Chapter Twenty Eight: Bishop

“Are we okay?”

I glance up at Ford McCoy, our third baseman, as I hit the end of my bat against the bottom of my cleat for the tenth time instead of warming up my swing.

Yes. No.

Fuck.

How do I tell him his confession the day before sent me into a spiral that landed me in Willow’s office, needing a distraction, which resulted in not only finding out she threw me under the bus but also unlocked a web of feelings I swore I wouldn’t have for our owner?

The answer?

I don’t because none of it is his fault.

Jackson snorts in my head. Look at you being all grown up and mature about this.

I know. I deserve a goddamn medal.

I glance sideways to where McCoy stands between me and the net set up around home plate for batting practice. He’s like a fucking puppy with his sad eyes and hopeful smile—that is, if puppies were six foot three and made of lean muscle. He means well and takes up the helm of a fluffy golden retriever right alongside Carson. But where Carson is the class clown, McCoy is the quiet boy next door.Meanwhile, I’m the rottweiler in the corner.

What? All bark no bite?Tommy jabs.

I roll my eyes. I was going to say the moody guard dog, but seriously, fuck you guys.

You’ll always be our golden retriever, Bish. Jackson assures me. You just discovered you have teeth.

I shake my head as my stare drifts past McCoy to our first baseman, Elliot Stone, at the plate. He shifts his weight and swings, sending a line drive out to left field. Unfortunately, he isn’t quite finished with his bucket of balls, which means there’s no way to avoid this conversation.

Damn it.

“We’re good,” I offer McCoy. “You just caught me off guard. I didn’t know Martinez was your brother.”

“Stepbrother,” he corrects.

I roll my eyes internally. It doesn’t matter. Brother. Half brother. Stepbrother. It doesn’t change the fact that a member of his family was my teammate and died in the crash.

Before yesterday, I’d never taken the time to talk with McCoy. Though apparently, he’s been trying to find a way to approach me since he arrived in Fort Myers. He didn’t want there to be secrets between us, but also didn’t want to upset me by bringing up the crash.

Which is valid. I’ve been a hot fucking mess on a good day and those still end with me in Willow’s bed trying to forget. Never mind the days that I need her body in order to feel like I can take my next breath.

But the joke’s on McCoy this time. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but Tyler Martinez was a selfish fucking prick who only ever thought of himself. I didn’t tell his brother that. Especially after McCoy admitted he volunteered for the draft so he could honor Tyler’s memory and support his family.

I didn’t even know Tyler had a family. He was always bringing different girls back to our hotels when we were on the road.

Again, not that I was about to tell McCoy any of that.

Instead, when given the chance to connect with him as a teammate, I bolted. It was too much to process, and I ran straight to?—

“Ms. York,” McCoy stutters but recovers quickly with what I can only describe as a panty-dropping smile. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too, Ford.” Her voice washes over me, sending a shiver down my spine.“I’m actually glad I ran into you. I spoke to Henry about making an appointment with you later this week to discuss your sister-in-law.”

It’s at that point three things happen in quick succession.

First, my dick takes notice, twitching against my jockstrap at the sight of her bare thighs that are usually hidden beneath those damn skirts she wears. It doesn’t matter that I’m still pissed at her. I also want her under me, reminding her as long as we’ve got this arrangement, she’s mine.

Which explains the second thing. I drop the bat in my hand and clench my fists, ready to take out my teammate for looking at Willow with stars in his eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve defended her from a teammate. Sharpe won”t even look in her direction without checking first to see if I’m around.

And third, the metaphorical bucket of cold water is thrown over me as I’m tackled from the side by the force of a nine-year-old tornado.

“Uncle Bish!” Phoebe yells.

Wrapping my arms around her, I swing her in a circle. Her giggle gives me life. A reminder that everything I’m doing is not just for me.

When I set her down, I’m finally able to lock my eyes on Willow.

If my dick stands at attention fromjust from the sound of her voice, it’s ready to go into battle at the sight of her. Which is problematic considering we are in the middle of batting practice and my soon to be ward is standing at my side.

