Chapter Twelve: Willow

“What do you mean he didn’t speak to the team therapist?” I snap, as I try to focus on not poking my eye with my mascara wand.

Graham mutters a curse I can barely make through the speakerphone. “I mean, I told him to show up to the appointment or ride the bench. He then proceeded to show up, but he didn’t say a damn word to her for the entire hour.”

Freaking Bishop. I’m not sure if I want to be impressed with his malicious compliance or throw my phone at his head.

I really thought we’d turned a corner in the last week. While I’ve witnessed firsthand the distance he keeps between him and any of the other guys on the team, at least he wasn’t showing up drunk or getting into trouble at the hotel.

We should be celebrating the baby steps but the league, or should I say Vaughn, waits for no one and not taking his therapy session seriously is absolutely something they would use against Bishop as grounds to trade him.

“I’ll talk to him,” I muse as I put the finishing touches on my face and run my fingers through the blonde curls I spent the last hour perfecting.

I don’t know why I’m trying so hard. It’s not like I expect this date to go anywhere. It was a mistake made in a moment of manic bravery when Indie asked me if I wanted her to add me to an elite dating app for celebrities. I’m not foolish enough to believe I’m anyone important, but the NDAs and privacy put my mind at ease, and I was feeling particularly alone that night.

Plus, it’s time I get back on the horse. I might not be ready to let go of Bishop completely, but that doesn’t mean I need to spend my nights alone with copious amounts of popcorn and reading about the love I wish I could find. Not to mention I could use the distraction. Especially after the five rounds I went with the board today, trying to get them to reconsider partnering with the league for the gala.

“Are you sure? You don’t need to get involved.” My uncle tries to reassure me, but he’s wrong. I do.

Bishop doesn’t trust anyone, least of all me, but we have a history. We might have only shared a few nights, but those evenings were filled with talk of nothing and everything between the rounds of downright filthy sex. He gave me a part of him that he gives to no one else. Just like he did a week ago. He’ll hate every minute of my meddling, but my gut is telling me if there’s anyone he’ll listen to, it’s me. I’m just sorry it took me months to realize it. Maybe if I had tried harder sooner, we wouldn’t be here.

I just need to reiterate we’re talking as owner and player and nothing more.

“I’ll get through to him,” I vow, smoothing down the hem of my beaded designer dress and picking my phone from the bathroom counter. “I’ll be at the stadium tomorrow to welcome the rest of the team. Send him up to my office after morning work.”

The doorbell echoes through the house loud enough that I can hear it from my bedroom in the back.

“You have company?” Graham asks, but the curiosity in his voice lets me know it’s my uncle asking, not my field manager.

My eyes dart around the room, looking for the torture devices, also known as heels, that match the purple beading of my dress. “I’m going on a date tonight.”

“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.” His tone makes my heart stutter. It’s the same one my father used to take with me when I would conveniently leave out details about my life he thought he deserved to know. He’d furrow his brow and give me a stern yet sing songy, “Willow Mae.” And I’d melt and tell him everything. Because where my mother never learned to value my presence as more than a weapon to control, my father eventually took the time to care. He put in the work.

Tears burn the corners of my eyes. God, I miss him.

Slipping down to the mattress of my bed, I slide my feet into the heels and make quick work of the buckles, and I shake my head like both Graham and my father can see me rolling my eyes. “I’m not seeing anyone. It’s a first date.”

“On Valentine’s Day?” Graham scoffs. “Ballsy of him.”

My mouth drops open. I hadn’t even realized that was today. My mind has been so wrapped up in plans for both the team and Renegade Hearts that I didn’t make the connection. However, Shepherd’s comment on the field about needing to send flowers to his wife makes a hell of a lot more sense now.

I roll my eyes. “It’s just a day.”

“Alright but let me know that you made it home safe.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Graham,” I sass playfully to cover the way my lip trembles at the way he cares.

“Wills,” he replies sternly.

“I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you. I know I’m not your father, but he’ll haunt me if I don’t keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks, Graham.”

“Have fun,” he says before ending the call.

My phone screen jumps back to the dating app that was open before Graham called and shows the altogether too wholesome Hank, 35, CEO of Johnstons Enterprises. I’d been contemplating for the hundredth time if I should just cancel. Sure, I’d be the bitch who did so on Valentine’s Day of all days, but I’m second-guessing if I can paste a smile on my face through a five-star Michelin dinner and pretend I’m the society sweetheart-turned-baseball-team-owner this man expects me to be.

But it’s a step in the right direction, I remind myself. A step toward healing. And that’s the only thing that has me inhaling a steady breath and moving toward the door despite my shaky hands.

I check my hair one last time in the mirror in the entryway and ignore the way the clicking of my heels against the hardwood reminds me of a ticking clock.

I can do this.

For me.

Lips turned upward in an award-winning smile, I swing open the heavy door, ready for what the night will bring.

Only it’s not Hank staring back at me with flowers or some other stereotypical first date item in hand. Instead, I’m greeted by the last person I expected to show up on my doorstep.

