The laughter and chat behind me is pissing me off for her.
Fuck.I internally berate myself for what I’m about to do. Blame it on my daughter. She’s the reason I’m so damn soft.
“Hey!” I stand up, turning to face the room from my seat, and all eyes immediately fall to me. “Let’s have a little respect, why don’t we?”
The room goes silent at my tone.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath.
Sure, I come off like a grumpy bastard most of the time, a little intimidating with my build and tattoos, but anyone who knows me knows I’m a nice guy until you piss me off. And this is pissing me off.
I retake my seat, feeling Reese’s attention on me, and it takes a moment for me to return the eye contact and look up at her.
She gives me a curt nod, her tone all professional when she says, “Thank you for that, Emmett.”
And then there’s that . . .Emmett.
She’s the only person in all of Chicago who uses my first name when everyone else calls me by my nickname. And I know she does it on purpose, like she’s refusing to allow any sort of comfortability between us. It’s as if she’s once again reminding me that she’s my boss, I’m her employee, and regardless of how much time we’re about to spend together this season, we aren’t friends and we’re never going to be.
It’ll make it that much easier for her to fire me at the end of the year.
Fucking great.
“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Reese Remington.” With the room silent, she confidently begins her first staff meeting. “The new owner of the Windy City Warriors.”
“Emmett.”
I’m mid-conversation with a few of the guys from my coaching staff. The meeting is over, so most everyone is simply catching up before calling it a day.
“Can I speak with you?” Reese continues.
I take a sharp inhale through my nose, gathering myself as I turn around to face her. “You’re the boss.”
“Surprised you remember that.” Her eyes trail to the group of my video coaches. “In my office, please.”
Reese shifts on her high heels, heading straight for the door, expecting me to follow.
Which I, of course, do.
Hands in my pockets, I trail her out of the film room down the hall and up two flights of stairs, headed for her office.
I keep my head down, partly to avoid watching the way her sinfully thick hips sway from side to side with each step she takes, but mostly because I feel like a kid in trouble, being called to the principal’s office, and not like a long-tenured field manager with a winning track record and a World Series ring.
My jaw is tense for the entire walk to her office, but my chewing gum acts as a good distraction to anyone who might be watching this interaction. My players and staff have always known me as easygoing and confident.
But when it comes to Reese, I feel the complete opposite.
Who knows what she’s going to throw at me on day one of this new season. All I know is that it’s starting. Her mission to prove to herself that she doesn’t need to renew my coaching contract next year starts today.
Once we reach the top floor, she turns the corner to her office and I follow, but stop short at the empty receptionist desk that lives just outside her door.
“Where’s Denise?” When Reese doesn’t answer, my eyes find hers. “You fired Denise? Are you serious?”
I get that the woman is wanting to make this place her own, but firing her grandfather’s receptionist that worked here as long as Arthur did? What the hell?
Reese narrows her eyes at me. “Of course I didn’t fire Denise. I’ve known her since I was born, but she wanted to retire, regardless of how many times I begged her to stay. I just haven’t found her replacement yet. As much as you might not believe this, I’m not a monster, Emmett.”
Reese doesn’t give me a chance to respond, which is probably for the best, before she continues into her office and closes the door once I enter too.
