Four of the five men in this room are still hoping I change my mind. And shoot, maybe everyone in the front office feels the same way. The players probably would want that too. And judging by the hate I’ve seen online, it feels like most of the fans in Chicago agree that I should hire out the position to someone who isn’t me.
I mostly believe that I can do it. I know what I’m talking about when it comes to both business and baseball, but I can’t lie andsay it hasn’t crossed my mind more than a few times that I might not be the right person for the job.
And it’s hard not to let those thoughts creep in when the only person who believes in me is me.
I gather a bit of courage, not allowing anyone in this room to realize it’s forced. “As I’ve already stated, the President of Baseball Operations position is not up for discussion.” Standing, I tap the stack of papers against the table to straighten them. “However, Scott, if you’d like to continue to be a part of this advisory board, I look forward to hearing your ideas on how to tackle this budget.”
I catch a ghost of a smirk on Ed’s lips as I bend down to retrieve my bag. “Have a good day, boys,” I call out over my shoulder as I exit the conference room.
And as soon as the door closes behind me, I allow the façade to drop.
I’m screwed.
I already knew this new role was going to be a massive undertaking with very little support from those around me. But now I have to start the year off by making even more budget cuts than I originally planned, and people are going to hate me for it.
It shouldn’t matter. This is a business after all, but I already feel like the outcast when it comes to the rest of the league owners, and I’d rather my own club not completely despise me too.
Bag slung over my shoulder, I bypass my office and head straight to the one place I know I’ll get to be alone right now.
Things aren’t so bad that we’re at the point where I need to sell off shares or anything drastic like that. We have money. But people will be losing their jobs if their position is unnecessary. Players who aren’t producing will be traded. When we hit the trade deadline this summer, I want to be buying players for theplayoffs, not selling them, and I need room in the budget to do so.
I take the elevator down to the clubhouse level. Practice has been done for hours, so I don’t expect to run into anyone down here, but as soon as the elevator doors open, I find one of the players standing on the other side of it.
And he’s probably my least favorite of them.
Harrison Kaiser—one of the outfielders my grandfather picked up late last season, who gets paid way too much for what he does for the team. Not to mention I can tell that he doesn’t mesh well with the other guys. Oh, and he’s also kind of a patronizing prick and I find myself annoyed every time I have to sign one of his paychecks.
“Hey,” Harrison draws out. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”
“Just have a bit of business to attend to,” I say with a forced smile as I slip past him. “Have a good night.”
“Do you need me to help you find where you’re going, sweetie?”
My back is to him so he can’t see me roll my eyes, partly due to the pet name, but mostly because this guy has been here for only a handful of months, most of which were the offseason, while I’ve grown up in this clubhouse. I think I know where I’m going.
“It’s Reese,” I remind him, projecting my voice for him to hear as I continue down the hallway. “Or Ms. Remington, if you prefer.”
I can hear his knowing chuckle from here. “Don’t work too hard today. We don’t need you messing up that pretty manicure of yours.”
I wait until I hear the elevator doors close with him inside before holding out my hand in front of me.
My manicure does look good. The perfect neutral pink trimmed into a flawless almond shape.
I’ll be sure it looks just as good on the day I sign his trade papers to a different team.
Thankfully, I don’t run into anyone else. I don’t need anyone to know where I’m going. This ismysecret spot.
Well, I suppose the dugout isn’t all that secret, but it’s the last place anyone from the front office would look for me.
Once I’m out there, instead of taking a left to sit on the players’ bench, I take a right. There’s a small alcove on this side, just enough room for one or two people to sit. It’s where the dugout phone lives on the half-wall. The same half-wall that gives this seat a bit of privacy and will block anyone’s view of me if they happen to come out here.
This spot is meant for the field manager—though I’ve never seen a field manager who could sit through a game—but I’ve always viewed this little area as mine.
When I was a little girl and my grandfather was too busy working, I’d hide out here. It felt like my own little fort. I’d read or color in this spot. I’d hide from my parents if I wasn’t ready to go home.
Last year, when I came back to start training to take over the team, I found myself out here once again. Not to hide from my parents this time, but to hide from everyone else.
All eyes have been on me since the moment I walked back into this organization last season, and every so often, I need a moment away from the scrutiny.
