I turn into her receptionist area, where, shockingly, there’s still no receptionist sitting outside her office. And with how feral people are regarding this trade, the last thing I want is for anyone to be able to get to her.
Well, besides me. I still want to be able to get to her.
I push through her door, and when the field comes into view from the massive windows lining her office, I find Reese’s desk chair empty.
She’s not in her office at all, and it fills me with both relief and worry. Relief that she’s not surrounded by the current chaos. Worried that she’s getting even more shit about this trade somewhere out there than she would be if she were hiding in her office right now.
It doesn’t take me long to piece together where she might be.
I tend to find her in the dugout when the players are gone and there’s no baseball to be played. And while the guys are still here, today’s practice is already over, so it’s worth a shot.
I take the elevator down to the clubhouse level once again, keeping a casual stride down the tunnel to not draw anyone’s attention or cause someone to join me outside. The boys are still chattering away in the locker room when I pass, but the tunnel is empty.
And so is the field when it comes into view.
I can’t see anyone in the dugout either.
Until I turn the corner around the partition that separates the field manager’s seat and find Reese sitting on the ledge above the bench.
She looks good in my seat but it’s all a sharp juxtaposition. Her trouser pants are perfectly tailored to fit her body but are currently sitting in dirt that’s kicked up on the ledge. Her legs are crossed, one red-bottomed high heel firmly planted against the old wooden bench that should really be replaced soon.
Blonde hair covers her face, because her head is tipped forward, staring at the phone screen in her hands. Her thumbs scroll endlessly, but I catch some of the words on the screen.
She’s too focused to realize I’m standing right in front of her.
Every protective instinct in me flares, watching her sit there and read nasty things about herself, but along with that comes the helpless realization that I’m not going to be able to do much to fix this for her.
“Hey,” I say gently, reaching out to cover her phone with my hand. “You don’t need to be reading those.”
Finally, Reese notices me, letting me take her phone from her. Blue eyes are rimmed in red, not from crying but from exhaustion. Her brows seem to have a permanent line between them from the constant furrow. Her skin is a touch dull, and don’t get me wrong, she still looks fucking gorgeous, but she’s also clearly wrecked.
“Shit,” I exhale, slipping her phone into my back pocket. “Did you not sleep?”
She shakes her head to tell me no, and the selfish part of me wants to make sure it’s not because she was up all night regretting what we did. But I know in my gut this isn’t about us.
“Reese,” I say, taking a step forward before stopping myself when I remember where we are.
I can’t hold her. I can’t comfort her. I can’t do anything and it’s eating me alive to witness her this way. That confidence I’m so used to seeing this woman exude is nowhere to be found.
“They hate me,” she finally says, and it’s the saddest admission that could ever slip from her lips.
“Fuck them.”
“Em—”
“No, Reese. Fuck them. They don’t know what we know, do they?”
Finally, she gives me the smallest shake of her head.
“I’m sure they’re looking up that kid right now.” I point toward the clubhouse. “And even though his stats are ridiculous, they’re still going to convince themselves that you made the wrong decision. But you didn’t, did you?”
“I hope I didn’t.”
“You know you didn’t. And it’s going to feel real fucking good when we prove them all wrong.”
She looks up at me, eyes bouncing between mine as if she were searching for something. Maybe a bit of reassurance.
“You and me, right?” I ask gently.
