Chapter Five: Bishop

“Can you believe they chose Etchers over Tralenski?” I leave out the fact it’s to replace Jackson at shortstop, in case he can actually hear me. “The fucker hates me. Not to mention, how the hell am I supposed to top our record of outs on a steal if he can’t catch the broad side of a barn? It’s a wonder the guy even got drafted in the first place.”

I knew you couldn’t keep up that record without me. I wince, imagining him saying it with a sardonic smirk on his face.

The doctors say it’s possible he can hear me—that there have been plenty of coma patients who report hearing everything while they were unconscious. I should really ask them if it’s normal that I hear the voices of my dead and unconscious teammates in my head.

I keep my eyes locked on the incredible view of the East River, sparkling in the last hints of sunset as the start of a hangover pounds against the inside of my temple. After my blowup at the stadium, I quickly found the nearest bar and managed to lubricate my mind. Many would say it’s a problem, but it’s the only successful way I’ve found to diminish the ache in my chest.

In the same manner a drunk finds their way home, I managed to find my way to Jackson’s room at the long term care facility just as the highlights of the draft started on Sports Talk. I’d like to say it was because I wanted to check up on my friend, but my motivations were purely selfish. I needed to not feel alone, and these four walls have become somewhat of a sanctuary for me.They hold the last bit of hope that maybe someday things can return to normal. It’s a crock of shit because even if he wakes up, the team is still gone. And Jackson will have to face that he not only lost them, but his wife too.

Jackson and Norah were soulmates in every sense of the word. They had a rough start but fought to be together, and their love is everything I thought I wanted. There was a time I believed I could find my person, and I thought maybe I had. But seeing Jackson and Norah ripped apart has been heart-wrenching. If this is the price for love lost—the crippling heartache and unsurmountable pain—I’m not sure I want it. I’m barely surviving losing my teammates. I couldn’t survive something like that. If I could take her place on the plane I would, if only to spare my best friend and goddaughter even an ounce of this pain.

But I have to hold on to the hope that if he wakes up, at least we’ll have each other. Because right now, I have no one that understands the dry drowning I experience with every breath.

The pain I have come to know intimately wraps its arms around me as I cross the spacious room and force myself to focus on telling Jackson about the rest of the draft. I gently pick up his limp left hand, wincing slightly at the lifeless weight of it,and lace my fingers through his. I study the tattoos on his skin, frowning at the burn scars that ruined some of the artwork. He’ll be pissed about that.

Rotating his wrist in a circular motion the way the physical therapist taught me to help keep his range of movement, I give him the rundown of my new team. “Aside from Echers, the rest of the field drafted doesn’t look terrible. We’ve got McCoy from the Blues and his solid arm on third, and Brooks from the Knights on second. Stone was a clutch pick for first, even though he’s a bit of an asshole. Winters, Osborne and Luis complete left, center and right field. Just about every other player rounding out the roster are leftovers their club is grateful to get rid of.”

I pause like I would if he were conscious, waiting for his comment on how we don’t know they are just leftovers and even if they are, that doesn’t mean they are at the bottom of the barrel. Plus,the Renegades change people, he would say.

I shake my head and let out a skeptical grunt.

Once upon a time, maybe. This team worked its magic on Jackson and me. We hated each other when we first met after he got called up. We didn’t know then we were destined to be best friends—he grounded me, and I lightened him up. The tattoos that cover both his arms are evidence of that.

My eyes drift down to my leg, which is covered in ink beneath my jeans. A hint of a smile traces my lip as I remember the first time I took Jackson to my artist to get a tattoo for Norah. He walked in with bare arms and left with the start of a half sleeve. I’d never been prouder.

The problem is lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, and I’m not sure the Renegades have any luck left on their side.

“Come on,” I reason, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to fool with my false bravado. “We both know Stone is one surgery away from needing a total arm reconstruction. You can’t tell me that’s not month-old leftovers.”