I can’t help it though. Instead of her self-imposed uniform of a blouse paired with one of those skirts that leaves me itching to rip fabric, she’s wearing a black pinstriped Renegades jersey. It’s unbuttoned and opened, revealing a tight tank underneath. A pair of cutoff denim shorts hug her thick thighs. From her curled blonde spirals to her favorite black high-top Chuck Taylors, Willow is not giving team owner vibes. She’s giving gorgeous single woman vibes, and fuck if I’m not ready to lock that shit down before anyone else takes notice.

But as good as she looks, the first thing I see when my gaze returns to her face is the way her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s holding it together remarkably well, but the signs are there that she’s not okay. Arms protectively crossed over her chest. Fingers drawing circles over the smooth skin of her biceps.

She’s nervous. Or maybe anxious.

To stop myself from interrupting Willow’s conversation with McCoy to make sure she’s okay, I tug my hat from my head and plop it on Phoebe’s. “What are you guys doing here so early?”

Phoebe’s cheeks tinge pink above her infectious smile. “I missed you, so Willow said we could come down early and pick out jerseys to wear and watch batting practice.”

“I thought that might be a new jersey on you. Let me see.” I lift my hand and spin my finger around.“Give me a twirl?”

Phoebe giggles as she spins in front of me, showing off the jersey she picked with Jackson’s name and number on the back. It’s a punch to the gut to see it, but on his little girl, the sting doesn’t last quite as long.

“It’s perfect, Short Stack.”

“Thank you.”

“And who is this?” Graham asks as he joins us standing behind the net.

“This is Phoebe Roberts, Jackson’s daughter. She’s here with Willow for the game today.”

“Well hello, Phoebe,” Graham says, squatting down and offering Phoebe his hand. “I’m Graham Clarke.”

Phoebe puts her hand in his and gives it a firm shake. “Hello, Graham.”

“So do I have you to thank for finally getting my goddaughter in a jersey and out of those stuffy skirts she likes to wear?” he asks, nodding his head in Willow’s direction as he stands up.

My brows raise at seeing this softer side of Graham. He’s usually such a hard ass in the dugout that it’s almost creepy to see him engage in this playful manner with Phoebe. It’s unexpected, especially since I’m pretty sure he’s never been married or had kids.

Phoebe’s eyes go wide as she bounces from foot to foot. “Willow is your goddaughter? I’m Uncle Bishop’s goddaughter.”

“You know I wear them because it’s professional and I’m the owner.” Willow steps forward and nudges Graham with her shoulder, adding playfully, “Uncle Graham.”

“He’s your uncle too?” Disbelief colors Phoebe’s voice, her gaze darting quickly between Willow and Graham.

Willow laughs and nods. “Kinda like how Bishop is your uncle. He was my dad’s best friend.”

“Those are the best uncles,” Phoebe declares.

“I agree.”

“Me too,” Graham confirms. “Now, would you like to try giving the bat a swing, Phoebe?”

Phoebe looks to Willow and then over to me, and my heart pounds against my ribs. “Can I?”

“It’s fine with me as long as you wear a helmet,” Willow says, and Phoebe turns to me for confirmation.

I tug my hat from her head and slide it backwards on my own. “Knock it out of the park, Short Stack.”

“Eeeeek,” she shrieks, following Graham to the net before looking over her shoulder. “You’ll watch me, Uncle Bish?”

“Absolutely.” I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat that reminds me Jackson should be doing this with her, not me. “I’m just going to talk with Willow for a minute, and then I’ll come over and we’ll hit a home run together.”

Phoebe squeals again and hurriedly joins Graham, who has a helmet waiting for her. She slides it on and takes the too big bat before situating herself at the plate.

Graham heads out to the mound, grabs a few balls, and sets up halfway between so he can toss them to Phoebe.

I laugh. Jackson would love this, but Norah would be positively beaming. Phoebe was her pride and joy.

Tears burn the backs of my eyes as I silently look up at the fluffy white clouds littering a crisp blue sky and wonder if she’s watching this moment.

You know I am.She speaks in my head. Take care of my family, Bishop.

I swallow hard because it sounds like a goodbye, and somehow, I know she’s not going to be making an appearance in my head any longer.

I’m not sure what that means, especially since it’s my own fucked-up conscience at play, but there’s a peace that comes with it. Like there was at The Guardian. And once again, I’m left asking myself if this is what it feels like to move on.

Except it’s not moving on.

It’s living.

I will,I promise her. Always.