Chapter Fourteen: Willow

My heels click with every step as I head down to the clubhouse. This morning is the meeting to kick off spring training with the entire team and my first time addressing the guys all together. Mentally, I go over all the things I want to say to them, the hope I want to instill within them. I’ve seen the stats for our team, and contrary to the reports that we were given, the castoffs from every team in the league, we’ve got a strong lineup. We might not make the playoffs the first season out, but we have a real shot at becoming a team to be reckoned with. That is, if we can get our shit together and play as a team.

Just another reason to give Bishop the distraction he needs to step up and be the leader I know he is.

Shit. A swarm of drunk bees takes flight in my stomach at the thought of seeing him.

My thoughts always come back to him. He might have left before the sun went down, but I spent the majority of the night with him on my mind. First trying to wrap my brain around what he’d asked me to consider, then trying to convince myself it’s a terrible freaking idea.

I can easily make a case for saying yes. If only for him and what I know he”s capable of. Because if he’d let go and allow himself to forge meaningful connections with this team, he’d be unstoppable. He needs them.

But what about me?

One day ruined our lives and changed us forever. Until yesterday, I haven’t let myself even remotely fall apart. Not because I haven’t wanted to, but because as a York, failure is not an option.

Once upon a time, that belief was challenged by Bishop. We might have only been a series of one-night stands, but in so many ways, he became the fleeting person I could let my guard down with. My safe place. Maybe that’s why it was so easy to word vomit everything like I’d come down with a bad stomach bug. And he took it and held it safe. He didn’t push or throw it back in my face like I thought he would.

Now he’s asking me to be that person for him. He’s asking me to hold his grief and distract him for more than just one night.

And I’m stuck warring between giving in and standing my ground.

On the one hand, it’s a terrible idea. Not only am I his boss, but I’m not sure I can separate the feelings that are twisted up in him. He might see this as nothing more than a continuation of our one-night stands, but that ship sailed for me. I meant it when I said the last time was goodbye.

But just like with every argument, there’s a flip side. In my case, it’s the incessant hope that often gets me into trouble. He was right when he said this could be the thing we both need. I could stop living from low to low and live in the high that followed my last night with him.

I halt my steps in the middle of the stadium corridor outside Graham’s office, when my eyes catch a glimmer of where my father’s favorite quote is engraved on a silver plaque.

Success is in whatever you’re avoiding.

I can”t stop the sardonic laugh that bubbles in my throat. I don’t think Bishop is what my father had in mind, but there’s something to be said for it.

My eyes well with tears, and just like always, I blink them away. It does nothing for the ache in my chest.

My father should be here.

If he was, I wouldn’t be. If he was, Bishop and I might’ve found common ground long ago, and far beyond just one night.

If.

Always if.

If we do this.

If we learn to live.

We can’t live in ifs.

Nope. Not going there. I need to focus.

I knock on the door to Graham’s office and poke my head in, praying he’s already there so I can stop myself from continuing to spiral in my thoughts. “Good morning.”

Thankfully, he’s sitting at his desk buried under a mountain of paperwork, mostly notes from his staff, if I had to guess. I’ve told him more than once he needs to get with the times and move to a digital process, but he insists the information is more in depth when a person is forced to put pen to paper and consider their words.

Whatever works for him and his staff, I guess.

Graham looks up and offers me a warm smile. “Morning. You ready for today?”

“As ready as I’m going to be,” I say with a shrug. Leaving the door open and crossing the room, I snag a seat in one of the plush gray chairs in front of his desk.

He slides his reading glasses from his face, setting them down on the desk. “Good. If you’re nervous, just remember, they aren’t anything special. Not yet.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s a glowing review for your team.”

“No, it’s honest. Right now, they don’t give a shit about you or me. The starters just want to impress Vaughn and Ben enough to keep their spot on the team, and the guys from the farm team want to wow him enough to snatch those positions for themselves.”

I’m no stranger to the game. I’ve watched players come and go from this team for the better part of my life. Cut days at spring training always leave everyone on edge. But unlike Vaughn or our GM Ben, I’m not interested in their stats. I want their heart in the game. We can work with players to make them better. We can’t teach them to have heart.

A few of the players in question have started trickling down the hall, their rambunctious greetings echoing loudly.

“You’ve got a point,” I conceded. “But I think they’re going to surprise you.”

Graham nods approvingly. “Just like you are.”

I cock my head to the side in confusion.

A smile splits his face, and he lowers his voice. “Nikki shared with me your plans for the team.”

“Damn it.” I huff, annoyed. “She wasn’t supposed to do that.”

“Ah, don’t be too hard on her,” Graham reassures, though the blush that fills his cheeks has me wondering just how close he is with our PR manager. “She’s behind you one hundred percent. She just wanted to check with me to see my plans for day-to-day schedules for the team during the season, so she could tweak and expand on some of your ideas. Then I might have strong-armed her into sharing the rest with me. Under the threat of death, I promised I would keep my mouth shut.”

