Chapter Eleven: Bishop

I’m a mess.

Annoyed.

And sober.

The last one I could have rectified easily with a trip to the nearest liquor store, but there’s a part of me that wants to prove Willow wrong. Also, I made a promise to myself and Lana that I would do better. I only wish it wasn’t so fucking hard.

It”s been a week, and her words still play over and over in my mind.

“You’ve changed,” I whispered, from between her legs, wiping her arousal from my chin.

She propped herself up and gave me a lopsided smile. “So have you.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“Don’t ask me to say the same.”

It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. We don’t owe each other anything. In fact, I should be livid she decided to insert herself into my life after I walked away on that plane, making it clear I didn’t want her.

It’s not that you didn’t want her, Jackson”s voice huffs and I can picture his signature annoyed eye roll.

I bend over and lace up my cleats, ignoring the jab. Mostly because he’s not wrong. It’s something I’ve known all along but refuse to give life to. I may have walked away from Willow that day on the courthouse steps, but it was days later that I decided I couldn’t face her again.

She’d stood in front of me on what should have been the best day of my life—the day I finally divorced the woman who had made my life hell for a year-and-a-half—and delivered me the news, making it a day that would forever haunt me.

Time stopped.

I froze.

And then I ran.

I was a coward, but I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t see beyond the dagger she thrust straight into my chest. It didn’t matter that somewhere in the back of my mind I knew she must be hurting too. All I could think about was Phoebe and my team.

The memories after that moment are a bit hazy. My first stop was Jackson’s apartment, where I held Phoebe as we both fell apart. I kept her away from the news and the press, protecting the innocence I so desperately wanted her to hang on to. There were phone calls and plans made, but I couldn’t tell you what was said.

I ignored every single one of Willow’s calls. Her desperate pleas for me to let her know I was okay.

I wasn’t.

And as time went on, I realized I never wanted to be in that situation again. I never wanted to lose the people I loved. Which made the solution simple.

Don’t love.

Don’t feel.

Willow saw right through me on that. She’s been the only one to see me because, as much as I don’t want to admit it, she’s in the same boat. The difference is we have two very different ways of approaching it. It’s obvious now that she bottles it up, drowns herself in work and bad decisions, and releases with mind blowing sex while I find the nearest bottle.

Hindsight what it is, her way is much more fun. And surprisingly effective. I’ve been able to focus on that night. Anytime I find myself starting to spiral, I think of that moment on the bathroom floor. I still hate who she’s become, but anytime I want to pick up a bottle from the liquor store up the street from the hotel, I think of sinking into her tight cunt and it’s enough of a distraction to stop me.

But today is different.

Today would have been Tommy’s thirtieth birthday.

He had big plans to have a funeral celebrating the death of his twenties filled with women, booze, and his best friends. He didn’t know I’d be the one attending his funeral four months prior, and when the day came, I’d be the only one left.

I still expect you to celebrate, asshole.

My chest tightens as I glance up at the clubhouse that’s slowly filling with my new teammates and the hopeful farm team guys. Over the last week, I’ve silently watched them from afar as they build a rapport with each other, while I remain haunted by the men who once stood in their place, unable to engage.

“So, you’ve got a date lined up for right after we’re done, and then another in case that one blows up in your face?” One of the rookie catchers—I think his name is Noah Smith, but the guys have taken to calling him Smitty—asks Carson as they join me in the locker room.

Carson Whitmore, our ace pitcher, shrugs with a half-cocked smile.“When you put it like that, it sounds like I’m an asshole. I’m just ensuring that I can share my love with as many as possible on this fine Valentine’s Day.”

I grind my teeth as I finish lacing up my cleats. I’ve been so focused on Tommy that I forgot he shares his birthday with the one day I’ve come to hate.

I didn’t always. It was once a holiday my family celebrated with reckless abandon. Growing up in the town of Cupid’s Hollow, it was somewhat of a given. Each year there’s a festival that spans the entire week of Valentine’s Day and culminates with the lover’s dance in the town square. There was a time I lived for that dance. I calculated and planned who I would ask to be my date and dreamed of the day I did so with my wife.

It’s funny how plans change. The very idea of loving anyone like that makes my skin feel like it’s going to break out in hives.

But as different as I am now, some things never change.Like Carson. He’s still the same fuckboy he’s always been. He might be the best pitcher this league has seen in twenty years, but chasing ass and breaking hearts are synonymous with his reputation.

“What about you, Bishop?” Smitty turns and asks, bouncing on his heels like a puppy wagging its tail. “What are your plans for Singles Awareness Day?”

