Chapter Twenty: Bishop

Jolene doesn’t bother getting up from her plush, oversized armchair when I enter the office and gestures for me to join her on the sofa on the opposite side of the room. For a woman so young and in a field working with mostly men, she’s got the intimidating stare down pat. Even so, the space she keeps is inviting. I have no idea if she had anything to do with creating the vibe, but I appreciate that it’s cozy with a modern and fresh flair. Instead of motivational posters or candles burning, she’s got tasteful black and white close-up photos depicting elements of the game—a ball on the foul line, the corner of a base, and a row of seats. Instead of walls lined with binders and psychology reference books, she’s got a mix of classic literature and romance novels to keep her occupied during spring training.

I wonder if Willow knows about this literary treasure trove. She and her friends would probably take Jolene under their wing and invite her into the sisterhood of the traveling smut.

Settling into the plush leather sofa, I rest my hands on my thighs, so I don’t fidget with them in my lap. I’m already on edge, and I have a hunch talking about my feelings isn’t going to help.

Jolene looks over her black-rimmed glasses and starts our session the same way she always does. “Good afternoon, Bishop. How have you been since we last met?”

“Fine, I guess.” It’s such an open-ended question. One I never know how to answer. I can’t just say, “Oh you know, still struggling and hearing my dead and unconscious teammates in my head. On the upside, I’ve started sleeping with my boss. No big deal.”

She scratches notes in her journal. Something I’ve come to hate. I know if I ask, she’ll tell me what she’s written, but that would mean diving headfirst into the inner workings of what she thinks about me and that’s not something I want any part of.

Jolene pauses her scratching and sets down her pen in the crease of the pages before glancing up. “Anything specific you want to discuss, or is it the dealer”s choice?”

“Neither,” I reply honestly.

“In that case, we’ll go with my plan.”

I smile, but sarcasm drips from my voice. “Great.”

Jolene chuckles. “You say it like it’s a bad thing, but have I steered you wrong yet?”

“No, you just make the walls of my heart chafe a bit.”

“I’ll take it.” She snorts and pushes her glasses up her nose, brows furrowing as she does. “Today I’d like to talk a bit about solutions.”

I cock a quizzical brow in her direction. “Solutions imply I can be fixed.”

“You’ll never be fixed, Bishop. That’s not how grief works.” Her words echo Willow’s, and while I understand them, they’re not what I want to hear. There has to be a way to escape the waters I’m drowning in, even if I have to claw my way up the rocks to shore. I can’t live here forever. Even if, at times, it’s starting to hurt less, I don’t want to feel this at all. I have to be fixed if I’m going to be the person Phoebe needs.

I shake my head, knowing if I continue down that road, I’ll end up in one of two places as soon as this session is done. Willow’s bed or the nearest bar. One isn’t an option at the moment, and the latter would undoubtedly end with me being traded, or worse.

“There’s got to be a point,” I say with a sigh, a desperate edge to my voice. “A goal. Something to work towards.”

Jolene’s concerned expression gives way to an easy smile. “That’s exactly what I want to talk about. You’ve done great while at spring training, not turning to the unhealthy coping mechanisms you did during the off season.”

She wouldn’t be saying that if she knew about the deal with Willow. I can’t imagine fucking your boss to feel an ounce of happiness counts as healthy coping.

“It’s not like I have a lot of time to do much,” I say with a casual shrug.

“Give yourself some credit.” She leans forward in her seat and sets her notebook aside. “You are the one who makes the choice, not anyone else.”

I only barely manage to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “So, I’ve managed to not completely fuck up since being here. What’s next?”

“I saw the game today.”Her words are as tight as the thin line of her lips, as if she’s hesitant to bring it up.

I nod. “So, you know it was a bit of a shit show.”

“It was the first game.”

My chest rumbles with a laugh. “I believe Graham’s exact words, when he ripped us a new one after, were he’s seen little league teams play with more heart than what he saw out there today.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because we can’t play for shit together. But as you said, it’s the first game.” I can only hope it’s not an indicator of how the whole season is going to go.

“That’s an astute observation.” She picks up the notebook again and writes a few words before setting it down once more. “How are you jiving with the team?”

