Chapter Twenty Two: Bishop

The drive back to Fort Myers is a quiet one, not unlike the drive to Miami. Except this time, it’s not rage that keeps me company, but unsettled peace.

I could have stayed and driven back in the morning and still had enough time to make morning work before our game, but something felt off with Willow. She was still there for me, just like she always was, but her mind was a million miles away. And when I asked her about it, she told me she was fine, just tired after a long day at the conference.

I may not be the greatest when it comes to relationships, but I know that there is no iteration of the word fine that actually means a woman is okay. But I have to trust she’ll let me know what’s bothering her, the same way she gives me the space to come to her.

She insisted it was alright for me to stay, but I got the feeling we both could use some space after our heavy conversation. That’s not to say we didn’t go two more rounds before she walked me to the door and kissed me goodbye. But where she would likely pass out the second her pretty little head hit the pillow, I’m wound up tighter than a toy soldier.

For the first time in a long time, I have a plan. One that makes sense and feels like it could be the right next step. It might have taken a therapy session, a three-hour drive, and the forgiveness of a gorgeous woman to beat it into my head, but now that it’s there it feels like a weight has been lifted off my chest. I can almost take a full breath.

Almost.

There are still a few more things I have to do before I’m okay.

Not healed, but okay.

I think both Jolene and Willow were right when they said I’ll never be one hundred percent, but I can learn to be okay with where I am.

In the wise words of Willow York: I deserve to live.

It’s late when I pull into the parking lot of The Guardian and text Carson, letting him know I’ve arrived.

Instead of responding, he steps out of a slick, black sports car parked three spots over and heads toward my truck. Unlike me, who is still wearing our team warm-ups, Carson is dressed like a damn model in dark jeans and a collared light blue shirt. It’s casual, but screams he spent far too long getting ready after he took my call.

Seems I’m not the only one a little nervous about this.

I pump my hands open and close a few times to stop them from shaking before I open the door and give him a nod to follow me toward the alley that leads to the Renegade’s safe haven.

Carson turns on his heel and gives a quick hop to follow. He catches up in a few strides and cracks an uneasy smile. “Where are we?”

I have to laugh because I remember having the same thought when the guys first brought me to The Guardian. The entrance to the bar is tucked away on the back side of a strip mall located a block from the river. During the day and in the summer months, the front side is packed with tourists and locals alike, but unless you know of the tiny bar, it’s not likely to be found. Which is exactly why we like it. It also helps Lou is a transplant from Queens and looks out for us.

Cocking a brow in his direction, I give him a devilish grin. “Do you trust me?”

“That depends. Are you leading me into this alley to sell my kidneys on the black market?”

“I mean technically you only need one,” I say with a shrug.

Carson lets out a nervous laugh, like he isn’t sure what to make of my dark humor.

When we reach the nondescript door that could easily be mistaken for an emergency exit, I glance over at Carson and point out the tiny orange gargoyle painted just above the handle.

Shock colors his voice. “Is that a Renegade Gargoyle?”

I nod, loving that little touch and how it makes me feel like a sleuth discovering a secret hide out every time I’ve visited.

Opening the door wide, I lift my hand and gesture for Carson to enter first. As he does, I send up a silent prayer I’m not fucking up by bringing him here.

He hesitates, but ultimately pushes past the short foyer through two hanging black curtains.

“Holy shit,” he mutters as I join him, eyes wide and mouth gaping. “What is this place?”

My lips twitch upward, and I want to tell him it’s home. Because that’s the immediate feeling that slams into me the moment I step foot on these hallowed grounds.

The establishment isn’t very big, maybe twenty feet deep and another sixty wide. Nestled at one end is a bar with every liquor imaginable and a tap that is stocked with local brews and a few of the team favorites. There are a few tables scattered throughout the room, as well as a pool table, and shuffle and dart boards. At the far end is a tiny stage set up with a karaoke machine and projector to play music videos or games that might be on.

Overall, it’s a typical bar. What makes it special are all the things that adorn the walls. From neon signs to framed photos and memorabilia, every inch is dedicated to the Renegades.

“It’s about fucking time.” A voice I’d recognize anywhere hollers from behind the bar.

I wince, mentally preparing for the verbal lashing I’m about to receive.

Lou rounds the bar and heads toward us.

The man stands at a whopping five foot five and has more muscle than Carson and I put together.Coupled with his slicked back, jet black hair and leather jacket, Lou looks like he could be the bouncer instead of the owner. He’s intimidating any day of the week until you get to know him and realize he’s got a heart of fucking gold.

