Chapter Three: Bishop

I had every intention of staying in line. Showing up. Doing the press conference. Playing the part and building a team for Jackson to come back to if he wakes up.

When he wakes up,I correct myself.

Seven people survived the tragic plane crash. Jackson was one of them. But in keeping him, I still lost Norah. Tommy. My team. The rest of the survivors were flight attendants and team trainers. While their lives are important, the only one I care about is the man lying in a coma fighting to come back.

Out of habit, my feet carried me to the clubhouse, forcing me to come face-to-face with the reality of exactly what today meant.

I should’ve known I couldn’t fake my way through this.

I’ve never been good at masking my emotions.

The splintered wood surrounding me is an indication of that.

It might be my first time back in the clubhouse since the crash, but nothing has changed. The same tables Jackson and I played cards at during every rain delay still lined the edges of the massive black and orange rug. The same couches sat in the center where I spent hours chatting with Tommy, not only about baseball, but about life.

But those aren’t what set me off. It was the visual of all the empty lockers, with every name tape removed, ready to be replaced with a new name after the draft.

All except mine.

Set in the center of the left wall was my locker, nestled between where Tommy and Jackson should be, still filled with my uniforms and gear from last season.

A slap in the fucking face.

But the universe wasn’t done reminding me of all I’d lost.

My eyes dropped to the swivel chair I sat in so many times, and I lost it. Sitting there was a small stuffed Stoney, our gargoyle team mascot. Tied to him was a deflated mylar balloon that read “Congrats” in bright orange letters and added beneath it, scrawled in Jackson’s chicken scratch, was “on your divorce.”

My best friend and teammates had wanted me to know I wasn’t alone. I might not have been with them that night, but they went above and beyond to make sure I’d have a smile on my face during the end of my shit show of a marriage.

They had no way ofknowing it was the last thing they’d ever do for me.

Shame and rage gripped my spine, and I blacked out. Even now, I can only make out flashes of what happened.

Tearing the uniforms from their hangars.

They’re supposed to be here.

The crack of my bat against wood and glass.

I can’t replace them.

Her hand on my bicep.

She shouldn’t be here.

Her voice whispering my name.

Her begging me to come back to her—her strangled voice like a lighthouse to a sailor, a promise of safety. But it’s only an illusion. I’m nowhere near land in the rough waters of my mind.

She’s just like them. Playing their stupid fucking game.

My fingers around her throat.

They only want money.

Her fists pounding against my chest.

I came back to reality to the sounds of her gasping for air and the visual of my hands wrapped around her delicate throat.

“Fuck.” I instantly drop my hands from where they are constricting her airway.

Willow slouches back, her blonde curls falling around her face as she struggles to force air into her lungs. When she peers up at me, her blue eyes are wide, like she’s seeing me for the monster I truly am.

I haven’t seen her in person since I left her standing on the steps of the courthouse after she told me about the crash. I denied every phone call. Every attempt at closure. She didn’t do anything wrong. Until she did.

I work my fingers through my hair and grip the roots—the pain keeping me steady. Present.

What have I done? I’m not this person. I don’t hurt women. Not unless they ask me to, and even then, it’s always followed by mind blowing orgasms. This is barbaric. It’s…shit who am I becoming?

My hands tremble as I stumble back and frantically drag my eyes over her to make sure I didn’t hurt her. “Willow…you…fuck…are you okay? What are you doing here?”

Her eyes soften and a half-hearted smile tips her lips.

It slices through me.

How the fuck is she smiling right now? My fingers were around her throat, pressing her into a splintered locker while she gasped for air. There’s nothing about this that warrants a smile.

“I was in the press room. Harold told me you were in here redecorating. I figured you might want a woman”s opinion.”

My mouth drops open as I try to process how the fuck she’s joking around right now. She should be yelling. Cursing my name. Firing me. Any and all of the above. But no, this woman who has been the bane of my existence for one reason or another for the last year, who is now wearing my fingerprints around her neck, is smirking at me.

