Chapter Twenty One: Willow

It doesn’t matter how many times I give a speech—it doesn’t get any easier.

Prior to last year, Leigh handled all speaking engagements Renegade Hearts was asked to participate in. I blame Bishop for the fact I’m here instead. If he hadn’t dared me to get up on that stage and tell my story to that crowd last New Year’s, I wouldn’t have been asked to headline as many conferences. He encouraged me to share a piece of myself that night and it, in turn, inspired others. It’s only gotten worse since becoming the owner of the Renegades. Organizations love to add that to the headline beside my picture in their event programs.

I hate it. But at the same time, I love it. Every time I step out on a stage, I still experience the trickle of anxiety, but getting to witness the wheels click for people who have never experienced loss is truly amazing. Seeing the change that comes from what I do, the difference it makes when it comes from me instead of Leigh, is breathtaking.

Smiling as I wrap my speech, I never lose sight of the clock on the back wall, specifically the number six. Bishop might be to blame for my rise in public speaking, but he’s also the reason I can get through it without crumbling into an anxious mess. Focus on one thing, he told me. Something that isn’t going to waiver. Then talk to it like it’s the only thing in the room. Hence the number six at the bottom of the clock.

It’s also the first digit in the number he wears on the back of his jersey, but I refuse to acknowledge the correlation.

The audience is engaged, hanging on my every word, and I’m thankful the press isn’t involved at events like these. It would ruin what we’re trying to do. Plus, they’re far too busy working to weave a tale of fabricated lies to care about a conference for educators or my talk on guiding students who have lost a parent.

My new favorite press story is that I missed the team’s first home spring training game because I had to get my bikini waxed for my date with Jensen Fox, the significantly older owner of the Boston Navigators. All because I ran into him as I was exiting a salon and we exchanged hellos.

Imagine if they knew why I really had a wax appointment.

I finish my speech, and I’m about to take questions when a shuffling at the back of the room catches my attention.

My heart skips a beat, and my stomach drops when my gaze connects with the desperate brown stare of the man whose number I’ve fixated on for the last hour. I let out an unintelligible mumble as I take in his bloodshot eyes and the bags beneath them. His hair is tousled like he’s been running his fingers through it nonstop, and his shoulders are slumped forward.

What is he doing here? Doesn’t he have a game?

My eyes dart back to the clock, and I remember this is the evening session. The game ended hours ago.

Mind racing, I quickly thank the attendees and apologize for not taking questions before rushing from the stage toward the exit.

My heart pounds against my rib cage as I search for Bishop in the crowd exiting the ballroom. I need to find him and make sure he’s okay, even if I already know the answer.

He isn’t.

I’m halfway down the hall, heading toward the lobby of the hotel when a large hand wraps around my bicep and yanks me into a small alcove.

Without a single word, Bishop tugs me against his chest. Clinging to me tightly, he nuzzles his nose into my hair and lets out a sigh of relief.

A few moments pass before I carefully pull back and tilt my head to meet his gaze.We can’t be here like this, out in the open. Even with the press not present, all it would take is one person—the right person—to see us together, and we’d both be in hot water.

“Let’s go talk somewhere quieter,” I offer.

“Kitten, please.”His words are a strangled plea, paired with a hefty dose of desperation framing his eyes.

Kitten. Not Willow.

Anxiety takes up permanent residence inside my chest. This must be bad.

I lace my fingers in his and pull him out of the alcove toward the elevator at the end of the hall. In the most un-Bishop-like fashion, he complies wordlessly.

In the safety of the elevator, we ride up to my floor in silence. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Eyes glued to the door in front of us, Bishop’s hands never leave my body, one wrapped tightly in mine while the other takes purchase on my hip, digging in almost as if letting go would have him losing whatever minuscule control he has left.

I glance up at him over my shoulder, anxiety coiling low in my belly at the same time my heart seizes in my chest. He’s lost, but he chose to come here. This isn’t like the nights he showed up at the beach house because sex made the next day easier. Those nights were a distraction. But this—this is something more. Like it was in the equipment room. He could have found the nearest bar, but instead he drove three hours to find me.

When the elevator doors open, Bishop lets me lead him to my suite. I quickly key open the door and guide him inside. The moment the door clicks shut, he turns to face me, and I watch as a flip switches and his eyes narrow, going from lost to pure carnal need.