Lou shakes my hand and pulls me into a hug, his deep baritone voice whispering, “I’m so fucking sorry, Bishop.”

My chest tightens the same way it does anytime someone gives me even a hint of condolences. I never know what to say to them. “Me too” doesn’t convey what I feel because I’m not sorry they died. I’m fucking livid. Though I’ve learned I can’t say that either, because then I’m the bad guy who can’t move on. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

When Lou pulls away, I give him a tight-lipped smile and nod. Thankfully, he doesn’t push the topic any further.

Instead, he turns to Carson and grins, lifting his hand with flair as he nods to the bar behind him. “To answer your question, Mr. Whitmore, this is The Guardian. Spring training home of the Renegades.”

“Fucking shit,” Carson breathes, his voice dripping with reverence as he continues to take in every inch of Renegade haven. Then he turns and punches me in the arm. “You mean to say you knew about this, and we could’ve been here weeks ago instead of that shitty hotel bar?”

My shoulders slump at the same time Lou erupts in laughter. “Come on, I’ll pour you a drink and put it on Lawson’s tab.”

“Water for me, Lou,” I say as we head toward the bar.

“One water and a?—”

“Coors light.”

Lou scrunches his nose and tsks. “It’s a good thing you’re a phenomenal pitcher because your taste in beer is abysmal.”

Carson grips his chest as if he’s been wounded as he slides onto a barstool, but the smile on his face says otherwise. “Give me Coors or give me death.”

I clap him on the back and take the seat next to him. “If Lou has any say, you’ll be a beer snob before you know it.”

Carson belts out a laugh and it settles in my chest, warm and welcomed.

The next hour passes with Lou telling stories of Renegades’ of the past and Carson savoring every debauchery filled detail. Meanwhile, my gaze drifts from photo to photo, lingering longer on the ones that hold the memories of the team I lost.

Tommy belting “Living on a Prayer” at the top of his lungs during karaoke.

Jackson dancing with Norah in the corner, like no one else was in the room.

Celebrating a hard win.

The Rookie talent show.

Folston proposing to his then girlfriend because he didn’t want to go a whole season without her being his wife.

So many great memories that will never be recreated with them again.

But even with nostalgia haunting me, there is also an inkling of something new, and dare I say, exciting. It started with the look on Carson’s face when he walked in and has only intensified with every moment since.

Is this what moving forward feels like?

This is how it’s supposed to be, Jackson whispers, and it cuts deep.

I know,I reply, but I still miss you.

We’ll always be right here.

“Bishop?” Carson says, and if I had to guess, it’s not the first time he’s tried to get my attention.

I turn to face him and watch as Lou disappears into the office behind the bar, leaving just the two of us.

Carson lifts his beer to his lips and takes a sip with a refreshing exhale. “Why’d you bring me here tonight?”

“It was time.” I shrug. He doesn’t need to know the gritty details that got me here.

“What changed? This is…” His gaze dances from photo to photo. “I know it couldn’t have been easy for you.”

“It’s not.” I run my hand from the back of my head and scrub it down my face. “But it’s what the team needs.”

Carson chuckles and raises a skeptical brow. “So, then why is it just me here instead of all the guys?”

“Because I can stand you for more than five minutes?”

“Come on.” Carson presses his lips together and tilts his head to the side like he’s waiting for me to correct myself. When I don’t, he smiles and huffs. “They really aren’t all that bad.”

I give him a resigned sigh. “No, they aren’t. But this is me trying.”

Carson nods and lifts his beer. “To baby steps.”

I clink my glass against his and hit it down on the bar top. “Something like that.”

“I can get behind it.” Carson sips his basically-water beer and smirks. “So, again, I’m going to ask. What changed? Because two weeks ago you weren’t ready to do this.”

I should have known he wasn’t going to let me off easy. Not when he’s been a constant pain in my ass, reminding me every chance he gets that I need to do better. But this isn’t him poking and prodding. There’s genuine concern in his eyes, and it’s that sentiment that has me answering honestly.

“Someone told me it wasn’t about replacing the team I lost—but welcoming the new guys into the family. As much as I hate it, it made a lot of sense.”

Carson wiggles his brows, lightening the heartfelt moment with his own brand of comic jackassery. “Would this someone happen to be a woman?”

I freeze. “Why would you think that?”

Fuck.

There’s no way he knows about Willow, right?

“No reason.” Carson shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “But with a reaction like that now I’m certain it is.”

“How did you guess?”

“You aren’t that smart, but there’s also the lingering flowery scent that I’m pretty positive doesn’t belong to you.”

“Okay, yes, it was a woman,” I conceded. “No, I’m not telling you who.”