“Bishop. I’m okay.” Her hands drift to straighten her skirt. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.”

My fists tighten at my sides, nails cutting into my palms. “It’s not okay.”

“I didn’t say it was. I said I’m okay. Though, I’m pretty sure I saw a termite over there, so maybe you did us a favor.”

She huffs a fake laugh and the insincerity of it momentarily reminds me this is not the woman who warmed my bed. She’s not the woman who listened with reckless abandon to the stories of my life and inspired me to be a better man.

She’s not endgame.

Not that I want her to be. Not anymore.

Endgame implies forever, and if there’s anything I’ve learned in the last year, it’s that forever is an illusion.

Mostly Willow York is someone I actively try to forget. If I’m going to survive this, I have to hold on to who she’s become—a trust fund baby who wears a mask of indifference, indulges the whims of the league and the press, and only considers what the bottom line means for her business.

None of which is who I knew her to be.

My eyes narrow on the face I once found perfect and my voice hardens. “Happy to help.”

Her stare clashes with mine, another reminder she’s not the woman I remember.

Then she falters.

“Bishop.” Her voice softens, wary and so full of pity it almost undermines the resolve I just solidified. “Are you?—”

“No,” I cut her off. “You don’t get to ask if I’m okay. Not here. Not today.”

She hesitates, and I watch as something wars behind her eyes before she nods. “Alright. Then I need you to get your shit together and get upstairs for the draft.”

Ah, there they are. She might’ve been a pushover, but she’s always had claws.

“Yeah, I’m not doing that.” I scoff.

Her eyes narrow, and now that I’m not in the comedown spiral of my blackout, I take the opportunity to really look at her. It’s been months since I’ve seen her, but she’s still beauty wrapped in sin. Her soft coral blouse hugs her full breasts, and I can’t help but remember what they look like cupped in my hands with my fingers teasing their sensitive nubs. My eyes wander shamelessly down her form, lingering on the curve of her hips in the skirts she favors, before falling to the open-toe heels she no doubt hates.

Fuck. Nothing about her or this moment should turn me on, but old habits die hard and I shift uncomfortably, willing my dick not to take notice.

Her hand finds her hip, accentuating her waist as I finally drag my eyes back to her piercing blue gaze. “You are. This team needs you.”

This team.

I can’t believe the fucking audacity of this woman. This isn’t my team. It will never be my team, no matter who they sign. They will always be the replacements. The men who fell into this organization because of a tragedy.

Crossing my arms over my chest, my lips twist into an amused sneer. “And if I don’t want to be a part of the dog and pony show?”

Willow doubles down. “Are you saying you’re walking away? We both know that’s not what you want. You love this game.”

I do, but I’m not ready for this conversation. Especially not with her.

“Did they send you in here to manipulate me?” My voice is low, threatening.

It’s the only thing that makes sense. Use my history with her to get me to do their bidding. Nothing else they’ve done has worked.

Willow sighs. “No, Bishop. They don’t know about us, and I plan to keep it that way.”

“Agreed. It was a mistake.”

Willow swallows hard, and I swear her blue eyes go soft for a split second before her mask slides back into place, and she nods.

I chew the inside of my cheek, the flesh raw from the number of times I’ve needed to steady myself this morning.

How the hell is she so damn put together all the time?

“Good,” I growl, ignoring the dagger to my heart. I don’t want to be here with her. I don’t want to think about her. She needs to stay in my past where I can remember who she used to be.

“Great.” She clasps her hands in front of her and straightens her posture. “Now that we understand each other, can you please clean yourself up and get upstairs?”

I shake my head and lean down to grab the plush gargoyle at my feet—the last remaining bit of my team that I have—and head for the door. “The answer is still no. I’ll let you figure out what story you want to spin to the press. You’re an expert these days, after all.”

“I dare you.”

My eyes widen before they narrow into thin slits.

Those three words haunt me for so many reasons, but hearing them from her mouth—full of determination and spite—and the way she believes they will somehow convince me, it’s both laughable and excruciating. They are the words Jackson and I taunted each other with for nearly a decade, always urging each other to be better under the guise of a competition. They are a reminder that someone believes in you. A challenge to believe in yourself.

