Chapter Nineteen: Bishop

One more out and an at bat.

That’s all that stands between me and the end of this shit show of a game.

With a full count, Bobby Townsend, the batter from the New Orleans Crescents, is jonesing to swing. His tell is his dancing feet. The guy can’t keep still in the batter”s box when he’s been given the signal to swing away. Which is a problem because Townsend’s a powerhouse hitter, one that will have no problem connecting with a perfectly placed fastball delivered from our relief pitcher, Dominic Morales.

The Crescents need this win as much as we do. Baseball may be a physical game, but it’s also one hundred percent mental. This is the first game of many, but starting off strong, even in spring training, can set a team up to make a hell of a season run.

Too bad the Renegades didn’t get the memo.

Carson set us up in the first five innings, containing the runs scored to three. Our offense did their job, scoring two of our own. Then things fell apart. It started with errors on the field only to be escalated by the two relief pitchers who have continued to shrug off the pitches I’ve called, as if they know the game and the players better than I do.

Not that I’ve given them any reason—aside from my ten fucking years in the league—to believe I know what the hell I’m talking about. To be fair, it’s a miracle I even know the kid on the mound”s name. He’s one of the rookie relief guys brought up from the minors to see if he has what it takes.

For the record, he doesn’t, and if I had to guess, this is his last week in the big show after his performance and the four runs he let in during this inning alone.

Maybe if you had spent more time with the relief guys instead of hiding behind Carson at practice, this wouldn’t be a problem.

Not helping, I growl silently at Jackson’s jab.

The Florida sun beats down miserably, causing sweat to drip from my mask down my forehead, which only serves to amplify the shitty atmosphere in the stadium. The fans aren’t happy with what they’re seeing. It’s clear they were under the assumption we’d bounce back and be the team they remembered at the end of last season. How they thought that was possible is beyond me when I’m the only one on the field from that team.

A cackle from the seats behind home plate reaches my ears, and I can only imagine the trash being spouted. Now more than ever it’s evident in a very public way that the Renegades aren’t a team. We’re a bunch of guys thrown together trying to play a game that doesn’t work as individuals.

I press the button on the PitchCom for a slider, knowing Townsend can’t hit them for shit. To no one’s surprise, Morales shrugs it off. Mindful that the pitch clock is counting down, I call for a changeup, hoping we can fool the guy into swinging, but once again the rookie shrugs it off.

Fine, it”s your funeral.

I call for the fastball he so desperately wants, and sure enough, Townsend’s bat cracks dead center and delivers a beautiful drive to the pocket in left-center where there isn’t a soul to catch it.

Mentally shaking my head, I pop up and prepare to protect the plate as Keller and Brooks—our centerfielder and second baseman—react quickly and hold him to a single.

When the next batter takes to the box, Morales finally listens to me and throws the slider I’d hoped would keep Townsend off base. The ball comes off his fingertips at an angle and veers right, forcing me to reach out to get it. My balance is off and that’s the only encouragement Townsend needs to take off toward second.

The muscles in my thighs burn as I fumble to right myself, safe with the knowledge I have one of the quickest reaction throws in the league. I manage to pop up and send a beautiful throw to second where the ball lands moments before Townsend reaches the bag—and in the dirt. Etchers, our shortstop, isn’t there to catch it. He’s two feet in the opposite direction.

“Fuck,” I mutter, my eyes darting to where the ball has continued its trajectory into center field.

It was my fuck up. I threw it as if Jackson was the player at shortstop receiving the ball. It’s a play we’ve practiced a thousand times. So much so that it’s ingrained in my muscles. That’s where he stood. Every. Single. Time.

Etchers throws his hands up in my direction and curses instead of covering down. If he had, he would have seen Keller wasn’t there to field the runaway ball. Townsend takes the opportunity and heads for third.

Graham’s curses echo from the dugout as my team finally gets their shit together and gets the ball back to Morales on the mound.

The play is yet another example of our lack of cohesiveness. If my team were on the field, this never would have happened.

Except this is your team,Tommy whispers.

He’s right—and he’s wrong.

Nothing about this team feels right. It’s easy to blame the fact that we’re individuals trying to find our way in this shit situation, but I’m not sure that’s exclusively the case for me. The rest of the guys were traded here, some of them because they wanted to be and others against their will. For them, it’s absolutely the growing pains of a new beginning. For me, it’s personal.

Lining up behind the plate, I look out at the eight men staring back at me, and I search for something, anything, that ties me to them besides the black and orange uniform we wear. There’s nothing. And I get the feeling they’d say the same when they look at me.

We’re fucking screwed unless something changes.

What surprises me is, I want it to change.

