Chapter Sixteen: Bishop

Fuck the damn therapist.

There is plenty on my mind, none of which I want to talk about. Not why I chose not to speak during our first session. Not the way I stormed out of the team meeting yesterday. And absolutely not the round of mind-blowing sex I had with my team owner in the equipment room.

Not that Jolene asked about any of that. Instead, she’s only asked one question.

Why am I there?

Over and over for the last hour.

Jolene is young for a league therapist, maybe in her early thirties, but I’d guess even her late twenties. She’s a breath of fresh air compared to the crotchety old guy we had before who only cared to talk about stats and never actually did his damn job. And she’s the exact opposite of the therapist I saw before the crash. The one who told me she could no longer help me because I wasn’t the happy-go-lucky golden retriever I once was and believed I needed to see a trauma specialist. Which is what Jolene is hired specifically to help the team with the next three seasons as we adjust. She also made it very clear she isn’t going to push me unless I push myself and has no problem telling Graham to put me on the injured reserve list.

At this point, I should just have a plaque added to the dugout to mark the spot where I’ll be parked on the bench all season.

There’s only five minutes left in my session, and yet again, we haven’t made any progress. Only this time, I’m more confused than when I entered the room.

I’ve given her every answer I can think of to the question. I’m here so Graham won’t bench me. I’m here because the league requires us each to have a baseline at the beginning of every season. I’m here so as soon as I leave, I can sink my cock into Willow’s perfect pussy and forget for a minute that we’ve been dealt a shit hand.

Okay, so I didn’t tell her that last one, but that doesn’t make it any less of a driving factor.

I know what Jolene wants from me. She wants me to admit I’m there to work through the bullshit of the last six months. Hell, the last year. But if I admit that out loud, then I have to follow through. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Especially not after everything I unloaded with Willow yesterday morning. Not to mention everything I learned from her.

“I’ll let you know when I get there.”

That’s what she said. Those eight words shattered the filter I’d unknowingly been viewing her through. Paired with all her actions—I’m a mess trying to reconcile it all. Fuck, she’s willing to give me my own locker room just so I won’t be in pain every time I walk into the stadium. And she’s not okay. She lost her father. I can’t even fathom what that feels like. Not that I’m currently speaking to my own, which is another can of worms I should explore in this therapy session. And yet, Willow is willing to let me fuck her senseless, not only so I can forget all these problems, but so she can too.

I don’t know what to think, other than I don’t deserve her.

And yet, I need her.

I need this ass backwards situation we’ve found ourselves in more than I need to sit in this chair and talk about my feelings.

“That’s all the time we have today.” Jolene sets her pen down on the notepad in her lap and looks up, offering me a smile. It’s not condescending or high-handed, but it irks me nonetheless. She knows as well as I do that I have to be here, but I can see she genuinely wants to help. I’m just not ready. Because what happens when I’m fixed? What does that mean? I can’t just forget my team. I don’t want to. But is there a world in which I can remember them and be healed? Willow seems to think so.

The cut in my soul is deep, but I don’t think I can survive bleeding out any longer.

I stand and head toward the door, but my feet turn to cinder blocks. Instead of taking a step forward, I sigh and shake my head.

“I’m sick of living a life where everything hurts.” It hurts to admit it out loud, but surprisingly feels like a small weight has been lifted.

Jolene’s brows raise, and a tiny smirk lifts the corner of her mouth. “What was that?”

“Fuck,” I curse, rolling my eyes because I know damn well she heard me. “You asked me why I’m here. The pain is beginning to become a part of the fabric of who I am as a person, and while I could easily live that way, I’m not sure I want to.”

Not after seeing the way Willow looked at me. The way she has multiple times, only I was too stupid to see it. Like I’m worth fighting for. I don’t believe it, but there is a tiny spark in me that wants to, and for now, that will have to be enough.

Jolene hesitates, then gives a slight nod. “Thank you for sharing that with me. It tells me that you’re less angry about attending these sessions and more angry about why you have to attend. Something for you to think about. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

All that from one tiny admission.

My mouth gapes for a moment before I school my features and exit her office. If I stayed, I’d say something I couldn’t take back.

How dare she blame the team? This isn’t on them. It’s because of my inability to control the ache in my chest. It’s not their fault they died. They should be here. They should–

Fuck, I need a drink.

I’m halfway tempted to drive to the nearest bar and forget this whole day ever happened. Then I remember I have another way to forget.

One that’s got soft curves and a delicious ass I’d love to smack.

The drive to the beach house is filled with screaming at the top of my lungs to my favorite 2000s pop punk playlist in the rental truck. The guys used to make fun of me, but the sounds of my youth just hit different, and right now, I need anything to keep me from spiraling into thoughts of healing and how much it all terrifies me.