They are the same words I used to inspire her just over a year ago.

A barked laugh bubbles from my throat, and I shake my head.

The joke is on her. There are a lot of things I will do for Jackson, but when it comes to Willow, my will to give a shit is gone. Or at least that’s what I’ll have her believe. Mostly because I’m teetering on the line of not knowing what the hell I’m supposed to do.

“So much for not using our past against me.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to rebuild this team into something my father would be proud of.”

“Still playing their game, I see.” It’s a low blow, but I don’t care. She went for the knees first, and I’m not above calling it how I see it. It’s about her father and the organization, not about the team. Not about me.

“What would you have me do, Bishop? Disband the organization? Fire the thousands of staff counting on us to reopen the stadium? Let the fans down that are counting on us to bring baseball back to Queens?”

My heart sinks as shame washes over me and I’m seconds away from walking out, finding the nearest bar, and drinking until I can’t remember this interaction.

What’s worse is that she”s right. I hate that she’s fucking right. This isn’t just about me, but it fucking feels like it is. I’m the one on that field, not them. I’m the caged monkey in this shit show circus. I’m the one forced to play this game. A game that once consumed my soul and they expect me to do it without a hint of the spark that was once there.

Maybe the media is right. Maybe I need to retire. They haven’t come right out and said it, but I”m not an idiot. It would be easier for everyone if I walked away. The fans would hate me, but it would give the team a fresh start.

You aren’t ready to say goodbye, Bish.

Jackson’s voice reverberates in my mind, and I roll my eyes. I wondered how long it would take for Jackson’s voice to manifest in my mind. Ever since the crash, he and Tommy have become a sentient version of my fucked-up conscience.Every time they make their presence, I waiver between a twisted sense of joy at having them near and anger because they shouldn’t be just voices in my head.

You love us.This time it’s Tommy. If you can’t do it for you, do it for us. She’s fighting for her father’s legacy. Fight for ours.

I’m going to regret this.

“I’ll do it.”

“Good. Now seriously, get cleaned up. You look like shit, and I need you to make the press believe we are one big, happy family.”

I scoff. Clearly, she isn’t fully acquainted with the new me because there’s a fat chance in hell of that happening.

“Then I need you to head to travel to pick up your ticket for the spring training flight.”

“I won’t be needing it.”

Her brow arches, and she sounds almost taken aback when she answers. “Excuse me?”

“I’m driving down to Fort Myers in the morning.”

I silently pray she doesn’t push the issue because it’s not something I’m willing to budge on.

“That’s twenty hours.”

“And if I leave tonight, I’ll have plenty of time to get there.”

“Does Vaughn know you’re doing this?”

I huff a laugh. “Vaughn isn’t my keeper. He doesn’t give two shits as long as I’m there when the rest of the pitchers and catchers report on Sunday night and ready to play Monday. Which you would know if you had any experience being an owner.”

Just as I expected, this new version of Willow doesn’t back down. Instead, she takes a step toward me and then another, until she needs to crane her neck to meet my glare. “I don’t need experience to tell me you’re a liability. One look at you or any tabloid tells me that. You can’t be trusted to make that drive.”

“I can. And I will,” I say slowly, my words harsh through gritted teeth. “I’m. Not. Flying.”

“What are you going to do the rest of the season?”There’s a gleam of amusement in her eye, like she’s caught me at my own game.

“That’s assuming I’m playing this season.” The corner of my lip twitches. “The real question is, what are you going to do? You’re the owner now. You’ll be expected to travel.”

Willow winces as she studies me, her eyes cataloging my face with scrutiny, like she’s trying to figure out the logic behind my actions. That’s the thing, though. There is none. Logic went down with the plane that carried my teammates.

It helps that I know she has a debilitating fear of flying. I never understood the fear before, but now, the very thought of entering a death tube with wings makes my heart race and my palms sweat. I know I’ll have to get over it eventually, but today isn’t that day. Neither is tomorrow. Or the next.