“And?” I ask, needing someone to put me out of my misery and tell me if they’re brilliant or garbage before I share them with the rest of upper management.“What did you think?”

Graham scrubs his chin with his hand. “You’ll have your work cut out for you. The league is going to put up a fight. And if they don’t, you can bet Vaughn will.”

“I know, but it’s worth it.” I defend it, and I realize just how badly I want this to work.

Of course, the boys’ club will hate my ideas. Not because they aren’t smart, but because none of them give a shit about more than money. They don’t care about outdoor spaces that give fans a place to congregate and form connections. They don’t care about upgrades, giveaways, or fan experiences with the team. They don’t care that I’m looking to up our player salary cap, and at the same time, reevaluate how we build our roster to strengthen it over time. They just care about the bottom line and how spending more money—even if it is my own—will make them look bad.

“That said, I think they’re great ideas that will strengthen our organization in the long run.”

“Exactly.” I let out a sigh of relief. “Which is worth the push back. This is my team and I believe in it.”

“Keep that optimism, Wills.”

I give him a pointed stare, causing my uncle to chuckle.

“Ms. York,” he corrects with a snort. “That’s going to take some getting used to now that we’re going to be at the field more.”

“Willow is fine,” I reassure him playfully.

“Willow is fine,” a deep baritone mutters from the door.

We both turn around to see Fransisco Sharpe standing in the doorway, only he isn’t there for long.

A hand appears on his shoulder and yanks him back, and I wince when I hear the thud of his skull crashing into the wall outside the office door.

“What the fuck?” Sharpe bellows.

Graham is out of his seat faster than I thought possible for a man his age, and I quickly follow behind him to see what the hell is going on.

When we file into the hall, we are greeted with a wide-eyed Bishop with his forearm pressed against Sharpe’s throat.

“Apologize,” he growls, eyes narrowed on his teammate.

“I didn’t—” Sharpe chokes out, and Bishop presses harder on his windpipe.

Instinctively, I reach out and place my hand on Bishop’s shoulder, trying to deescalate the situation. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” Bishop side-eyes me with the same rage he wore in the locker room in New York, and I back off, dropping my hand.

Sucking in a breath, I hold it as if that will somehow encourage Sharpe to just apologize before this turns into an all-out brawl, effectively ending Bishop’s season before it even starts. Because I have no doubt that’s where this is going with a look like that.

“I’m sorry, Willow,” Sharpe grunts, half-heartedly.

“Ms. York,” Bishop corrects.

Sharpe rolls his eyes and repeats, “I’m sorry, Ms. York.”

“If I ever hear you disrespecting our owner like that again, I’ll make sure you never play in this league again.”

Sharpe scoffs but doesn’t put up more of a fight. “Message received.”

Bishop shoves off Sharpe and shakes his hands out like he’s offended just by the touch of him. The three of us watch silently as the backup catcher takes off toward the locker room.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

Bishop turns, pinning his icy glare in my direction. “I didn’t do it for you. We have standards on this team, and that guy is an asshat.”

“Still,” I murmur, ignoring the way my stomach flutters at his act of protection, “thank you.”

Bishop blinks like he finally sees me before I’m rewarded with a muffled grunt as he shakes his head, following his teammate toward the locker room.

Graham’s chuckle fills the silence between us. “Well, there’s a plot twist.”

“What?” I stammer, fully convinced my godfather has figured us out, and I’m about to be read the riot act for fraternization.

“That’s the most I’ve seen Lawson give a shit since the crash.”

“Oh. Me too,” I mutter, wondering if our conversation last night had anything to do with Bishop’s actions. Either way, I was just privy to Bishop Lawson’s first show of leadership on this team. It’s a good look on him.

I smooth down my skirt—yes, I wore it to aggravate Bishop—as Graham introduces me to the whole team.All eyes turn in my direction. All except the one set I wish would look. Bishop’s gaze is glued to the wood floor as I push off the door I was leaning against and make my way to the front of the room beside my uncle.

The spring training facility is not as extravagant as the clubhouse in New York. There’s one large table in the center of the room with chairs surrounding it, though those are all empty now. Everyone instead is seated in the folding chairs in front of each of the coveted cubbies that line the four walls.

As I walk, I look around the room, mentally cataloging the faces I recognize, their stories and those that I only know by name who, as Graham so eloquently put it, are hoping to make the team. Some are smiling, like one of our relief pitchers, Joshua Shepherd, while others like Elliot Stone, our first baseman, study me with open skepticism. Still others, like our farm team catcher Noah Smith, look at me like I’m their ticket to something they’ve dreamed of their entire life. Bishop’s gaze remains on that treasured spot on the floor.