“Hi,” Bishop mutters, his eyes roaming freely over my done-up form, lingering on every curve a moment longer than is appropriate for a man who wants nothing to do with me. “I—are you going somewhere?”

My mouth hangs open, mimicking a fish out of water as I look him over, making sure he’s okay. His eyes are clear, and he doesn’t reek of booze. I’m fairly certain he’s not drunk. He isn’t bleeding and there isn’t a police officer escorting him to my door. So, that rules out a fight. Which means there is no good reason for him to be standing here.

Eyes narrowed, my hands find my hips.“What are you doing here?”

“I—” He runs a hand through his dark chestnut hair. Something I’ve learned he does when he needs a moment to think. “I needed to talk to you.”

I’m torn between being angry and welcoming him inside. It’s the blurry line between head and heart, but I made a vow to say goodbye and as much as there’s a part of me that wants to let him back in, I can’t.

“Then make an appointment. You don’t get to just show up here unannounced.” I look past him to make sure my actual date isn’t about to stroll up to find me on the porch with another man. “How did you even get past the gate?”

A wicked smile curves his mouth. “You really should change the code more often.”

The thought never crossed my mind that he’d remember the code given to guests of the party last year. Normally it would’ve been changed after the event, but Dad must not have done so, and I didn’t even think twice to change it when I arrived since I have a key card that lets me through the gates.

“Where are you going dressed like that?” he asks again, a hit of agitation in his tone.

I run my hands over the front of my dress, mostly to distract myself, so my words come out steady. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have a date tonight.”

Bishop scoffs. “On Valentine’s Day?”

I throw my hands up and let them fall. “Why does everyone keep saying that? It’s not like the day changes anything. It’s a made-up holiday for greeting card companies and restaurants everywhere to make a buck.”

Bishop’s lips draw back in a snarl, jaw tight, and his eyes darken. “Cancel it,” he demands.

“What?” I heard what he said, but I need him to repeat it one more time because it sounded like he just asked me to cancel my date, and I know damn well he doesn’t give a shit about me enough nor does he have the right to demand such things.

His eyes narrow, and he lets out a low growl as he steps forward so that I have to crane my neck if I want to meet his stare. Which I do.

“Cancel the damn date,” he says again.

I keep my eyes locked on him in an act of defiance. “Why would I do that?”

My words come out harsh, despite the fact he’s giving me the out I’ve wanted since I agreed to the damn date. I wanted to prove I could do it, not because I actually wanted to go. But now that he doesn’t want me to, I’m pretty sure I’ll go. Just because the petty is real, and he needs to know he can’t expect me to say “how high” when he says “jump”.

“I need to talk to you.”

Digging my heels in, I double down. “You’ve said that. It can wait until tomorrow at the stadium.”

I grip the door and start to close it when he suddenly stammers, “It’s not a baseball thing.”

That makes me pause, and my heart races in my chest, worry making its way to the forefront. “Is everything okay?”

Bishop sighs and I can see the anxiety etched on his face.“Yes, now cancel the date.”

A piece of me aches to see him distressed, but I can’t play this game with him. “You don’t get to just waltz in here and demand that I cancel a date or listen to what you have to say. Not anymore.”

I try to close the door again, and this time his hand juts out, stopping me. “Just one night,” he mumbles.

Is he seriously throwing those words in my face? What the hell does he hope to accomplish? I huff a sardonic laugh. “Oh no, that ship sailed last week. I told you it was goodbye.”

Bishop dips his head, and I stare up into the disarming eyes I once fell for. He takes another step forward, closing the distance between us.

My breath catches in my lungs when his chest brushes against mine. This close, I can see the stubble he’s let grow to the point it’s borderline beard. The tiny scar at the corner of his eye I’ve never asked about. The perfect curve of his lips I so badly want to taste again. He’s too close for what would be considered appropriate for player and owner. And yet, ever the masochist of my own heart, I can’t will my feet to move.

Say something. Anything that will shut this damn door.

“Bishop, I?—”

“I’m here asking for help.” He breathes like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. “Please invite me in and hear me out, and for the love of fucking God, cancel your date.”

“You’re an ass,” I mutter, knowing damn well I’m not about to say no to him. “You told me I shouldn’t use our past against you, and here you are doing the same thing.”

“I’m aware,” he replies, “but turnabout’s fair play.”

He’s right. I did the exact same thing when I showed up at his hotel room to extract closure of my own. I hadn’t meant for it to go the way it did, but it doesn’t change the fact we used our history and each other to get what we wanted.

But it was supposed to end there.

Absolutely nothing good can come from this conversation. I’ve spent the last week keeping my distance and allowing him to do the same. I’m navigating the road to healing my heart and trying to move on by focusing on what comes next.

He can’t be a part of that.

But he’s here, doing the work and asking for help. He’s making the first move of what I can only hope is allowing himself to do some healing of his own. Which is why I step back and extend my arm, granting him entrance. “Fine, but if we’re about to talk about this. I need to change into some comfy clothes and make myself a gin and soda.”

Bishop lets out a sigh of relief and gives me a lopsided grin. “Lead the way and don’t lose the dress.”

“Don’t push your luck.”