Chapter 27 - Emmett
Emmett
I should be asleep. Our current game schedule is way too brutal for me to be missing out on sleep, yet here I am, tossing and turning in my hotel bed.
I should put my phone down. That’d probably help. Cut down on the blue light or whatever. But I can’t seem to find it in me to stop scrolling.
Tonight’s game was brutal, and I feel for Milo. Sure, it was a pretty shit first showing, but it’s all magnified because of the caliber of player he’s replacing.
But even more so, I feel for Reese. I’m worried about Reese.
She won’t admit that she’s hurt by the things being said about her. She’s doing her best to act as if she’s okay. I understand why she hasn’t come to talk to me about it in public yet, but I was hoping by now, she’d confide in me in private.
But she’s headstrong as ever and determined not to appear weak. Even around me, I guess.
This is how I’ve spent every night this week. Lying in bed, unable to sleep, and thinking about how she’s handling everything.
I’ve also spent my nights reading posts online and listening to commentators speak on things they have no fucking clue about regarding my boss. I’m not sure why I can’t stop, all their takes are utter bullshit anyway, but there’s something in me that feels as if I just need to be aware.
Not that I could do anything about it anyway.
I click on a suggested video from a guy I recognize as the host of a popular sports podcast, and from the clickbait headline alone, I can already tell I’m not going to like it.
“Let’s get into the mess that’s happening in Chicago,” he says as soon as I press play.
“All anyone can talk about is the Kaiser trade to Houston. Anyone with an ounce of baseball knowledge knows that was one of the worst moves we’ve seen in years.
And to do it so early in the season? The Warriors don’t even know if they’re headed to the playoffs or not, and they’re trading off huge-name players like Harrison Kaiser.
They just traded away any hope they could have of a playoff run, and we aren’t even halfway through the regular season yet.
The Warriors already lost Kai Rhodes to retirement last year.
What’s next? What other disaster decision could they make over there?
And by ‘they,’ I think we all know by now I’m referring to ‘her.’”
Oh, get so fucked.
He continues to speak into that stupid little microphone in his hand.
“In case anyone is living under a rock and doesn’t know by now, Reese Remington is the granddaughter of former Warriors owner and acting president, Arthur Remington.
He handed over the team during the offseason, and instead of hiring a president who actually knows a thing about the game, she decided she was capable of taking on the role herself.
” He laughs to himself, and I wish I could reach through the screen and wrap my hand around his throat.
“I have no idea who let her believe so highly of herself. I’d be curious to know what Arthur thinks about his precious granddaughter running his team into the ground.
If I were a Warriors fan, I’d be fuming that my team is the hands of someone like her.
Hardly any experience. Clearly doesn’t know the game. ”
He shakes his head, exhaling a long sigh. “It makes you wonder if there’s anyone over there in Chicago with enough balls to stand up to this chick and tell her she has no idea what she’s doing.”
Fucking idiot.
“Now, let’s talk about this new kid, Milo Jones.
I’ll give it to him. His minor league stats are impressive.
I hadn’t heard of him before this week, but it’s clear by his numbers that Arthur found himself a possible future gem out of New Mexico.
But the key part of that is ‘future.’ Today’s game was evidence that this guy is not ready for the majors, and bringing a player up too soon can and will ruin his growth.
I’m sure when Arthur filtered him in his minor league system, he had no intention of him being pulled up so soon.
So, someone might want to inform Reese that you can’t replace a player like Harrison Kaiser for a nobody.
Maybe if she gave her team as much time and attention as she gives herself to get ready every morning, they wouldn’t be in the situation they are in now. ” He holds his hands up in surrender.
“I hate to say it, but we’re all thinking it.
” I can already tell whatever he’s about to say, he’s fucking thrilled to say it out loud.
“You’re out of your league, honey. Oh, and there’s no crying in baseball, which we all know you’re doing right now.
So, clean up that mascara and pass the team off to someone who knows what the hell they’re doing. ”
The clip ends there, and I’m tempted to throw my phone across the room in hopes it’ll smash against the wall so I never have to hear his voice again.
