Chapter Twenty Five: Willow

The executive concourse is empty as I make my way back to my office. Which is good, because that means there’s no one to see my tears or hear my sobs as they echo off the concrete pillars.

Fuck.

He’s going to hate me for this.

There’s no way he’ll agree to the interview, and I don’t blame him. The media is gunning for him to speak about the crash and his experiences after. They would love nothing more than to dissect each and every fight and spiral while claiming they give a shit about his healing. The board is setting him up to fail, and I have no doubt they’re banking on him fucking up. Especially Vaughn.

It’s not right. But I allowed it to happen.

Guilt claws at me as I consider the progress Bishop has made over the last week. He only just started to come out of his shell, and I’m worried I just forced him back in.

Selfishly, I’m worried he’ll never trust me again. Because at some point he decided to let me in. He seeks me out, not only for a distraction, but to talk about the little things like his day or his conversation with whatever teammate he decided to befriend. He told me about Phoebe and how he’s terrified.

And I threw him under the bus.

When I finally reach the door to my office, I slip in and shut it quickly. Closing my eyes, I sink against the cool wood, as if it will somehow give me its strength.Before another sob can crack through my chest, I hear the soft padding of feet on the carpet.

My eyes pop open to see Bishop pacing the length of my desk. Panic grips my spine.

Shit. What the hell is he doing here? Shouldn’t he be in the clubhouse getting ready to head to Tampa?

Lost in his thoughts, he continues to pace, none the wiser to my presence. His team warmups accentuate the hard lines of his tense shoulders while his freshly showered hair clings to his forehead.

“Bishop?” I squeak, instantly praying my voice won’t betray my state of mind.

He freezes for a fraction of a second before looking my direction, and I’m thrown back to the hotel earlier this week. His eyes are red and wide, but unlike in Miami, Bishop isn’t lost to the vacant spots in his mind. He’s hurting, but he’s still with me.

God, I don’t want to break this man again.

I close the distance between us, needing to make sure he’s okay. To fix whatever has him tangled up. At least that’s what I tell myself. It’s absolutely not because I’m drowning under massive amounts of guilt.

A fraction of a second later, his arms circle my waist and he tugs me against his chest. His large frame encompasses mine, and even though I have no right to find comfort after what I’ve done, I do.

His fingers tangle in my hair, and he tips my head to meet his distraught gaze.

“Who made you cry, Kitten?” Bishop growls at the same time as I whimper, “What happened?”

His thumb traces over my tearstained cheek as a strangled laugh rumbles from him.

I force a half smile and shake my head, leaning into his touch. “It doesn’t matter. Are you okay?”

“It does,” Bishop insists, his brown eyes searching my face with far too much concern in their depths. “Tell me.”

He echoes my request in Miami.

If this were any other moment, my heart would be jumping for joy that he cares. I’d overthink every word he says and probably convince myself that maybe I’m not the only one who would be okay with something more between us. But right now, it just makes me feel like shit.

Shaking my head, I close my eyes. It makes me the worst hypocrite on the face of the earth, especially when Bishop has so willingly given me his hurt and his grief, but I can’t tell him. Not when doing so could break the trust we’ve built.

“Please,” I whimper. “I can’t give you details. Just let me help you.”

His attention dances between my eyes and my trembling lip like he’s debating if he wants to dig his heels in or give up and give me what I want.

Because he was here for a reason, and that reason wasn’t me or my tears.

I dart my tongue out and wet my lower lip, knowing damn well I’m not playing fair and it will push him over the edge.

“Fuck, Kitten.” He adjusts his stance, his cock lengthening against the hollow of my belly. His eyes darken and narrow as he speaks through gritted teeth. “We’re not done talking about this.”

I nod, letting him believe what he needs.

Because I’ll fix this long before he’ll ever hear about the interview. He won’t have to know I let him down.

I’ll fix it.