My brows knit together, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I plan to drink myself stupid so I won’t remember the rookie that should be there instead of him, only to wake up tomorrow to be smacked with the reality that he’s still not here.

Fuck, Bish, that’s a little harsh, don’t you think? He’s just trying to get to know you,Jackson offers, ever the voice of reason.

You’re right, but you’d think after a week of trying he’d have given up, or at the very least, realized I’m not looking to make friends,I reply in my head.

That’s not very captainly of you.

We both know there’s no official captains in major league baseball, but the sentiment isn’t lost. I’m supposed to be the leader on this team. It was a job Jackson and I took on together in previous years. It feels wrong now without him.

Ignoring the rookie and his question, I grab my glove and gear and stand from the bench.

“I’ll meet you out there,” I say to Carson, who gives a slight nod and turns back to Smitty, murmuring under his breath not to take it personally.

The field is empty when I enter the training facility. Which is just how I like it. Baseball has always been the one thing that calms me and brings me joy.But stepping out into the practice field feels different now. The joy is a bit muted, and the calm is notably more restless. There are a million reasons I can come up with as to why it feels this way, but all of them are excuses. The truth is, I’m not sure this is where I’m supposed to be anymore. I love baseball and the idea of this team, but it doesn’t feel like home. My only inkling of hope is playing the game gives me the foothold I need to push through.

I cross the walkway, where press and fans will inevitably line up as the spring training season continues, and enter the dugout. Throwing my gear down, I climb the two steps to the field and squat down, running my fingers through the dirt on the short warning track like Jackson and I do every practice and game. Superstitious fucks that we are. It’s our version of saying hello to the fields we call home for nine innings at a time. Or in this case, our spring training home away from home.

My eyes burn with unwanted tears as I try to reconcile how I can hate this place and still love it with every fiber of my being. It’s a constant reminder of the people who should be here but aren’t, leaving the whole vibe off. Spring training is supposed to be fun. Almost like summer camp where you miss your friends in the off season, but now you’re back together again. Only this time, they aren’t here.

Tommy won’t walk in full of swagger and confidence, and Jackson won’t pull his seat out from under him to take him down a peg. Marshall won’t blast reggae from his phone, and Fellows won’t be there to hype us up before each game with a joke that would make even the most vulgar of us blush.

And yet, I’m supposed to just move on.

For the umpteenth time since arriving in Florida, I shake the memories of my fallen teammates from my mind, knowing if I don’t focus there’s a good chance I won’t make it to opening day.

Maybe I’m not supposed to.

Maybe I’m supposed to move forward with Phoebe, protecting her until Jackson wakes up—because I have to believe he’s going to wake up. But then what? What comes next for me?

I hate the thought as soon as it enters my brain, but it’s one I keep circling back to. I may love this game, but I’ve learned the hard way love isn’t enough. Not when it can be ripped away in an instant.

Carson slides up next to me, pulling me back to the job at hand. “You know he didn’t mean anything by that question.”

I sigh and turn to the only guy on this team I can remotely stand to spend more than five minutes with, and that’s only because he’s my ace pitcher and I have to. “What?”

“Smitty,” Carson says, jerking his head back toward the clubhouse. “He’s just trying to get to know you.”

“I don’t need to know him,” I quickly bite back, not wanting to have this conversation.

Of course, that doesn’t stop Carson.

“He could be your backup.”

“And so could any of the other five other catchers still here.” It’s a harsh thing to say, but I’m not about to invest in anyone that isn’t going to be here when the season starts.

That’s what spring training is all about. Those who are already signed to the forty-man roster show up to get reacquainted with each other’s styles, strengthen rapports, and set our signs and communications so that by the time games start in two weeks we are solid. Then there are those—like Smitty—brought up from the triple-A team. They are trying to impress the suits and slide into the big show. Most of them will get cut long before the season starts. The probability of Noah being one of them is high, especially considering there’s some jackass currently riding the roster as my backup.

Sure, that’s it.

I wince internally. I’m not sure how I’m going to make it with these jackasses in my head. They’ve had infinitely more to say now that I’m surrounded by the spaces I shared with them. And usually, it’s calling me out on my bullshit.

That’s because we know you want to do better.

I don’t dignify the sentiment with a response.

Carson’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. He runs an aggravated hand through his hair and sighs. “Okay then. You ready?”

“No” is on the tip of my tongue, but I shove it down and grab my gear from the bench and follow him onto the field. We go through the song and dance of stretching before starting with a simple game of catch as the rest of the guys trickle out of the clubhouse and do the same.

