Chapter Forty Two: Bishop

The stadium is packed for this afternoon’s game, everyone wanting to see the team at the heart of a major scandal.

I knew we’d be tested as a team, but I didn’t think it would come so soon and not in the form of retaliation from the umpires on the field. Every close pitch, on both offense and defense, is being called in favor of the Atlanta Thrashers. It’s been an uphill fight since we stepped on the field. We’re currently up by two, but we only got those runs by the skin of our teeth.

“Strike three!” The ump calls, and I watch from the railing of the dugout as my team jogs across the field for our at bat.

Smitty is the first to enter and slides up next to me, wiping the sweat from his brow. “You ready for your manhood to take a beating?”

I chuckle. He’s played the first six innings of the game, and I’m playing cleanup on the last three. Not that I need to. After management released Sharpe this morning, the rookie has found his groove behind the plate and it shows. He could easily take my place in a year or two once he’s got a bit more field time under his belt.

“Brent still muttering bullshit under his breath?” I ask.

Brent Colson is by far one of my least favorite umps in the league. He’s a hot head and likes to make sure you know he’s got the power to fuck you right where it hurts. Given the recent cheating allegations, he’s taken it upon himself to exact justice for umpires everywhere.

Smitty scoffs. “Every other fucking pitch.”

I open my mouth to respond, but Carson storming into the dugout makes me pause. He tears off his hat and throws his gloves at the row of bats leaning against the railing, sending them clattering to the ground.

“Fuck!” he yells before throwing himself into the corner of the bench. Running his hands through his hair, he fires off a few more curses.

I drop down next to him. “You okay, co-captain?”

The fact there isn’t a joke about his role at my side tells me this runs deeper than just being pissed off about the umpire situation.

“No, the fuck I’m not. As if Brent and his bullshit calls aren’t enough, Travers is spouting off at the mouth from the dugout and that fucker knows right where to sucker punch.”

I glance across the field to first base where Carson’s former teammate is chatting with his second baseman, his eyes darting in our direction with every other word.

Fucker.

Chirping is a part of the game. We’ve all done it and all had it done to us, but there’s a line you don’t cross. Travers is widely known for crossing it on a daily basis.

“Your dad?” I whisper, loud enough for only him to hear me.

Carson nods, his eyes vacant, like he’s a million miles away.

“You wanna talk about it?” I ask.

“Not a fucking chance.”

I cock a brow, but he doesn’t bother looking in my direction. “I’m here if you want.”

“I know,” he growls with a hint of defeat.

A commotion at the other end of the dugout grabs our attention, and Graham bursts from his spot on the top step, charging at the plate like Brent is a bullfighter holding a red cape.

Shit. The hits just keep on coming.

Carson and I jump up and hit the railing of the dugout for a better view.

“Are you going to keep fucking us?” Graham yells, the vein above his eye bulging in a way I’ve never seen before.

He’s usually the calm and collected voice of reason, but it appears even he has a breaking point.

Brent rolls his eyes and gets set for the next play. “Get back in the dugout, Graham.”

“No.” Graham steps up, his chest brushing the umps chest pads. “That pitch was outside.”

“It was on the plate,” Brent growls.

“The fuck it was. It was outside.”

“I made a fair call.”

“Bullshit. Do you need your prescription checked? It was outside and you keep fucking us.”

“Get back in the dugout, Graham,” Brent warns.

Graham steps to the side and draws a line exactly where the pitch crossed on the far side of the batter”s box. “Does that look over the plate to you?”

Oh fuck. I’ve seen a lot of things in my tenure in the major leagues, but I’ve never seen a manager draw a diagram for an umpire like he’s a damn toddler.

“That’s it.” Brent throws his hand up and cocks his elbow, yelling. “You’re out of here!”

Graham’s eyes widen as he turns back to Brent. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

I’m not sure what Graham expected to happen after making Brent look like a fool in front of thousands of people, but I applaud him for doing it. Even if it’s only going to make our lives a living hell for the next three innings.

There’s a satisfied glint in the umpire’s gaze as he nods. “You’re out. Get off my field.”

“Fuck!” Graham yells, and the crowd boos in response. Though it’s hard to tell if they’re booing because they agree or disagree, either way it’s not a good look for the Renegades.

Graham tugs his hat from his head and storms off the field, disappearing into the clubhouse without a word to the team.

