Chapter Two: Willow

Four Months Later

My eyes dart to the door for the tenth time, an uneasy flutter taking flight in my gut. He’s supposed to be here already.

I search the room one more time for an unkept mop of brown hair and matching eyes. Every flit of gray gives me pause that maybe it’s his favorite gray suit and I just missed his entrance, but once again I come up empty.

Panic starts to buzz at the base of my spine, and I glance unceremoniously at my Uncle Graham, who is fidgeting with his tie on the other side of the stage. With a slight nod, I signal him over, hoping none of the press takes notice.

The last thing I need are these vultures coming up with yet another story based on unsubstantiated facts. As it is, they’ve had a field day with the addition of Graham to our coaching staff. They’re calling it nepotism, when really there isn’t anyone more qualified for the job.

Graham isn’t my uncle, but as my father’s college best friend, he took his godfatherly duties seriously and earned the title. He never forgot a birthday or Christmas, even when baseball took him to Texas and then on to rebuild the team at Seattle State. He was there for me when my mother died because, initially, my father couldn’t deal with the grief. Their friendship fell apart when he was exiled from major league baseball for getting caught up in a cheating scandal. It didn’t matter that he was cleared of all the charges, his friendship with my father was never the same. But he never left me.

Which is why, even though I caught a lot of flack for it, he was my choice for the open manager position. It was one of my two demands as the acting owner of the team. The other was keeping Bishop Lawson—aka the current shitstorm I’m dealing with.

My uncle slides up beside me, and I pull my clipboard up to whisper. “Where is he?”

“Hell if I know, Wills. I got a text when he arrived at the stadium, but from the moment I left my office, I’ve been fielding asinine questions from the press.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale. He’s just trying to get through today as much as I am. “Sorry, I just need the draft to go perfect.”

“Have you considered he doesn”t want to do this?”

Every damn day.

We might not have had anything permanent, but I came to care about Bishop. More than I should. Even after only two nights spent together, I know him better than most. What started as a connection forged through sex and limitless orgasms, ended with us talking until the morning light reminded us who we were and why we couldn’t make it work. Me because I was chasing my dreams and building a name for my philanthropy, and him because, well—I’m not sure he ever truly gave me a reason.

What I do know is he lives for the feeling of the dirt on his cleats and the sound of a perfectly framed pitch hitting his glove.

That doesn’t just go away. Not even when lost in the overwhelming emotions that come with loss. And I’ve never seen someone more lost than Bishop. He’s a shell of the man he was before.

I let out a sigh and turn to my uncle who, at my behest, has helped keep tabs on our star catcher for the last few months. Some nights going so far as picking him up after he’s drunkenly started a fight at one of the many bars he frequents.

“He may be in a place where he’s forgotten who he was. But I haven’t. And I’m not about to let him throw it all away until he tells me he doesn’t want to step on that field even one more time.”

Graham”s nose scrunches the same way it always does when we discuss Bishop. He hasn’t said he suspects anything more than my actions being out of concern for a player on the team, but just like I know Bishop, my uncle knows me, and I’d wager he’s not convinced.

He opens his mouth to say something but stops when George Falco, the MLB commissioner, steps up beside him. The Renegade President of Baseball Operations, Vaughn Logan joins him.

“What’s the holdup?” the commissioner asks, eyes darting between Graham and me. “Everyone is seated and ready for us to start the draft.”

Shit.

Plastering on the fake smile my mother made sure I perfected from a young age, I turn toward the two of them. “Almost. I’m just waiting for a few stragglers.”

“What she means is she’s waiting for Lawson,” Vaughn mutters, giving the commissioner a pointed I told you so look.

These two have been trying to get rid of Bishop at every turn. Something about a clean slate. Unfortunately for them, the public latched onto his story of survival and if they push him out now, there will no doubt be an outcry from our loyal fans.

The Renegades might not officially be New York”s team. That honor belongs to the NYC Liberty that plays in Manhattan. We have always been the other team across the river. But that hasn’t stopped our fans from making us the Kings of Queens. They’ve always stood beside us with unwavering loyalty. It’s a little shaky now, as all eyes are on us, but I have faith. The problem with being the center of attention is that it means all eyes are also on Bishop, who can’t stay out of the tabloids to save his life.

I press my lips together to hold back the snarky response I’d love to deliver. It would only serve to further ostracize myself from the boys’ club that is the upper management of this league.

To say they hate me is an understatement. Even though, aside from my stipulations surrounding Bishop and Graham, I’ve followed every bit of their advice and even made concessions I know in my heart my father would hate to meet their expectations. I might be business savvy in the non-profit realm and know the game of baseball like the back of my hand due to many summers spent at the ballpark, but I don’t know the first thing about owning a team or its inner workings. I never imagined a day my father wouldn’t be at the helm. Or that it would be my responsibility if he wasn’t. Yet here we are. At the end of the day, it’s more important to me to have my father’s team and protect his legacy. Unfortunately, I need the support of the league to do that.

“Is he missing?”

“No,” I stammer before Vaughn can open his mouth. “He’s here. He just hasn’t made his way to the press room.”