Everyone pairs off, mirroring Carson and me, but it’s not like previous years where camaraderie flowed like beer on St. Patrick’s Day. There’s not an ounce of celebration or excitement in the air. Even after a week, it’s every man for himself. The veteran players need to solidify their status on the team while the rookies make sure one slip up doesn’t cost them their chance. Every day is a damn dog and pony show.

I throw the ball back to Carson harder than I need to.

“You okay, Bish?” he asks.

“Fine,” I snap, jerking up my glove to provide him with a target.

His brows raise, proving I’m not fooling anyone here. “You sure? You just about took my hand off.”

“Just throw the damn ball, Carson,” I sigh.

We throw a few more warm up tosses and then slide over to the row of mounds where I squat behind a plate to catch Carson’s pitches. I ignore the way my knee clicks and the burn of my thighs and calves, silently berating myself for not putting in the work during the off season. I may have been in the gym a few times a week, but I was more focused on pain and forgetting than I was on properly stretching. Now I’m paying the price.

We work on calls, signs, and techniques with the pitching staff and I’m thankful he’s currently set to be our ace. He’s exactly what this team needs. He might present himself as the class clown, but he’s focused, adaptable, and easily one of the best pitchers in the league. I still have no idea how his name ended up on the list of draftees, because there is no way Atlanta didn’t put up a hell of a fight to keep him. Though given the way the rest of these guys on the field are showing off for the staff, he’s going to have a run for his money to keep his place at the top. They may not be my Renegades, but we’ve got a solid bullpen.

I slip my hand between my legs and Carson reads my sign. To his credit, he throws a perfect sinker, but instead of framing it, I flinch and the ball slips from my glove, hitting the dirt and rolling behind me.

A string of muttered curses slips free as I flip my mask off and pop up to field the ball.It’s a rookie mistake and not the first one I’ve made since we slid over.

Carson shakes his head and starts toward me as I bend over and reach for the ball. If the way his brows are furrowed tells me anything, this will either be hilarious or end with my fist in his face. It’s really a toss-up.

Carson tugs his glove from his hand and stows it under his arm, his free hand finding his hip. “You gonna tell me what the fuck is going on with you?”

Okay, so we’re going with fists.

I stand up and offer him the ball, ignoring his comment. Mostly because this is a man who I respect a hell of a lot, and what I’m going through is none of his damn business.

“Get back on the mound, Whitmore.”

He takes the ball and puts his hands up in surrender. “Listen, I know it’s our first week back, but even I can see you aren’t okay.”

My jaw tightens and I grind my teeth as I grit out, “Drop it, Carson.”

Hearing the lack of humor in my tone, he backs away and slips his glove back on, throwing the ball into the pocket a few times. “Fine. But I didn’t come here to lose.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Carson glares at me, making sure I know I’m the problem. “All I’m saying is I didn’t work every back door deal to make it to this team in order to lose.”

My mind works to process his words. Backdoor deals? When it clicks, my brows reach my hairline. “You volunteered for this?”

He narrows his gaze, but the smirk that paints his lips is one of a kid getting away with pulling one over on his parents. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Why?”

“Get your head out of your ass and I’ll tell you.” Carson turns away from me and the mound and starts toward the opposite end of the practice field. “I’m going to throw with Smitty for a bit. Let me know if you want to talk or need help dislodging your head so we can get on the same page.”

My mouth drops open slightly, but I catch myself and press my lips together into a tight line as he leaves me standing there like an idiot. He’s drawing a line in the sand, and I can’t blame him. As our starting pitcher, he deserves someone who can meet his level of dedication to this team and right now, that’s not me.

Unfortunately for me, his actions will reflect who he believes should be behind the plate.

Fuck.

Do better. Jackson adds salt to the wound.

My gaze follows Carson as he joins a circle of pitchers and catchers standing at the opposite end of the practice field. They welcome him with open arms, but that’s not what adds insult to injury. As they part to let him join the group, I catch a glimpse of the person they’re surrounding, laughing like they’re old pals.

Standing there in another one of her cock teasing skirts—this one in charcoal gray—and with her bouncing curls tied up in a pony is Willow.

She hasn’t made much of a presence at the field over the last week, but the few times she has stopped by, she’s made it a point to spend at least five to ten minutes chatting with the team. They flock to her, even the married guys. And not in a creepy or sexual way—those stares are reserved for me and me alone. They just can’t help but be pulled into her vortex of infectious positivity.