“Bish—” I mutter, but I’m cut off when he pulls me forward, tangling his hand in the curls at the base of my neck, and his lips crash against mine. There might be more to why he showed up, but in that one moment, he’s conveyed exactly what he needs. And I’m all too willing to give it to him.

He’s not gentle, not like he’d been when he’d passionately made me come on my kitchen island. No, this is bruising, scraping, and biting—taking what he needs. He grips my jaw tightly, and I let out a tiny squeak, allowing him access to my mouth. I’m desperate to moan his name, but he refuses to relinquish control enough for my lips to part from his even for a second.

I wrap my arms around his neck and run my fingers through his hair as he spins me and pushes me back to the bed, tipping me so he falls on top of me. We’re a mess of tangled limbs—him desperate to find an imaginary foothold while I’m left helpless trying to provide it.

Biting down on his lower lip, I savor the delicious moan Bishop lets slip and reward him with one of my own as he forces my skirt up to settle at my hips. He digs his fingers into my thigh and wraps my legs around his waist, grinding his lengthening cock against my lace covered pussy.

He finally breaks our kiss, panting unintelligible words under his breath. I let out a needy gasp and crane my neck to reconnect us, but he’s not having any of it. His eyes are nothing but a thin line of brown around blown pupils, as wild and feral as his hands that he uses to pin me against the mattress.

“I need this,” he rasps. “I’m sorry. I’m?—”

Given the far-off look in his eye, I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or lost in his head, but I’m not about to question it.

“It’s okay, Bishop,” I reassure him. “Take what you need.”

My hands drift south to the waistband of his track pants, but he smacks them away, keeping control firmly in his grasp as he pulls them down on his own and frees his cock. With zero warning or preparation, he deftly slides my panties to the side and pistons himself forward, forcing me to stretch for him until he’s fully seated inside me.

I cry out his name at the same time he curses.

“Fuck, Kitten. This pussy is—fuck.” He buries his nose in the crook of my neck and thrusts his hips forward. Each one accented with words of ecstasy—tight, wet, deep, magic.

It’s primal and fueled by the rage and pain that consumes him, and I’m here for it. Not because I want him to hurt, but because I’m the masochist of my own heart and relish the fact he shares this with only me.

My lower belly tightens, and I feel the familiar tingle where the base of his shaft beats against my clit. As if he can read my mind, or maybe because he’s more in tune with my body than anyone else, Bishop slides his hand from my hip and thumbs the tiny bundle of nerves between my thighs, sending me over the edge.

Two more thrusts and he’s there, too, grunting into my neck as his whole body tenses and gives into his release.

Our breaths come out in ragged spurts as we both cling to each other and bask in the endorphins of our post orgasm high. But what goes up must come down, and I pinpoint the moment Bishop crashes. He tenses in my arms and pulls back, his gaze locking with mine. Only instead of feral heat, there is nothing but fear and trepidation in his eyes.

“Bishop?” I whisper and worry when he shifts his gaze away from mine to where his cock is still embedded in me.

His lips twist into a grimace, and he fists the sheets on either side of my head.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to make a move or give any indication as to what he’s thinking. What I don’t expect is to hear an audible sob, followed by the heave of his shoulders.

“Bishop?” I ask again.

When his eyes finally track up to meet mine, they are wide and brimmed with tears. And I swear, for the first time, I’m seeing the soul of this broken man.

My heart aches as I reach and cup his stubbled jaw, guiding him back to my face so I can place a soft kiss on his tearstained lips. Then another on his cheeks—first the left, then the right.

“Tell me,” I whisper, praying he can feel the sincerity in my words as I silently beg him to remember he”s safe with me.

“I—” Bishop rolls off me, shaking his head free of my hand as he falls onto his back. He swallows hard, his bare chest shuddering as he fights against emotion. A choked inhale is the only indication I get before the dam breaks and a sob wracks his body. “She wants me to—fuck—Jolene asked me to make plans to get to know the team better and I…I know I need to do right by them, but I can’t.” He cranes his neck to look at me—fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “Willow, I can’t. Every time I think about viewing them as my team, the knife in my chest twists deeper. They aren’t my team.”

Nodding in understanding, I pull him toward me until his head rests on my chest. My fingers immediately tangle in soft brown strands, tugging them slightly the way Bishop does when he’s stressed.

