirt with me, Remington. We’re at work and I’m your employee.”
“Just reminding you that two can play that game,” she says, a self-satisfied smile on her face as she pulls her hand away.
But I catch it before she can place it back on the keyboard, letting a couple of my fingers fall into the spaces between hers, my thick knuckles alternating with her narrow ones.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay tomorrow?”
Her expression goes soft, and I love seeing her soft with me. “I’ll be all right.”
“Call me if you need me.”
“You know I can’t do that, Emmett.”
“Call me anyway.”
She takes a deep inhale, slowly releasing the exhale. “The press is going to ask you all sorts of questions about Harrison’s trade. You’ll probably have your hands full tomorrow.”
“I don’t mind. After that little elevator ride, I think we both know by now I like having my hands full.”
Her mouth pops open, eyes shining with mischief. “Okay. We really have to stop.”
“But I really don’t want to.”
Before she can try to tell me to keep things professional or throw out a line of her own, a knock raps on the doorway behind me.
Her playful expression swiftly morphs to panic, and I feel it mirrored on my own face when I realize our hands are still slightly intertwined on the desk between us. Whoever it is, they’re standing directly behind me, and I’m just praying that my back is fully covering anything they might see.
“So, yeah. The lineup looks good to me,” Reese says, tapping the paper under our hands.
“Great.” I lift the lineup card, making a too obvious show of it in hopes of proving that we were focusing on it and not each other.
Reese’s eyes slowly move to the doorway over my shoulder. “Scott,” she says. “What can I do for you?”
Fucking hell. Of all people.
“So much for that new receptionist,” I mutter under my breath.
She ignores me.
“Can I have a word with you?” Scott asks. “In private.”
“Of course.” Reese shifts her attention to me, a professional, stoic expression back on her face. “Thank you for meeting. Best of luck tonight, Emmett.”
Message received.
I need to go, but the last thing I want is to leave her alone with Scott. Not that I have a choice. Whatever that conversation entails, it’s most likely far above my pay grade.
Standing, I slip the lineup card back into the folder I brought with me and push the chair in. “Scott,” I say, passing him on my way out the door.
“Monty.”
Just past the threshold, I turn back to check on her, but before I can make eye contact, Scott closes the door on me.
Because he can.
Because he can be alone with her.
Because no one is talking about Reese sneaking out of Scott’s hotel room.
What the hell am I doing?
That was far too close a call.
I swear that woman turns me reckless every time she’s in my vicinity. And to have Scott, out of everyone, almost catch . . . whatever that was. The guy is gunning for her job and I’m risking everything simply because I want to flirt with her for a few minutes and hold her hand across her desk.
I have to stop. We both know that nothing can come from this, and I told her I’d stay away. As much as I hate the idea, I need to be better about keeping that promise.
I’m disappointed in my own lack of restraint as I head down the hall for the elevators, needing to get to the clubhouse. The offices are empty today with it being a Sunday, so I’m surprised to find that when the elevator doors open, someone is inside and gets off on this floor.
But it’s not just anyone. It’s the same guy Reese went on a date with a couple of weeks ago.
“Hey, it’s Monty, right?” he asks, a smile on his face when he spots me, like he’s absolutely thrilled to see me here.
I’ll tell you right now, the feeling is not reciprocated.
I want to remind him that we’re not friends, so he doesn’t need to call me by a comfortable nickname. But then again, I’ve also grown attached to only one specific person calling me by my first name.
“Yeah,” I say, studying him. “Remind me of your name again?”
“Michael.” He holds his hand out to introduce himself.
I shake it, but it’s done so hesitantly, trying to figure out what he’s doing here at the stadium, and even more so, why he got off the elevator on Reese’s floor.
She didn’t seem all that interested after their date, right? Or did I read that entirely wrong?
“Nice to meet you,” I lie. “Are you lost?”
“Nope. I’m here for the game tonight.”
I nod slowly. “Well, the box office is out front. You can get your tickets there.”
He laughs, assuming I’m just giving him a hard time.
I’m not. He can go now.
“I’m here as Reese’s guest. She invited me to watch the game from the owner’s box tonight.”
What the hell?
“Did she now?” I ask, the tension in my jaw obvious as I speak. “How . . . generous of her.”
“Totally. It should be a good time.” He smacks my shoulder like I’m his fucking pal. “Well, I’ll see ya. She told me to meet her in her office, so I’m just gonna . . .”
He steps around me, and that’s when I realize my stance. I’m taking up the majority of the hallway, legs spread and shoulders wide, as if I could stop him from getting to her simply by standing in the way.
But the reality is, I can’t do anything.
I can’t stop him.
I can’t be more than her employee.
I can’t stake some sort of claim over a woman who I can never be with.
I can’t even be seen with her in public the way he can.
“Good luck, Monty,” he calls out, and I’d like to respond by telling him to get fucked. But the dude seems like a genuinely nice guy.
Unfortunately.
How lucky is he that he gets to be here with her.
How lucky is he that he gets to be seen with her.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been more envious of another person in my entire life.