I glance at the clock and see I’m an hour early, meaning Willow is likely still in her meeting. For a split second, I consider turning around, but going back to the hotel for an hour would absolutely lead to dwelling on all the revelations I’ve made over the last twenty-four hours.

Nope.

I need release.

I need a safe space.

And as much as I hate to admit it, Willow can give me both of those things.

Fuck, that woman has buried herself under my skin, and I’m torn as to how I feel about it.

By the time I pull up to the house and make my way to the door, I can’t tell if my nerves are fried or shaking with anticipation. Maybe it’s a little of both.It’s not like I know what I’m doing. I’ve never done this before. No strings attached. Usually, I’m very attached and ready to declare my epic love by the sixth date. Willow and I are more than halfway there if you count New Year’s and the party, plus the hotel and equipment room trysts.

It’s a good thing you promised her no feelings,Jackson jests.

Exactly. Because I’m not even considering love or what type of ring would look good on her delicate fingers. I’m not even wondering how I’m going to convince her to move in with me. The only thing I’m concerned with is what color panties I’ll be ripping from her tight little cunt.

Sure it is.

I know Jackson and Tommy don’t believe me. Even if they were the ones who’d said I needed to play the field for a year and stay out of anything serious. They were also the two who heckled me the most about Willow. They knew she was different. They just wanted what was best for me.

We still do.

Before I can silently berate my dead and unconscious best friends, Willow answers the door and all coherent thought goes out the window.

I swear she only owns one thing because once again she’s wearing the skirt I love, only in black this time. But that’s not all I notice. It’s like now that I’m no longer actively hating her, I’m seeing her for the first time.

She’s still fucking radiant, a blonde goddess, but how did I miss the slight dusting of purple under her eyes and the crease between her brow? The way her cheeks hollow when her expression drops and the way her go-to stance is no longer one with shoulders pinned back in confidence.

Has it been like this every time I’ve seen her? Was it all just a show, and I was just too blind to notice?

It doesn’t matter that my soul is torn where Willow is concerned. I don’t think, only react, wrapping her in my arms and crushing my lips to hers, as if somehow this thing we share will protect her from whatever it is that plagues her. The same way it does for me.

Willow tenses before she relaxes in my arms and returns my kiss, her lips eager. Her hands tangle in my hair and a soft mewl escapes her. Fuck, I love the sounds this woman makes. That’s one thing that’s never changed—everything about her is intoxicating.

My hands find her waist and slide over her ass, my fingers digging into what is debatably my fourth favorite part of her body—preceded only by her mind, lips, and pussy.

“Willow?” a voice echoes down the hall from the office. “Everything okay?”

“Shit,” she murmurs against my lips. “I’m still in my meeting.”

I lean away and smile reassuringly. “I can wait.”

“I told you I wouldn’t be done until six,” she whispers, and untangling herself from my arms, looks down and straightens her skirt.

“I…” I bite my tongue, stopping myself from telling her about my therapy session and why I didn’t want to be alone. “Have you eaten?”

“No.” She hesitates, and I’m immediately suspicious of the way she glances toward the ground. “I was planning to just order something later.”

I’d bet my contract that’s a lie, given what I know about Willow and the way she was raised by a mother who only cared about her figure. She’s admitted to me before that when she’s stressed, she’ll forget to eat, mostly because that’s how it was when she grew up. Her mother would be angry or too focused on whatever was the latest made-up socialite tragedy of the day and would cancel dinner for the household, forbidding the staff from making it. Her father would get home late, after Willow was in bed, leaving her hungry and alone.

How could I possibly believe Willow would allow herself to be anything like that monster of a woman?

Because you’re a fucking idiot, Tommy snaps lightheartedly in my mind.

He’s right.

I nod toward the office. “Go back to your meeting. I’ll cook.”

“You cook?” she asks, skepticism written across her face.

“I know. Incredible, right?” It’s easy to forget that despite the fact we know each other intimately, there is still so much we didn’t cover during those late-night rendezvous.

“I don’t think—” She shakes her head and smiles sympathetically. “We have rules, Bishop. This doesn’t feel like it constitutes as part of a distraction.”

She’s right. Cooking for her somehow feels more intimate than it should, but I shrug it off. “This doesn’t break them. It’s really for your benefit. I am going to need you fueled up if I’m going to fuck you like I want to.”

Her eyes go wide, and I swear I see her clench her thighs. It’s incredibly sexy and has the blood from my brain traveling south.

“Fine. I mean, I don’t know what’s in the kitchen, but you can have at it.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

She sighs as she turns and heads back down the hall toward the office, and I follow, veering right toward the kitchen.