He releases an audible sigh and sinks into me. Naked and vulnerable, there should be nothing attractive about this moment, but the fact that he is allowing me to hold him and be more than just a distraction is everything.

“I don’t know how to be what they want me to be.” Every word is quiet, damaged, and dripping with pain.

“You don’t have to be,” I say softly.

Bishop scoffs and props himself up, so I can see the scowl painted across his face. “How can you say that? Even you want me to be the man I was before.”

My jaw drops open, but I quickly shake it off. “Is that what you think?”

Bishop nods and rests his head back on my chest. He brings his hand up and splays it across my hip, tracing circles around the bone with his thumb.

“You implied as much when you found me in the trashed locker room.”

Shit. I did. Even if it’s not what I meant, I was just as guilty of pushing him to be something he can’t be.

“I’m sorry.” My fingers stop running through his hair and coast down below his chin, tipping his head to meet my gaze. I need to ensure he hears me. “I want you to be the man I know you can be.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

Maybe there was a time when it was, but now I’m convinced it’s not. The Bishop I knew before was a glorified golden retriever. He was fierce and loved with everything he had—be it baseball, his team, his friends, or a one-night stand. The man before me still has those qualities, but fear has made him cautious. He holds on to the things he loves most with a death grip, and because of that, lashes out when he loses control. He might not be the same, but he’s still a good man. He’s shown me glimpses of that in the way he takes care of me and others. Even if it is under the guise of our agreement. He buys me groceries and comes up with ideas to support the children of the crash and Renegade Hearts. There is no doubt in my mind that pieces of the man I knew are still in there, but now more than ever, I’m convinced that’s not who he is supposed to be. No, Bishop Lawson is meant to be a phoenix rising from the ashes. And when he does, he’ll be something more—something hardened by grief—but still the fierce protector he’s always been.

He just needs to realize it’s okay to not be the white knight. Pristine and perfect. Sometimes it’s the dark knight—hardened and damaged, but still honorable—who gets the girl.

Or in this case, the team.

“No.” I brush away a strand of hair from his forehead. “Because the man you were before was flawless. Now you’re not.”

Bishop blinks repeatedly before rolling away from me, fixating his eyes on the ceiling like the tiles are infinitely more interesting than anything I have to say. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does.” I prop myself up onto my elbows and give him a pointed look. “You think you need to be that perfect man again and you don’t. Screw whoever says you need to be. Including me. The only person you answer to is you.”

Bishop closes his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. “I can’t do it.”

I reach out and wrap my hand around his bicep. “You can. I believe in you.”

He doesn’t pull away but scoffs and gives me a side eye glare laced with the smallest hint of amusement. “And that’s supposed to make it all better?”

“No,” I admit, solemnly. “But it’s a start. One day you’ll get there.”

Bishop mutters something under his breath, and though I can’t be certain, it sounded a lot like “fuck one day.”

“Right now, you just need to be here. Be present. Be with me.” It’s a whispered plea, cut off by a groan from Bishop, which only serves to muddy my thoughts. While he might think I mean as a distraction, my heart wants so much more. It’s easy to keep those feelings distant and locked away when we’re lost in carnal bliss, but when he’s this close, looking at me like he can’t go on, the truth seeps out of the cracks in my walls.

I need him to keep fighting.

I need him to find his strength.

I need him.

I. Need. Him.

And that’s when my heart shatters all over again.

My eyes close, and I hope he doesn’t see the tears that threaten to fall. I won’t put this on him. He already has enough on his plate without my heart coming into play. We promised no feelings, but I lied from the start. I might be the queen of fake it till you make it. I might thrive in the distance I create to keep myself safe. But the truth is, I never stopped caring for him.

“I’m here, Kitten. Always here.”

Kitten. That damn nickname I’ve loved since the moment he gave it to me, only to have it taunt me when I can’t have it mean what it once did.

Bishop swallows hard past the thick lump in his throat and continues. “But I’m still?—”

“No. Don’t finish that statement,” I snap, unable to stand him berating himself any further. I tear my eyes open and force every ounce of unrequited love into my stare. “You’re done believing you’re broken or somehow less than what you should be. You told me to take care of what’s yours, Bishop. Well, I expect the same.”

