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’mworriedabout 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 ballsto 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 isnotready 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 thereliable 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.