“Fair enough.” The implied “for now” goes unspoken, and I hate that I feel comfortable enough with this joker that I could see myself confiding in him.

Carson sets down his beer and turns. Resting his elbow on the bar, he spins to face me. “So, the next step is we need to get the rest of the team here.”

Shaking my head again, I let out a half-hearted laugh. He makes it sound so simple.

“That’s on you. That’s why I asked you here. To help pick up some of the slack when it comes to team leadership.”

Carson frowns, shaking his head. “Not a chance. It needs to come from you. And I think next weekend is perfect. We have a day off Sunday. We can bring them here Saturday night.”

“That”s almost two weeks away. You’re saying you want to sit on this until then?”

He throws up his hands, holding me off. “I know. That’s why it’s step two in my plan.”

I lift a suspicious brow. “Do I even want to know what step one is?”

“You’re going to hate it, but that’s why you’re going to do it.”

My face falls.

“Don’t look at me like that. If you’re serious about welcoming this team, it has to start with you. They look to you because you were the heart of the team before the crash. You know this organization inside and out.”

“Maybe once I did, but nothing is the same.”

“No one expects it to be.”

I scoff. “Tell that to the top brass.”

“Fuck them,” Carson roars and from the office in the back Lou echoes, “Yeah, fuck them.”

The two of us look at each other and hesitate before we both burst out laughing.

“Seriously though, aside from Graham and Willow, they all have their heads as stuck in their ass as yours was. This is our team now.”

It grinds my gears to hear him call Willow by her first name, but I let it slide. Mostly because I’m shocked by the fact it doesn’t hurt to hear him claim my team.

Our team.

I nod. “So, what do you propose?”

“For the next week, you’re going to spend at least five minutes with each of the guys, getting to know them.”

“Carson, I?—”

“No, Bish.” He cuts me off. “I know you didn’t ask for this. Any of it, but like it or not, it’s your job. Unless you want to let it happen organically, in which case we should get used to losing because this team needs something to bring us together.”

Fuck, I hate losing and Carson knows it. Having used him as a shield to avoid the team, he’s heard more than a few of my rants about us being unable to get our shit together.

“But why does it have to be me?” It’s not lost on me that I sound like a spoiled child, but honestly, I’m only just figuring out how to take care of myself. There’s no way in hell I can take responsibility for the entire fucking team.

Carson smiles like he’s been waiting for me to ask this exact question. “Remember a few years back at the all-star week when Callahan and Zoriah had beef that carried over into the game?”

How could I forget? The All-Star game mid-season is supposed to bring players together from each league as a show of unity. But the two of them nearly came to blows in the dugout. Come to find out, it was over a fucking misunderstanding with a cleat chaser who ultimately ended up screwing them both over and giving them the clap.

“You sat them down and spent five minutes listening to each side of the story and helped them realize the broad wasn’t worth the bullshit. Now look at the two of them. They’re best buds.”

I snort. “How is this relevant?”

“You bring people together.”

“I did,” I point out. “But we both know I’m not that guy anymore.”

Carson shrugs. “So, you’ve got slightly less fucks to give. The fact that you invited me here tonight is evidence enough that you aren’t completely a lost cause.”

“Like I said, this is me trying.” I take a pull of my water, wishing it was whiskey. “The thing is, they look to you as much as they look to me, so do me a solid and make this happen.”

Carson leans in and bats his eyelashes. “Are you asking me to be your co-captain?”

I roll my eyes. “We don’t have captains.”

“Not officially, but you and I both know every team has them.”

“Fine. But only after you tell me why you came to the Renegades.”

His comment about volunteering for the draft has rubbed me the wrong way since that first week of spring training. Carson is a huge part of our team, but I need to know why he’s here if I’m going to fully trust him to stand beside me.

He stills and it’s the first time I’ve seen Carson visibly give off anything other than happy and go lucky. Whatever his reason is, it’s something he keeps closely guarded.

“I’m not going to go into the details, but I volunteered for the Renegades so that when we win the World Series, my father won’t be able to avoid seeing my face on every fucking bus and billboard across New York City.”

My eyes widen, and I chuckle. “A revenge plot. I like it.”

Carson shrugs. “You could put it that way.”

“We’ll make sure it happens.”

“Together?” he asks, and I know exactly what he’s waiting for.

I huff a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Carson, will you be my unofficial co-captain?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Maybe it’s the sly twinkle in his eye or maybe it’s the fact that Carson is more observant than I’ve ever given him credit for, but for the first time this season I feel like I’ve finally got the tiniest bit of solid footing with this team. And as much as I hate to admit it, it feels good.