I want so badly to ask him what’s wrong. There’s no way he’s still sulking about what happened in the hallway. Sure, he was pissed about Sharpe’s comment, but that was honestly small dice compared to some of the things the press has written about me. I don’t see him going after them. No, this is something else. There’s something keeping him from looking up, and I want to know what it is.

But at the moment, I’m his owner, not his friend, and absolutely not his fuckbuddy.

Clearing my throat, I shake Bishop from my mind and offer my team a genuine smile.

“Let me start by saying I know this isn’t ideal. Each of you planned to start this season with the teams I’m sure you’ve come to love and respect. Instead, you’re here with us with zero sense of stability. I know I’m just the team owner and you don’t have to listen to anything I’m about to say. After all, I just sign your paychecks. What do I know? But I’m here to tell you that even though I’m just a figure in an office on the concourse, I’m happy you’re here. This team has been through a lot in the last year. We’ve lost great men and women who were the foundation of this organization. We were on our way to a pennant run, and that’s not something you forget. But that doesn’t mean we can’t rise from the ashes and be great with the men in this locker room right now. You don’t have to show up, you don’t have to give it your all, and you absolutely don’t have to believe in what this team stands for. But I hope you do, because even though you didn’t ask to be here, you are and that makes you a Renega?—”

A crack echoes through the otherwise silent locker room and all eyes whip to see Bishop standing, his helmet spinning in a circle where he chucked it at the ground. His chest heaves, and even though everyone is looking at him, his gaze is locked on me. Whatever goodwill he had for me when he walked in and defended me is gone.

Without a word, he kicks the helmet from in front of him. It hits the shins of one of the farm team pitchers across from him. Not that Bishop takes notice. He’s already halfway to the exit.

The silence is deafening. Everyone’s eyes dart from him to me, and back again until he’s gone, and I can feel the rift tearing through the team I was moments ago trying to unite. So much for starting off on the right foot.

“I guess that’s my cue to leave the baseball to you guys,” I stammer, barely managing to keep the feeling of failure from my voice.

“The lady has spoken.” Graham steps in. “You know the drill. Everyone needs to complete first day physicals and mental health screenings today. You’re on your own today for workouts, and tomorrow we’ll hit the ground running on the field.”

For a heartbeat no one moves, then one by one the team starts moving, and I’m grateful when Graham takes it upon himself to usher me toward the exit.

Just before we reach the door, we’re stopped by our starting pitcher, Carson Whitmore. Graham gives me a look, silently asking if I want him to stay for whatever he has to say. I give him a curt nod letting him know I can handle it. I might not need his protection, but I’m happy to have him in my corner.

“Hi, I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Carson?—”

“Whitmore,” I finish for him. “I know who you are. What can I do for you?”

Carson runs a hand through the curls of the shaggy blonde hair that reaches just below the nape of his neck. He’s tall, not quite as tall as Bishop, and where Bishop is all muscle, Carson is more lithe and lean with bulk in just the right places. He’s the epitome of a perfect pitcher’s build.

His blue eyes soften when he smiles. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss. Your dad was an incredible man and a staple in this league.”

My heart constricts, and my eyes rim with tears. “Thank you.”

He’s not the first to give his condolences, but he’s the only one on this team, aside from Graham, to acknowledge that I’ve lost someone too. Not even Vaughn has gone so far as to ask how I’m doing. Everything out of his mouth is how I couldn’t possibly be as great of an owner as my father.

Carson smiles, revealing two deep dimples in his cheeks and nods. I expect him to walk away, but then he hesitates. His shoulders hunch slightly and when he speaks, his voice is low. “Don’t worry about Lawson. He’s had a rough go of it, but the guy has a heart of gold. He’ll eventually get his head out of his ass and when he does, he’ll be unstoppable.”

If you only knew the half of it, buddy.

“You know from experience?” I ask, more than a little curious to get a feel on how the team is reacting to our prickly catcher’s hot and cold streaks.

Carson sighs, letting his hand fall to his side. He works his fists a few times before he continues. “We’ve played against each other for years. Heckled each other for the majority of them. He’s a sore loser, which was the driving force behind me perfecting my sinker. He can’t hit them, and he hates it.”

I laugh. “It’s a good thing you’re on our team, then.”

Carson nods and offers me a reassuring smile. “It’s also how I know he’ll come around. He feels hard, but he always manages to pull through.”

I nod. “I think you’re right.”

He lifts his head toward the exit that leads to the practice fields. “I should probably head out there.”

“Have a good day.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you around.”

I sidestep Carson and slip through the open locker room door. Focused on my phone and the mountain of emails that have come through in the thirty minutes I spent in the clubhouse, I don’t notice the wall of a man standing in front of me before I crash into his chest.

Wobbling on my heels, Bishop reaches out and wraps his hand around my bicep to steady me. His heated gaze darts in both directions, and I only have a moment to right myself before he plunges me into the darkness of the nearest equipment room.