His eyes darken and narrow, and when he opens his mouth—likely to contradict me—I roll myself on top of him and straddle him, shocking him into silence.

“You’re mine.” The words pull at my heart, but despite the way it twists, I pour every promise and vow into them. “Right here, at this moment, you are mine. Mine to encourage. Mine to comfort. Mine to fuck.” My eyes flicker to the door and back. “Outside these four walls, we live in a world where we’ve been dealt a shit hand. But here you don’t get to continue to berate yourself. You can doubt me. You can even hate me, but you are done tearing apart what’s mine. You asked me to help you learn to live, but you need to give yourself that chance. You are more than what the world says. I see it every time I look at you, and I am done watching you find every reason to believe them. You don’t get to let them win. You are destined to live.”

My lip wants to tremble, but I fight against the collapse of my heart as he continues to silently stare up at me like I have all the answers.

Fuck, I wish I did, but I’m just as lost as he is on a good day. This has become too much. I’m in too deep, but there’s no way in hell I’m turning back now.

His lips tip into a curious smile, and for a second, I think I’ve lost him. “Kitten, you can’t say shit like that to me while you’re naked and straddling me and expect me to take you seriously.”

I roll my eyes and frustration thrums through me. We both know what he’s doing. He’s using our distraction to put his walls back up.Well, tough shit. I’m not letting him shut me out.

He reaches for my hips, but I’m quick to slip from his grasp and slide from the bed. Padding across the hotel room, I grab the two robes from the closet and throw one at him before covering myself with the other.

Bishop shifts unto his elbow and grunts, giving me an “are you serious” glare, followed by a devious grin. “I didn’t mean for you to cover up. I like the sight of you on top of me.”

“I like being on top of you,” I point out as I tie the sash in a knot at my waist, “but we’re not done talking.”

“Fine.” His nostrils flare slightly at my words. His glare turns icy as he stands and wraps the robe around himself. Not that it does much to hide his six-four frame. It’s tight across his chest, and what comes to my knees barely hits him mid-thigh, leaving his delicious tattoos visible. Each one is a beautiful, and sometimes haunting, representation of the story of his life. A story so few get to see because he’s always in uniform or pants during the cold New York months. They are Bishop wearing his heart on his sleeve, or leg rather.

He slides back onto the bed and rests his back against the headboard, crossing his legs in front of him.

He knows damn well I’m a sucker for those catcher thighs.

Bishop lifts his arm in my direction. “Will you at least come back and join me? If we have to talk about uncomfortable shit, I’d at least like to have my hands on you.”

I should say no. I should put as much space between us as possible and give my heart time to fortify its walls, but the damn thing flutters and I’m helpless to do anything but nod.

His attention is glued to me as I round the corner of the bed. He lifts his arm to make room, and I slide in beside him. He leans forward and slides his arm under my knees, lifting my legs over his. “Better,” he says, and I exhale a humorless chuckle.

His palm slides under the fabric of my robe and finds my thigh, fingers digging into the soft and supple flesh just high enough to send shivers through me, but not enough that I can’t think.

I cover his hand with mine to halt his movement and look up to see his brows find each other, creasing his forehead.

“You say I’m destined to live, but how do I do that?”

My fingers intertwine with his, and I lift his hand and press a kiss into his palm. “You make this your team.”

Bishop looks at me like I’m an idiot and didn’t hear anything he said before. But I did. I know he’s struggling to put the pieces together, but I have a plan. One that takes him away from me—and gives him the connections he needs.

“Take them to the Guardian,”I say matter-of-factly.

“The bar?” he asks with a raised brow. “You do know I’m here with you, so I won’t get drunk, right?”

“I do.” I chuckle. “Drinking isn’t exactly what I had in mind. Though, I happen to know Lou makes a mean Shirley Temple.”

Bishop rolls his eyes and pinches my thigh, to which I let out a sound that is somewhere between a giggle and a squeak.

“How do you even know about The Guardian? It’s supposed to be a team secret.”

“And I am the owner,” I point out.

“Your dad?”

I nod. “There might have been a few stories that were shared about the coveted team bar that probably should have been saved for when tiny ears weren’t around.”