It’s a question we both know the answer to. I’m not.

Most practices have been spent with me showing up late and ducking out early to get a jump on any therapies I need before the guys flood the clubhouse. The short time I am on the field is spent using Carson as a shield in the bullpen or putting everything I have into drills, so that I don’t have to communicate with the men trying to replace my team.

Jolene sighs. “I can see your mind working to try and find an answer that I’ll be happy with, but that’s not what I’m looking for here, Bishop.”

Her prickly stare bores into me as I run my hand across the back of my neck and exhale heavily. “Fine. I’m not. There isn’t a single part of me that wants to look up from behind the plate and see those men on the field.”

“And what can we do to change that?” Jolene prompts, waiting for me to come up with a solution on my own.

Ah. Solutions. I get it now.

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” It’s a cop-out. Mostly because I know, even though I wasn’t the sole reason we lost today, there is more I could be doing.

It’s the gut feeling I get every time I step out on the field. Like I know exactly what I should be doing, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Sometimes it’s fear that stops me. Other times it’s anger. But every time the result is the same. I’m just not ready. Even if I want to be. Even though I know it’s what I need. It’s like there is a mental barrier I just can’t break through.

“To a point, it’s why you’re here, but I’m not going to tell you what to do. As we’ve covered before, I can guide you and make suggestions, but I think it’s better if you realize what you need and then we work together to come up with a plan.”

She’s right. That’s why I’m here. It’s why I’ve fucked Willow every chance I get. To learn to live. To feel something more than grief. But that’s not a plan. It’s not actionable. I’m still running with my tail between my legs.

The realization hits me like a freight train. Coupled with the weight of Phoebe’s phone call, my chest heaves and I struggle to breathe. But damn do I want to. I want to breathe. Which is why I force myself to formulate a plan.

“Fine,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “I need to figure out how to see them as my team.”

Jolene nods, though her approval does nothing to soothe me. “Alright. So, what’s step one?”

Fuck if I know.

I search my mind for an answer—anything I can hold on to that resembles a solid plan. How do I see a team?

My thoughts drift back to my first spring training after being drafted to the Renegades. I was the young, hotshot hopeful straight out of college. The manager made it clear I was the team’s first line of defense behind the plate, and there was a lot of pressure on me to not screw up as I figured out how to lead our team to victory.

A manic laugh bubbles in my throat, but I manage to keep it at bay. The weight of it isn’t much different than it is now. Except now I know too much. Back then, I was a cocky twenty-three-year-old with a love of the game and an even bigger love for life. I was fucking terrified but put on a brave face for everyone else. It wasn’t until our ace pitcher took me aside and gave me a piece of solid advice that I came into confidence of my own.

“It’s just a game,” Peter said. “At the end of the day, those nine innings are just that—nine innings. It’s the people at your side when you walk off the field that matter. Win or lose, you do it together. So as long as you do right by them, you’ll be okay.”

Fuck.

My chest tightens and tears prick at the back of my eyes. I do my best to blink them away, but one or two fall. I haven’t thought of Peter Daily or his words in years, but fuck if they don’t hit me right where it hurts the most.

But how am I supposed to do right by the men on the field when doing so means betraying the ones who they replaced?

We aren’t on the field anymore, Bish, Tommy answers, as if it’s plain and simple.

But you’re supposed to be—is all I can respond with.

Shit. Why did today, of all days, have to be about the hard truths?

I’m unsure of how much time has passed reminiscing, but when I speak, my voice is barely a gravely whisper. “I need to do right by them.”

“What does that mean?”

“I need to give them a chance to be my team.” I speak the words, but every syllable digs the dagger of betrayal deeper in my gut.

“That’s a good start,” Jolene confirms. “What does that look like?”

I give a half-hearted shrug and sink further into the plush sofa. “Hell if I know anymore.”

“I think you do.” Jolene smiles as she continues. “The fact you came to the conclusion on your own, that it’s about you making the choice to let them in, tells me you can see the disconnect. What about a team dinner? Keep it casual.”