The guys are looking around at the other managers and bench coaches, but all of them are shaking their heads and don’t have anything to offer.

I nudge Carson and tilt my head, but he shrugs me off, still lost in his head.

Alright, guess it’s just me.

Clapping my hands, I call the attention of the team. “Alright guys, we’re on our own now. Let’s keep our heads in the game. I know we’re up against bullshit calls, but we’re still leading the scoreboard. We’re better than them. Let’s prove it.”

The team nods, but the dejected murmurings reverberate loudly in the dugout. The damage has been done.

After that display, the rest of the inning goes as expected—three at bat, three strikeouts, all questionable pitch calls.

I grab my gear and head out to get set behind the plate, stretching out my muscles as I do. Carson and I toss a few warm-up pitches. He hits the glove every time, but his head isn’t in the game. Usually, he’s got a running monologue after every pitch that is both entertaining and annoying as shit for batters. At the moment, he’s nothing more than a brick wall—looming and silent.

There’s no way we’re going to squeak out our first spring training win if he doesn’t get his head in the game.

I slide behind the plate and get set for the first batter to take the box.

Julio Travers steps in.

Fuck.

Of all the players to take the plate, it had to be this one.

Carson’s jaw tightens. Maybe this is exactly what he needs. Throw some heat and psych himself up.

The back of my neck tingles, and I turn and look up at the owner”s suite where Willow is with Indie and Leigh. She’s standing behind the two rows of seats with her hands twisted in front of her, worry painted on her face.

The cards are still stacked against us. After telling the team and witnessing their acceptance of our relationship, it’s easy to forget we still have to convince the Major League Baseball community to accept us. No matter what we do, there will be people who believe it’s unethical for us to be together, but as long as we have each other and our team, that’s all that matters.

Life’s too short. I want my aisle seat.

When Willow sees me looking, she smiles, and it hits me straight in the chest.

Yeah. I’m good as long as I have her.

I flash a wink up at her, holding on to the memory of her writhing beneath me as I dig my cleats into the dirt and lift my glove.

Carson throws the first pitch, a fastball low and on the inside, but well within the strike zone.

“Ball!” Brent yells.

I bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood as I throw the ball back to Carson, noting his continued silence.

Come on, big guy, give me something, anything to help get you back in this game.

Brent mutters under his breath behind me, but all I catch is “cheating bastards”.

Fuck, this is going to be a long three innings.

Travers resets at the plate and glances down at me. “Might need to work on that framing, Lawson.”

“Scoreboard,” I grunt.

We’re still up. One inning at a time. I repeat the mantra over and over in my head, so I don’t give in to the anger coiling around my spine and wipe the smug smile off Travers” face.

He shrugs. “We’ll see.”

My thumb finds the PitchCom on the back of my thigh, and I signal a curve ball to Carson, who nods from the mound.

It’s another close pitch. Another ball called.

“Shake it off,” McCoy calls from third base.

“Let’s go, Whitmore,” Brooks encourages from second.

Carson wipes the sweat from his brow with his gloved forearm while the hand that holds the ball twitches at his side. He’s used to being the best and seeing results. This entire game he’s been throwing the pitches, but not being rewarded for the work. It’s messing with his head. Not to mention the asshole in the box knows where he’s weak.

I call for another fastball. Carson delivers and is once again not rewarded. Ball three.

“Fuck!” he bellows, catching Brent’s attention.

“This is the only warning you’re going to get, Whitmore.”

Carson brings his glove to his face, and I would bet my entire signing bonus he’s muttering a few choice words into the leather.

There we go. Get mad. Get your head in the game.

Travers swings his bat in a circle, a wicked grin splitting his face. “Daddy would be so disappointed. Oh, wait.”

Carson takes a step toward the plate, and for a second, I think we’re about to have a bench clear on our hands.

I shoot to my feet and shake my head, silently begging him not to take the swing I know he desperately wants to. Fuck, I want to for him. Travers is an ass, but we’re already on thin ice.

His jaw ticks as he resets, only this time when he stares me down there’s a glint in his eye. One that reminds me of the night he told me his presence on the Renegades was a revenge plot.

God dammit.

The second the ball leaves Carson’s hand, I know it’s not the changeup I called.

The ball rockets toward us, miles from the plate, and hits Travers in the thigh.

Before I can get my mask off, Brent is out from behind me and heading toward the mound. Carson’s wearing a shit-eating grin, not even pretending to care he’s about to get tossed from the game for his little stunt.