I lock eyes with my assistant, Harold, and wave him over. In hushed tones, I order him to discreetly find Bishop.

He gives a worried nod before scurrying off toward the clubhouse.

Without missing a beat, Vaughn slides closer to me. His lips twist in a smirk like a kid who has just pulled one over on his parents. “Still stand by your decision to keep him?”

“Absolutely,” I confirm, nodding to the commissioner reassuringly. Although I admit, in this instance, I wish Bishop would have proven them wrong.

A smirk lifts the corner of Vaughn’s mouth as he gloats, “He’s one major fuck up away from being released.”

My jaw tightens, and I allow my gaze to fall if only to give me enough time to ensure my voice is steady. “I am well aware, but he’s the best catcher in the league.”

“If he can even still play.” Vaughn’s chuckle shakes his potbelly. “The press is reporting he’s got permanent double vision from all the alcohol he consumes.”

“He lost his entire team, Vaughn. What do you expect?”

Vaughn’s green eyes slide to the commissioner, then narrow back on me. “It’s Mr. Logan. Just because your father was my best mate doesn’t mean informalities will be used at the stadium. And to answer your question, I expect him to act like the public figure he is.”

Like a scolded child, my eyes find the floor, and it takes me a split second to remember I’m his boss. I lift my chin and smile sweetly.

“And while I agree with you,” I continue, “I believe this organization can afford Mr. Lawson a little more grace. Don’t you, Commissioner?”

Vaughn’s lips part on a gasp, but it only lasts a second before he quickly schools his features and straightens his tie. George gives a slight nod, clearly not wanting to get involved with the war brewing between Vaughn and me.

Fucking coward. Not that I have any room to talk. Given my inexperience, I usually roll over and let Vaughn make decisions concerning the team. It’s only where Bishop is concerned that I tend to forget the high society rules my mother ingrained in me.

Vaughn huffs and snaps defensively. “It’s not your call to make.”

“Who signs your paycheck, Vaughn?” Graham cuts in. I get the feeling he uses his given name only to see his face turn a darker shade of red. Which it does.

If his glare were daggers, I’d be dead.

While I appreciate my uncle standing up for me, we’re playing with fire protecting Bishop and walking this fine line is bound to get us burned someday.

“You won’t always be able to protect him,” Vaughn sneers.

“No,” I say with a resolute sigh, “but I can protect this team and the legacy my father would have wanted. As we previously agreed, Mr. Lawson stays through spring training. If at that time we, collectively as upper management, feel like he’s a hindrance to our organization, we’ll release him.”

And he”ll be forced to retire, is the part I leave off. Everyone standing there knows if Bishop is released to the trade waivers, no other team will pick up his hefty contract, and even if they are willing, he’s only proven to be a liability since the crash.

A reporter from the front row of the press room tilts his head, eyes zeroed in on our group. He’s far enough away I don’t think he can hear our conversation, but I wouldn’t put it past the press to have bugged the entire room with mics. By the way he leans in our direction, he’s clearly picked up that something is going on.

Never has Major League Baseball had a catastrophe that resulted in holding a disaster draft. Especially one of this caliber, where every team must volunteer five players from which we get to choose one to restock our team.

It’s all been building up to this moment. Even non-sports fans are invested in our story, waiting to see who will make up this iconic roster. And these reporters will do anything for the inside scoop.

We’re making history.

Which is why I don’t need this today. What I need is Bishop to keep it together—to stand with our organization as we redraft his team and get himself down to Florida for spring training. Then we can figure out what the hell we’re going to do to get him back to the man and player I met a year ago.

“Mrs. York,” Harold interrupts. I didn’t even notice him slide up beside me. He leans in to whisper in my ear, and I don’t miss the way Vaughn and George subtly crane their necks at the same time to see if they can catch whatever he’s about to tell me.

“Uh,” Harold mutters, “Mr. Lawson is trashing the clubhouse locker room.”

I pull back and whip my gaze toward my assistant, searching his face for any hint of a misunderstanding.

“He’s what?” I whisper-yell.

Harold’s eyes dart toward the door that leads to the clubhouse.

Shit.

Anger and sympathy war for dominance in my mind, but I keep my features a blank slate.

“Is everything okay?” Vaughn asks, his voice lilting like a cat ready to catch a mouse.

Plastering a picturesque smile on my face, I spin around and face him and the commissioner. “Peachy. Why don’t you guys go ahead and get started with questions, and I’ll join you with Bishop at the start of the draft?”

“You’re sure?” George asks.

No, but at this point I’ve made my bed, so I’ve got to lie in it.

Nodding, I pray I’m not making a giant mistake.

He made it clear he didn’t want my help. So for the past four months, I’ve given him space, allowing everyone else to be the ones to check in on him and keep him in line.

That ends today.

If he wants to live in the ruins of this team, I’ll let him. God knows it would make my life easier.

As I make my way to the clubhouse locker room, memories of last New Year’s flash through my mind. The way he talked me through a panic attack and challenged me to be more than what society demanded of me. He pushed me to be myself. Something I’ve forced myself to continue long after that night.

Bishop was once the only person who saw me.

Believed in me.

Now it’s my turn to return the favor.