The Guardian was indeed the best kept secret of the Renegades. I’d heard the stories of the spring training parties at the tiny hole-in-the-wall bar that raged into the early hours of the morning and resulted in more than a few games being forfeited in the name of hangovers over the years. It was a safe haven away from the prying eyes of fans and the media. A place for the team to let loose and bond. A place I knew for a fact Bishop had not shared with the team given that the owner, Lou, called me asking if I knew why the team hadn’t been in yet.

Bishop presses his lips together and shakes his head, visibly holding back. “I can’t take them there, Willow. They aren’t?—”

I hold up my hand, cutting him off. “Let me ask you this. Do they wear the black and orange?”

“Yes,” he grumbles.

“Then they are Renegades as much as you are.” Twisting so I can take his face between my hands, my thumbs trace the stubble on his cheeks. “You are so focused on how you are going to replace your team, but maybe it’s not replacing more than welcoming them into the family.”

Bishop’s eyes widen as he processes my words before he settles into a worried silence. I’m desperate to know what he’s thinking, but I don’t dare say anything more. This is something he needs to work through on his own. I can lead him, but I can’t do it for him.

“How do you do that?” he whispers, soft eyes searching mine.

“What?”

“Make things make sense when I can’t.”

I shrug, letting my hands fall away from his face. “It’s a gift.”

I move to settle back into his side, but Bishop is quick to tighten his grip on my waist. Using the knuckle of his free hand, he tilts up my chin and presses his mouth to mine. It’s soft and intimate. A stark contrast to how we started this hotel endeavor.

He breaks our kiss, his breath still hot on my lips as he presses his forehead to mine. “Thank you.”

“No thanks needed,” I reply, searching for air between us but finding none that isn’t charged with his presence. “I told you—we have to learn to live. Part of that is asking for help.”

He chuckles. “Jolene said the same thing.”

“Smart woman,” I say, ignoring the fact that I’m the biggest hypocrite of them all, considering I would rather drown in these emotions than ask for help.

Bishop exhales and lets slip, “You are not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

His hands find my hips and tug me so I’m once again straddling his lap. My arms wrap around his neck. His cock twitches beneath my pussy, separated only by the terrycloth robe I insisted we wear for this conversation. It’s easy to forget we are nothing to each other when he looks at me like he is right now, with his lip caught between his teeth and fire in his stare.

Instead of answering my question, he does the last thing I expect.

He apologizes.

“I’m sorry.” His deep brown eyes lock on mine.

I open my mouth to tell him it’s okay, but he reaches up and thumbs my lip, stopping me.

“No, please let me get this out.”

“Okay,” I whisper as I manically try to rebuild the walls around my heart before the verbal battering ram of his apology blows through the last whims of my defenses.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he rasps, gently. “For the locker room and the plane. I wish I had an excuse, but all I’ve got is an impossible amount of grief I’ve been hiding behind, but that’s not your fault and you didn’t deserve my anger.”

Tears rim my eyes, and unlike every other moment when I try to keep it together for him, I don’t have it in me to stop them from falling.

And like the knight he is, Bishop is there to catch them, wiping them away with his thumb the moment they stain my cheek.

He takes a deep breath, holding my teary gaze. “I’m sorry for hurting you and for shutting you out after the crash. I’m sorry for all of it. I don’t deserve this agreement with you, but I’ll forever be grateful for what you’ve done for me—what you are doing for me.”

Processing his apology feels like going through a hurricane. In a convertible. With the top down.

On the one hand, I’m elated at the show of Bishop finding his way through the darkness and the promise of healing between us, but it’s overshadowed by the selfish hurt that every apology he made was not what I wanted to hear.

I’ve long forgiven him for all those things. They are water under the bridge. What I want to hear is that he was wrong—that he wants me the same way I want him. I need him to say he’s sorry, but he can no longer continue with our arrangement because there isn’t a world in which I can only be a distraction to him.

Guilt floods me. And it takes everything in me not to scurry from his lap and hide my face. This is a huge moment for Bishop. He needs my support. He deserves it, but for the first time, I’m struggling to ignore the hole in my heart. The one longing for fulfillment. Love. All the things he can’t give me.

God, I am such an asshole.

“Willow?” His voice brings me back to where I need to be, and I’m not sure how much time has passed since he stopped talking and I spiraled down the rabbit hole into the wonderland of my own desperate fears.

“I’m sorry too.”

He leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to my temple, and I feel the easy smile on his lips. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

If only that were true.