Everyone except me. I keep my distance.

Every once in a while, I see her stolen glances in my direction. The trepidation in her eyes, not knowing if she should approach me or not. I know she’s waiting for me to make the first move.

“Lawson,” Graham yells from the dugout, and I look over my shoulder to where he’s chatting with Ignacio Perez, our pitching coach. He tips his head, calling me over.

By the time I enter the dugout, Ignacio has stepped onto the field, leaving me to chat with our field manager alone.

Graham spits sunflower seeds on to the dirt and levels his gaze on me. “You haven’t completed your physicals.”

In any other situation, I’d force the innocent smile that has gotten me off the hook more times than I care to admit, but I was expecting this conversation sooner or later. So instead, I offer a half-hearted lift of my shoulders. “I did most of them.”

Graham’s stony gaze doesn’t waver. “Most isn’t all.”

There isn’t any doubt my astute field manager is talking about my session with the team therapist. It’s not something I wanted to do on my first day back at spring training. Hell, it’s not something I wanted to do, period. Which is why I have been putting it off every day since.

Every other season I’ve had no problem with the preseason check-in to make sure players are good to go mentally. This season, I’m not, and I don’t need someone to tell me so. My own therapist already fired me, saying I needed a grief specialist to unpack all the trauma from the crash after she struggled to find a path to help me back to who I was before.

I was more than okay with agreeing to find someone else. Because what if that’s not who I’m meant to be? She knew me when I was searching for love in all the wrong places, giving it to anyone and everyone because I saw the world with the rose-tinted glasses of a hopeless romantic. I don’t think I can go back to that. I need someone who is going to help me navigate the future, not just the past.

But I can’t say that without calling into question if I should be on the field to begin with. Baseball is the only thing giving me a hint of normalcy. If I lose that, I’m a goner.

However, if there’s anyone aside from Willow who can smell my bullshit, it’s Graham. He’s had a front row seat to every one of my fuckups and isn’t going to let me skate by without checking every single one of the boxes I need to be cleared. He wants me on that field as much as I want to be there. He said as much to me after our first team meeting.

Graham sighs and lifts his hand, running it along the back of his neck. “Listen, I hate this as much as you do, but you’ve got two choices. Get your ass inside and finish your physicals, including a stop at mental health, or ride the bench.”

The fact I knew it was coming doesn’t do anything to soothe the way my chest tightens as the weight of his words hit home.

This is the moment I’ve dreaded. From here on out, it’s all or nothing.

My jaw tightens, and I nod.

“Good. Hit the showers. They’re expecting you.”

I pause and look out over the field at the men who are supposed to replace the ghosts that loom forever in my mind. Guilt washes over me.

All or nothing.

Do better.

The mantra’s echo one after another.

Something has to change. This team doesn’t deserve this from me, but neither does the team that left me behind. I’m at a loss on how to honor them and still manage to move on.

Then again, maybe Willow was right. Maybe moving on isn’t the answer.

Just before I exit the field, I look up and my eyes connect with the woman whose wisdom haunts me. She’s looking at me with every ounce of confidence she did in my hotel room, and I remind myself she’s not here for me or to pick up the pieces I leave in my wake.

Fuck off, Bishop. We both know that’s not true,the birthday boy sounds off. She loves this team, but she showed up for you when you needed her. Every. Single. Time.

Fuck.

She’s the answer.

The second the thought crosses my mind, I know I should squash it and go see the damn therapist. But now that it’s grown talons and lodged itself in my chest, I won’t be able to think straight until I let it work itself out.

Willow is the only person who has made me feel anything more than pain, anger, or grief in the last four and a half months.

I called her a distraction, which she is, and that’s all she should be. But the way time stopped when I kissed her—fucked her—has lived in that space rent free all week. What if I could stay there? Where every other emotion doesn’t touch me. Maybe then I could focus and be present for this team just long enough to work out how to make it my future.

It’s a crazy thought, but maybe crazy is what I need to get me through this. Nothing else has worked, and while seeing a therapist is absolutely the better option, I don’t have the time to wade through the bullshit and be okay.

Opening day is right around the corner, and as much as I feel like I’m on the verge of needing to walk away, it’s not something I’m willing to do without putting up a fight. I owe it to myself. I owe it to Phoebe. I owe it to my team.

Dead and alive.

I’m not na?ve enough to believe this is a long-term solution. Someday I’ll have to face my demons. But today isn’t that day.

At least this time when I fuck up, I’m going to enjoy every minute of going down in flames.

Now, I need to see a woman about a plan.