He steps out into the aisle, giving me room to slip into the window seat next to his. I tuck my purse under the row in front of me then practically exhale a sigh of relief when I sink into the chair.
Emmett doesn’t say anything when he sits back down, and I find myself thankful for the silence. It doesn’t draw added attention, but just having him next to me feels like I can breathe a little easier.
He’s really great at taking care of people, even if he doesn’t mean to be.
It’s taken everything in me not to call him the past couple of nights like he told me I could. Especially when he’s theonlyperson I’ve wanted to talk to about any of this. I’ve found myself wanting to hear only his opinion, in hopes it might drown out the others. To maybe let his steady confidence in me reignite my own sense of assurance.
But I need to take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for years at this point and he’s got too much going on because of my decision to worry about the burden of my shaken confidence. And at the end of the day, I need to remember that he’s still my employee, and though we’ve fucked around with some professional boundaries, I need to stay strong even around him.
I don’t know if any field manager has been called for more interviews than he has in the past two days. And in each and every one he’s taken accountability and blame, recounting the game he grabbed Harrison by the jersey. When asked what prompted the trade, Emmett has been constant with saying Harrison and the coaching staff couldn’t get on the same page.
He and I both know that’s not the case, but I appreciate what he’s trying to do.
It’s strange. After being married to someone who wanted to take this role from me, I haven’t been able to quite wrap my head around Emmett. A man who not only wants me to have this job but wants me to succeed in it. Wants to protect me as much as he can, and has done so willingly, without even knowing whether he’s going to be coaching here next season.
Emmett leans into the space between our seats, keeping his voice hushed. “When was the last time you ate?”
I shrug in reply because I don’t actually know. Maybe last night. Or maybe I was so busy reading online forums about how much our fans hate me that I forgot to.
“Reese.”
“I . . . I don’t remember.”
I tentatively allow my eyes to drift over to him only to find that he is pissed.
Emmett’s jaw goes hard before he quickly stands from his seat and slips into the galley where the flight attendants are waiting to close the boarding door.
Food is the last thing I care about right now. Sleep too. It’s kind of hard to focus on either of those things when all I want is to succeed in this role. I’ve been training for what seems like my entire life for this moment but am currently being told by everyone that I’m failing.
The only saving grace over the past couple of days, besides Emmett’s interviews with the press, are the players’ interviews. They’ve supported the trade, and maybe that’s just a public appearance thing or maybe their field manager threatened them if they said something negative about my decision-making. But whatever the reason, them publicly having my back makes me feel as if I’m part of this team.
“Eat this,” Emmett says, holding out a granola bar as he retakes his seat next to me. “Lunch will be served in the air.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Reese.” His tone holds no room for argument. “You need to eat. Then you need to close your eyes and try to get some rest. I’ll wake you up when food comes around, but you need sleep.”
I’ve come to learn that though Emmett will bend on certain things, there are other beliefs he holds strong conviction in. And judging by the way he’s forcing this bar in my direction, apparently something as minor as me not eating breakfast is a hard line for the man. Pretty sure he might feed it to me if I refuse to do it myself.
I’m sure that wouldn’t raise any suspicions.
I take the bar from him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I turn my body toward the window to eat this granola bar, but I catch him out of the corner of my eye every so often watching me with concern.
“How’s Milo?” I ask quietly, attempting to get the attention off me.
“Don’t worry about him, Reese. The boys are taking care of him.”
I nod to myself.
“We should sit him the first couple of games, though. Give him some time to adjust.”
I know it’s the right thing to do. Let him learn our system and get a feel for the pace of the game at this level, especially with how much pressure he’s got on his shoulders. But I also know what delaying his first game will do.
“But,” Emmett continues, “I’m worried things are going to get worse for you if we don’t just get him out there and let him shut everyone up.”