Maybe it’s the fact I hate to lose and there is no way I’m going to sit through an entire season of this bullshit.

Then again, maybe it’s something else. Something more.

And that scares the shit out of me.

To absolutely no one”s surprise, we take the loss.

Despite the fact my muscles are screaming in protest for me to give them some sort of relief, I forgo any treatment and head to my private little locker room off the clubhouse, wanting more than anything to lick my wounds alone before I have to open new ones with Jolene at my mandated therapy session in a half hour.

I enter the tiny converted equipment room and change quickly before scrolling on my phone, trying to decide if Willow would prefer purple or pink. She doesn’t really seem like the pink kind of girl. She’s got too many layers for that. Layers I completely misjudged until she proved me wrong last weekend. And while I might have made her come numerous times since then, I feel as though I owe her to make up for my shortcomings.

Okay, it might also be because I still can’t get over how hot our sexting was this morning, and I would love nothing more than to hear her come around a toy of my choosing.

You owe her a fucking apology, Jackson snorts.

I roll my eyes despite the fact he’s right. It’s something I’ve been putting off, mostly because I can’t seem to find the right thing to say. Every time I open my mouth to start, the words feel hollow and disingenuous.

Could it be because you have feelings for her, and you’re running from that too?

It’s Norah again, always sliding in with the voice of reason. Except this time, she’s wrong. I can’t have feelings for Willow. I don’t. Not because she isn’t an incredible woman, but because nothing can come from this. She’s my boss, and I’m in no place to give her what she needs.

Is that it? Norah asks.

Yes. No.

I run a hand through my hair, cursing my best friend’s wife and her probing questions.

I know the reason. It’s the fear at the heart of everything. I can’t lose her like I lost them.

After I hit purchase, my phone buzzes and I see Lana’s name flashing across the screen. I wince as I swipe to answer, praying she isn’t calling to give me another lashing. The game was enough. I don’t need to be reminded I’m failing where Phoebe is concerned too.

Thankfully, I’m not greeted by the face of my best friend”s mother, but instead by the smiling, toothy grin of my goddaughter.

“Uncle Bish!” Phoebe exclaims.

I smile, my heart so damn full at the sight of her. “Hey Short Stack, how are you?”

“I’m good. I’m sorry you lost your game.”

“You saw that, did you?”

She nods, her smile never faltering because to her the game is inconsequential. The only thing that matters is the man in front of her. Me.

Tears burn in my eyes at the realization. Damn, I needed this call.

Phoebe tilts her head to the side and frowns. “What’s wrong, Uncle Bish?”

I swallow hard and blink back the emotion in my gaze, hating that they have the power to dull the sparkle of my sweet girl. “Nothing, Pheebs. I’m just really happy to see you.”

“I’m happy to see you too!” She bounces in her seat, shaking the phone as she does. “Nana said I could call you and see if we could come down for a game when I’m on spring break.”

“You want to come down to Florida?” I’m caught off guard. I assumed Phoebe would want nothing to do with the team after losing her mom and almost her dad, but as always, she’s full of surprises.

“Uh-huh.” She nods, her high ponytail sliding across her face. “Nana says as long as you are okay with it, we’ll book the tickets tonight.”

“Let your Nana know I’d love for you to come down for a few days, and that I’ll take care of the flights if she sends me the dates.”

“Okay! I can’t wait to see you and meet the team.”

Phoebe keeps talking, and despite the fact I nod along, I don’t hear a word. I’m too consumed by the ringing in my ears and the metaphorical knife twisting in my chest.

I’m blown away. Stunned into silence.

“Uncle Bish?”

Her curious tone pulls me back to the moment, and I blink a few times and nod. “Yeah. That sounds great.”

“Okay. Nana says she’ll call you later.”

I nod again and smile. “I’ll be waiting by the phone.”

“I love you,” Phoebe says, and I feel its warmth through the phone.

“Love you, too, Short Stack. I’ll see you soon.”

“Byeeeeee!”

I swipe to end the call and let the silence of my haven away from the team wash over me, grateful they can’t see me on the verge of falling apart after a five-minute phone call with my goddaughter.

Phoebe, my sweet, innocent, little flower child, looks at me like I hung the damn stars. She sees the world with rose-tinted glasses. She wants to meet the team like it’s a simple fact of life, and they aren’t the men who were chosen to replace her father.

I’m not sure if I want to feel betrayed or impressed that at nine years old, she has the emotional capacity to grieve her parents and still embrace this new team when, at thirty-four, I can’t.

She’s smarter than you, that”s why.Jackson voice beams.

She is. I don’t deserve her. And yet, after the conversation, I’m more determined than ever to ensure she stays a part of my life.

I have to figure out how to get my shit together.