Just the thought of spending an evening with the team makes my skin crawl. It’s not that I couldn’t manage it, hell I see them every damn day, but dinner is too intimate. On the field, there is a distance between us, almost as if my catcher”s gear is armor I can hide behind. At dinner, I have none of that. It’s not seeing them that makes my stomach churn. It’s having to come up with small talk when I have no interest in investing time in them beyond the game. They aren’t my team. I don’t want them to be.

God damn.

That’s the crux of it. I don’t want them to be my team.

It’s not the first time I’ve had this thought, but it’s the first time I’ve been struck stupid by the gravity of it.

It’s me. I’m the problem.

“Bishop?” Jolene calls my thoughts back to her question of a team gathering.

I shake my head. “They aren’t my team.”

When she speaks again, her voice is soft, almost cautious. “What about one person on the team? Can one person be your team? Then maybe two. And so on.”

Carson is the first person that pops into my head. He’s safe—annoying as all get out with his positive attitude and snarky bullshit—but safe.

“Maybe,” I rasp, even though I want to give her the bird and tell her hell no. But the image of Phoebe smiling keeps me moving forward.

“Before our next session?”

A half smile tips my lips, and I feel my shields sliding back into place. “Now that’s pushing it, doc.”

Jolene sighs and crosses her hands in her lap. The movement reminds me of a parent trying to explain consequences to a child even though the explanation will likely fall on deaf ears. “I understand this is hard for you. What you’ve been through isn’t something to take lightly. Healing takes time. It might not be today. It might not be tomorrow, but someday you’ll wake up and realize that some people can be trusted. Sometimes you just need to jump. Otherwise, you end up standing in the same place your whole life. I’m hoping maybe your team can be the first leap.”

I’m absolutely regretting showing up for this session. Even worse is that I know she’s right.

With every second that passes, my muscles tense as my anger rises—at Jolene for being right, at the team for dying in the crash and leaving me behind, but mostly at myself. It keeps rising until I snap.

“The problem isn’t trusting them,” I bite back louder than I intended. “It’s trusting myself to be okay with losing them when they inevitably walk away.”

“Or die,” Jolene adds, her face a mask of calm and truth.

And there’s the heart of it.

Jolene wants to make plans and find solutions, but instead we’ve found ourselves at the core of my hang-ups. I can’t let them in because they are all going to leave me. It’s the reason why I’ve pushed everyone away. Why I can’t force myself to call my family and tell them I’m okay. I can’t let anyone in because I don’t want to hurt when they inevitably leave or die. It doesn’t matter if that’s years from now. It’s like I see it and—I can’t—fuck.

I stand and run my hand through my hair, tugging until I feel the pain radiate down my skull.

“Fuck you!” I yell, not caring that she shrinks back into her chair. “You think you know what’s going on here and—I—I think we’re done for today.”

“Okay,” Jolene stammers quickly, pressing her lips into a grim line. “We can put a pin in that and come back to it when you’re ready.”

“Fine,” I growl.

“I’ll see you on Monday. Good luck at the game tomorrow.”

I don’t bother thanking her. In fact, I don’t say a single thing as I storm out the door, straight through an emergency exit and out of the stadium. The alarm blares, alerting the staff that someone has opened a door, but I don’t give a shit. I’m sure this will count as one of those fuck ups Willow cautioned me about, but I can’t go through the clubhouse right now. I can’t look the Renegades in the eye and pretend I’m okay with them standing there.

Fuck.

This isn’t supposed to be this hard.

Says who? I’m incredible. Of course you miss me, Tommy sounds off, and I can’t stop the chuckled sob that wracks my body.

No one stops me as I exit the stadium, which is good because they’d probably get a fist to the face if they did. I’m not sure where I’m headed, but I know it’s got to be far away from here. Far from the pressure of who I’m supposed to be. Who I want to be. Who I’m not sure I’ll ever be again.

But fuck, I want to be that person.

I yank open the truck door and slide in, my hands white knuckling the steering wheel as I peel out of the parking lot and drive. It’s not until I’m on the highway that I realize where my body has taken me. The sign reads one hundred and sixty miles to Miami. In silence I seethe at what this might mean, but ultimately give up on caring. Instead, I focus on nothing but the road ahead, leading me toward the only thing that will calm the storm raging inside me.