The video previews another that will automatically start next, but I don’t have it in me to watch any more. I don’t have it in me to listen to another asinine take regarding someone they don’t know shit about.
And by “they,” I mean the podcasters who think that because they went and bought a microphone and started recording themselves they’re now experts on the sport. But even the reliable reports in the industry can get fucked with how they’ve spoken about Reese this week.
They have no idea that Reese was the one who found Milo.
That she’s so smart when it comes to both business and baseball.
That she probably hasn’t cried once over the hate she’s getting because she’s afraid to show any emotion for fear of being called emotional by idiots with a platform.
I toss my phone onto the nightstand with a little more force than necessary, and as soon as I lay my head back on the pillow, a knock sounds at my door.
Startling, because it’s the middle of the night, I lie there and listen carefully. These hotel walls are so thin, I’m not entirely convinced that knock was even coming from my door.
Maybe ten seconds later, it sounds again. It’s a light tap, and it’s then I realize the sound is not coming from my main door that leads out into the hallway. The knock is happening on the pass-through door that connects this room to the one next to mine.
Reese is staying in that room. It’s not the first time we’ve shared a hotel wall. In fact, it’s not even the first time we’ve shared a connecting door. And it’s not the first time I’ve kept it unlocked on my side in hopes she might open it.
But this is the first time she’s ever tried.
“It’s open,” I call out.
The handle turns, but there’s a long pause before the door opens, as if she’s making sure she actually wants to do this. The last time she was in my hotel room was almost a huge fucking disaster, but the situation is a whole lot safer when she doesn’t have to go out into the hall to get in here.
Finally, the door cracks open just enough for Reese to peek her head through.
Fresh face without any makeup. Tired eyes. Apologetic smile.
“Hi,” I say gently. “Can’t sleep?”
She shakes her head to tell me no. “How about you?”
“Same.”
She opens the door a bit wider, revealing the matching pajama set she’s wearing. Because of course, even when she’s not feeling her best, she’s still put together.
“Could I . . .” She stumbles over her words, waiting for me to finish her sentence.
It’d be easy for me to. I know exactly what she wants to say, but I also need her to start being okay with asking for help, especially from me.
So, I don’t say anything.
“Would it . . . would you mind if I stayed in here tonight?”
My chest feels like it’s being split in two with how sad she looks. With how vulnerable her request is. She takes care of herself far too often, so this feels much more meaningful than her simply wanting to sleep in my bed.
I’m eager to give her a quick and resounding “yes,” but I think she might be more comfortable if I at least gave her a little shit for it first.
I fold an arm behind my head as I watch her in the doorway. “Is your room too cold again or something?”
She catches on immediately, throwing a thumb over her shoulder. “I can go back in and turn down the temperature if I need an excuse.”
A smile curves at my lips. “No need for an excuse. Come here.”
I lift her side of the covers for her as Reese closes the connecting door and pads over to the bed. I fully expect her to climb in, situate herself along the furthest edge of the mattress from me, and face the wall.
But she doesn’t.
As soon as Reese slips into the bed with me, she scoots her way across the mattress right to me, putting us chest to chest. Tucking her head under my chin, she wraps her arm around my waist. Her way of silently asking me to hold her.
It’s unguarded and sweet and it’s the first time she confirms just how much she’s hurting, even if it’s done so silently.
“Hey,” I soothe, slipping my palm into her hair and cradling her head against me.
I don’t tell her it’s okay because it’s not. I don’t tell her she’s fine because, again, she’s not.
Her fingers desperately press into the skin of my back as if she could just get a bit closer, things might start feeling better for her.
It does a stupid, irresponsible, possessive thing to my chest.
I scoot closer to her, curving my body around hers, covering her legs with one of my own and intertwining us as much as possible.
It’d probably be unprofessional to tell her how much I’ve missed her this week while she’s been hiding out. It’d probably be just as unprofessional to tell her how good it feels to hold her.
At this point, I think we both know we’ve crossed any professional lines that may have stood between us anyway.