I snort at the thought. As if ending things with Aldridge was remotely heartbreaking.
But there is still pain.
There are still memories of intense perfectionism that I’ve fought off for years. That feeling of being insulated from criticism because I was with the “right” kind of man, the “right” social class, going to the “right” activities and events and charities. Aldridge’s family is practically American royalty—the kindwith family crests on their beach towels and homes in Martha’s Vineyard, Malibu, and Miami. Being with him was easy.
All I had to do was turn off my mind. My heart. My personality. And voilà! I instantly fit in.
For the hundredth time, I wish the guy just would’ve cheated on me.
It would have made things so much easier with our friends and his family. His sister and her kids, especially. I was almostas close to them as I am to my own family, and with my ending things out of nowhere, I’m the villain in this equation.
But alas, he didn’t cheat. And that left me to do the hard thing and “choose myself” like some mid-seasonThis is Usepisode.
I hang my head in my hands, glad I’m alone in the Owner’s Box.
What is it with me and thinking about men I shouldn’t?
I shouldn’t think about Aldridge because ten out of ten doctors agree that stewing on emotionally stifling exes is terrible for your health.
I shouldn’t think about Sean because I’m still ashamed that I got so carried away.
I kissed the manto “protect” him!
Who does that?
I drop my hands and force my eyes to the field. From my box, I have a panoramic view of the field. The perfectly mown diamond, the fresh powder blue-and-maroon Mudflaps signage lining the outfield fence, and the fan zone I personally redesigned to include shaded picnic benches, a splash pad, and a mobile ice cream cart from a local shop.
The lonely old practice diamond in the distance that I know I should update but that changing just feelswrong.
No one uses it anymore, anyway. So it stands there, alone and useless, but strangely brave and … beautiful.
I’m proud of how much the fan and player experiences have improved. The employee experience is even worse off than the old practice diamond.
The clashing wallpaper, flickering fluorescent lighting, and worn out furniture makes the halls and offices look like they were swiped from a used car dealership.
I shudder.
Scottie comes in the suite at the exact right moment.
“Oh, good. Can you ask the contractor to start the office space now? I know I said I’d wait till after the season, but I can’t think in this lighting, and I doubt anyone else can, either.”
“Sure,” she says. She’s holding a manila envelope in one hand and her phone in the other. She looks … tense. “But before we talk details, I have news on that ordinance.”
I grimace, ice freezing my veins. “Bad news?”
“Oh yeah. It’s not on the public calendar yet, but Lacey over in business licensing told me there’s going to be a little surprise in the town council meeting next week.” She sits in the worn leather chair next to me, holding a yellow manila envelope with a bright pink sticky note on it that reads, Property & Business Licensing: MR Ordinance 26.11.4.
“Remember what Delia was talking about at the potluck? Turns out she wasn't just running her mouth. There's actually a residency requirement for business owners here—goes back to the eighties when outside investors gutted half of Main Street. The Kowalski hardware store, Murphy's Auto Repair, all those family businesses that got bought out and abandoned.”
My stomach drops. “I don’t like where this is going.”
“The law requires local residency for any business owner who receives municipal benefits—tax breaks, public land leases, utility incentives. Your stadium lease puts you right in that category.”
“So I need to live here?”
“You had to apply for residency within ninety days of taking ownership. Sugar Maple doesn’t count.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me? Besides, plenty of business owners don't live where they work.”