“You aren’t driving.” She crosses her arms with confidence. “The team is responsible for getting you there.”

“And what about you? I’m pretty sure I read you’re driving down after signing new contracts, or is that not what you told Vogue when they interviewed you last month?” I silently thank Jackson’s mom for leaving her trashy magazine in Jackson’s room.

“I’ve always hated flying.”

“Me too.”

“Liar,” she sneers.

I give a defiant shrug. “I’m not flying.”

“You’re a liability.”Each word is pointed and precise. But even though she’s stubborn, Willow is a habitual people pleaser. I watch as she chews her lower lip, silently considering the predicament I’ve created, until her brows raise and her lips tip in a smirk. I’m not sure if I should be intrigued or scared about what’s going to come out of her mouth next.

“Take the private jet instead.”

Definitely intrigued. Because in all her infinite wisdom, this is the only plan she could come up with to get me to comply.

I shake my head and huff a sarcastic chuckle. “What part of I’m not flying do you not understand?”

“The same part where if you don’t do this, you”ll forfeit your spot on this team.”

My spine stiffens, and I don’t dare look away from Willow’s hardened stare. She’s all business, but I can’t tell if she’s bluffing and this is a power trip or if she’s actually serious. I might threaten the notion of walking away, but now that the reality of losing the Renegades is on the table, I’m struggling to force air into my lungs.

“You wouldn’t.” I don’t recognize the low and menacing desperation in my voice.

I expected this from Vaugh. Even Graham would have grounds to threaten my position on the team, but this is the first time Willow has threatened my place here, and by the fierce look in her eye, she means it.

Fuck.

It’s not even flying that scares me. It’s everything else. The seat configuration alone gives me anxiety. Where is the safest place to sit? What happens if the engine goes out? What difference does the tray table being up make if we’re in a death spiral?

How the hell am I supposed to just sit in my seat and not wonder who was sitting in that seat on the plane that went down?

Don’t even get me started on landing.

None of it is logical, but my mind won’t stop.

Out of everyone, Willow should understand, but of course she doesn’t.

“Take the jet, Bishop.” Her voice is strong despite its hushed volume.

I narrow my gaze on Willow, who’s got just as much fire in her eyes as my own. There’s a part of me that wants to tell her she’s a good girl for standing up to me. The problem is there’s a bigger part of me that needs to see her bleed as much as I am, because the fact that she has it all together is really pissing me off. Which is my only excuse for why I blurt out the worst idea on the planet.

“Only if you come with me.”

If I have to suffer, so does she.

Willow inhales a sharp breath, and the wheels turn in her mind as she works out any other possible solution. “That’s not an option.”

I raise a taunting brow. “Then I guess I’m packing the truck and leaving tomorrow. The choice is yours, k—” I catch myself before I utter the nickname I gave a lifetime ago.

If she notices, she doesn’t let it show.

“I wasn’t planning on heading down there until the middle of next week. I can’t leave tomorrow, but if I move some stuff around, I think I can leave the following afternoon.”

I raise a brow, skeptical if this is her way to get me to avoid leaving with enough time to make the drive. Not that it really matters. I have no problem getting ripped a new one for showing up late to training. It’s par for the course these days.

“Good thing I’m already packed. Text me the details and I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Oh, now you know how a phone works,” she mutters under her breath, and I get the feeling it’s payback for the almost-Kitten slip.

Willow shakes her head and pulls out her phone, tapping away in a hurry. When she’s finished, she glares in my direction.

“Are we done here?”

“Yeah. We’re done.”

Willow turns on the heels she hates, but damn do they make her ass look good. She heads for the door, tossing one final jab over her shoulder as she does. “Don’t fuck this up.”

That’s not a promise I can make, especially since I have no intention of attending the draft.

You’re making a mistake.Jackson tries to reason.

I know.

But they want me to be Bishop Lawson, star catcher of the New York Renegades, and I’m not sure he still exists.