I’m appalled by what I find.

It makes sense she didn’t know what was in the kitchen because there’s not much. I’m going to have to MacGyver something from the meager pantry staples, frozen items, and my saving grace—eggs. For a split second, I consider pulling out my phone and ordering takeout, but if the containers in the trash are any indication, she’s been living on whatever delivers to the house.

In this case, I’m thinking breakfast for dinner is going to be easiest. Omelets, to be specific. Mostly because one, who doesn’t like breakfast and two, there aren’t a whole other lot ofother options.

Willow’s voice carries through the house as I thaw some turkey bacon and get the pan hot enough to sauté some veggies. Though I can’t make out everything she’s saying, I’m ninety percent sure she’s on a call with the board of Renegade Hearts if the mentions of camp and dollars are any indication.

Which only serves to piss me off more.

I turn my attention back to the stove and force myself to loosen my white-knuckle grip on the wooden spoon I’m using to push the vegetables around. I’d love nothing more than to give that damn board a piece of my mind about their partnering with the league and using the crash victims” children to raise money. It makes my blood boil that they’d even consider doing such a thing. They’re supposed to be protecting them. Not exploiting them.

The only reason I haven’t barged in there is because I know Willow agrees with me and promised to do what she could to fix it.

Not wanting to hear another word, I pop in my headphones and press play on the same playlist I started in the car, setting it just loud enough to drown out Willow’s voice. By the time I’m done with the first omelet, Willow is still in her meeting, so I eat it myself and wait to start on hers because cold omelets are the worst.

My eyes drift around the room. The kitchen decor is sparse—a few nautical themed knickknacks and a coffee pot on the counter. In the corner, there’s a pile of cardboard boxes that looks like they’ve yet to be unpacked from a move. I’m about two seconds from starting to snoop when Willow’s voice cuts through the house loud enough that I can hear her over my music.

“I understand the league will cut funding, but there has to be another way. We are not going to subject these kids to a gala full of pretentious assholes.”

My eyes go wide and I’m instantly on my feet. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her yell like that. And that’s saying something, considering there have been plenty of times over the last two weeks when I rightly deserved that tone.

Quickly and quietly, I close the distance between the kitchen and the office, standing with my back to the wall just outside the door.

“The gala is in a few weeks. We’re not saying?—”

“I know, you’re not saying anything!” Willow says, sounding exhausted. “You’re just trying to do what’s best for Renegade Hearts, I get that, but this isn’t just money we’re talking about. If that’s all we care about, then we’re no better than the league. They aren’t dollar signs, Eric. They’re children. Children who lost their parents. They are who we are fighting to protect—to help. I don’t give a shit about the money.”

Atta girl, Willow.

“But we can do more for them with this opportunity,” a deeper voice chimes in. “Think how many more classes we can offer. We can expand beyond New York and coordinate sponsorships with the league in other cities with the respective teams. This could be the partnership we need.”

“At the expense of the kids!” Willow bellows.

My shoulders slump as I process what I’m hearing. I’ve been so fucking wrong about this woman.It’s been effortless to make Willow the villain even at every turn. Easier to have someone to hate—someone to blame—and she took it all.

And the worst part is I knew better. She’s not innocent in all of it. She still played the game, but if I had looked closer, maybe I would have noticed everything she’s doing to make changes for the better.

Having heard enough, I round the corner and stand in the doorway. Willow”s gaze instantly connects with mine. She winces and lets out a deep sigh, knowing I heard every word of what she just said.

“Food is just about ready,” I whisper just loud enough that she’ll hear me, but the board members won’t.

She gives me a subtle nod and I turn on my heel as she picks up right where she left off. “Find another way. I agree with you that we could use the support and the money the league gala will generate, but I will not agree to using the children.”

Her words are final, reiterated by the sound of her slamming shut the laptop in front of her.

My mind spins on the walk back to the kitchen, working double-time as I pop my headphones back in and crack the eggs to whip up her omelet.

She doesn’t deserve the shit her board is laying at her feet. Hell, she doesn’t deserve the shit I’m laying at her feet. This woman might not be perfect and has made many mistakes, but as far as I’m concerned, she’s a goddamn saint for putting up with the way each person in her life pulls her in a different direction.

It makes me wonder what else she’s taken on since the crash that I don’t know about. And how can I make it easier?

I shake my head.

It’s not my job to care,I remind myself. We have an agreement. Live our lives. Fuck the grief away. Make each day a little easier.

That’s what I’m doing.

I’m working within the confines of our agreement.

And tonight, I’m going to make sure she’s taken care of in that regard.