I glance at the dugout where our assistant manager gives me the nod to call for a relief pitcher. Lifting my right hand, I pinch my fingers together, signaling for them to send out Efren Watts, one of our right-handed pitchers.

Travers grins, dropping his bat dramatically. He leans over and unstraps his shin guard, tossing it toward the Atlanta dugout.

“That’s how it’s done, Lawson,” he muses, his eyes lit with amusement. “Fuck ‘em up and send ‘em home. You should tell your owner that. Pretty little thing like that, maybe if she sucks the commissioner off, your little cheating problem will?—”

I don’t let him finish his sentence before my fist connects with his jaw.

Travers hits the dirt, cupping his face.

The crowd goes wild. The fucker got a free pass when he went after my co-captain. We’re trained to put up with that shit. The thought that I’m a hypocrite for hitting him crosses my mind, but I don’t give a damn.

He went too far with Willow. Even if she wasn’t mine, I’d have punched him.

She’s a Renegade, and she’s innocent of everything but loving me.

“Keep my team out of your mouth, fucker,” I spit. “Or your pretty little face will wear more than just the imprint of my knuckles.”

I don’t get more than a moment to revel in Travers’ split lip before I’m shoved from behind. If there’s one thing baseball does well, it’s a bench-clearing brawl.

When I look up the field is a sea of Renegade orange and black, mixed with Thrashers red and white. The manager from the Thrashers tries to rein in his guys, but it’s no use. Graham isn’t there to stop us, and our other bench coaches are taking their sweet ass time. Everywhere around me there are curses flying and shoving matches being exchanged. It’s clear my team has had enough of being the punching bag.

I’ve never been more fucking proud.

McCoy grabs the back of my chest protector and pulls me back from the center of the fray. “What the fuck, Lawson?”

I shake him off. “Jackass had it coming.”

“I heard what he said.”

“Good, then I’m leaving you in charge when Carson and I are ejected.”

The crowd is electric, on their feet chanting “fight” as Brent and the field umps try their best to get in the middle and break up the skirmish.

When the teams finally begin to disperse, it’s no surprise Carson and I are thrown from the game. We head to the clubhouse and are greeted by an irate Graham.

“What the fuck happened out there?”

Carson strolls past him and tosses his glove and hat in his locker. “Travers was going to be walked regardless of what I pitched. I just gave him something to remember me by.”

Graham turns to me. “And you?”

I shrug. “I just gave Travers what he deserved.”

“Yeah, a knuckle sandwich.” Carson snorts.

It’s good to hear his sense of humor is firmly back in place. I was worried I’d lost him to his thoughts out there and was going to have to drag him back like he did me.

Graham rolls his eyes. “Enough. I saw the fight on the live feed. Why’d you do it?”

“He was a dick to Carson. Then implied Willow could suck the commissioner off to get us out of the scandal.”

“Should have punched him twice.” Graham grunts at the same time Carson exhales, “Fuck him.”

I huff a laugh. “Renegades protect what’s ours.”

“Damn straight,” Carson adds, offering me his knuckles.

I pound mine against his, and wince when I realize it’s the hand I punched Travers with.

Whatever. The pain was worth it.

Graham shakes his head. “Hit the showers. Press is gonna be a shit show, and I expect the two of you to play nice.”

“Yes, sir,” we say in unison.

I retreat to my locker and begin peeling off my gear when I catch Carson still standing beside me.

“You know Vaughn’s going to use this as grounds to trade you.”

His words are a sucker punch to the gut. Despite the terrible calls and over the line chirping during the game, I’ve been allowing myself to live in the calm before the storm—the high of not only my team accepting Willow and me but also finally allowing myself to accept this team as mine without letting go of those that came before them.

My work here is done, young Padawan, Tommy quips like a goddamn force ghost.

The hits just keep on coming.

Not yet,I silently plead. I can’t lose you while there’s still a risk of losing this team and Willow.

I’m not gone, he says. We’ll always be on that field with you. And you aren’t going to lose her, jackass. You’re going to fight for her like she’s always deserved. The team too. Renegades and all.

He’s right.

I lift my head and turn to Carson. “Vaughn can fucking try.”

I’ve got my team. I’ve got my girl. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to let either of them go. But it is time to let Tommy and the rest of my former teammates off the hook. They deserve the same peace I do.