Okay, so I’m exaggerating, but the guy is thirty-nine and even with one of the higher batting averages in the league, he’s a ticking time bomb for injury and retirement.

“Not to mention he looks like he’s got a stick up his ass ninety percent of the time. I’m not sure that guy even knows how to smile.”

Well, I wouldn’t smile at your ugly mug either.

I roll my eyes and finish with Jackson’s left hand, ignoring the way it flops sideways before rounding the bed to do the same stretch to his right. “On the opposite end of the spectrum, we’ve got three rookies coming in hot from the farm team. Not to mention whoever they send up to test at spring training—don’t worry, as far as I can tell, none of them have Tommy’s penchant for theatrics. They’ll go swell with our rookie coaching staff, though. It blows my mind Willow thought it was a good idea to hire staff that have a cumulative of five years in the majors all together. Then there’s Graham Clarke as our new field manager.”

Willow, huh?

Of course, that’s his takeaway.

“I know you think I fucked that one up, but it’s better this way. She’s my boss now.”

So, you talked to her?

I freeze like a kid caught red-handed before I remember I’m not actually talking to my best friend.

He doesn’t know I’ve been lying to him for months. He has no clue that while I fulfilled my promise to forgo relationships and work on myself for the last year, I’d also met Willow at a party last year when we were at spring training. We talked all goddamn night, and I proceeded to fuck her on every surface of her beach house bedroom with party goers just below her balcony—and then jacked off to the memory nearly every time I showered since. He doesn’t know I planned to find her the second our deal was up and demand she stop living rent free in my mind and take up a permanent residence. Because despite the fact we hadn’t spent more than two nights together, Willow York was endgame.

Was.

The crash ruined all that. And thank fuck it did, because if our interaction today is any indication, I absolutely dodged a bullet there.

Dropping his hand, I flip up the blanket to cover him like a masseuse would during a massage, and make work stretching his leg. “No. We argued. End of story.”

I leave out the part where I had my hands wrapped around her throat, followed by agreeing to allow her to escort me to spring training. Though, if he really is just a figment of my fucked-up conscience, he already knows.

If you say so.

“As I was saying, at least the staff showed some promise by going to bat against Vaughn during the draft. The prickly old bastard looked like he was going to have an aneurysm when they outvoted him and took Ramiro over Watts.”

I hate that fucker.

A soft chuckle escapes me, the end morphing into a choked sob. “I wish you were here.”

“He does too.”

I drop Jackson’s leg harder than I should and whip around and see Lana Roberts, Jackson’s mother, standing in the doorway. She looks a hell of a lot more put together than I do, but the fluorescent lighting does nothing to hide the dark purple circles marring the space beneath her eyes, and it only highlights the nest of brown locks on the top of her head.

My eyes fall to the little girl with pigtails at her side, softening when she takes off in a full run and jumps into my arms.

“Uncle Bish!” Phoebe exclaims, nuzzling her face in my neck.

“Hi, Short Stack,” I mutter, placing a kiss to the top of her mousy brown hair.

This little girl is the only light in this shitty situation. She’s the one person I’ve tried to shield from my downward spiral. Once a week I go out of my way to make sure I see her, usually at my favorite donut shop down the street from their apartment. But never here. Never in front of Jackson.

It hurts too damn much to see her smile at me while holding Jackson’s limp hand. That smile is an exact replica of Norah’s and set below brown eyes with flecks of yellow that she gets from her father. Which is why when I come to visit, I usually arrive at precisely eight-thirty-one. It’s the only way I can ensure Jackson’s mom has left to take Phoebe to school.

I set the excited nine-year-old down and look back at Lana, who is taking her time looking me over. “You look like shit, Bishop.”

“Swear jar, Nana,” Phoebe pipes up.

Lana rolls her eyes dramatically and I can’t help but laugh. Me and my mouth are one hundred percent the reason there is a swear jar in the Roberts household.

I cross my arms in an attempt to guard myself, knowing damn well it’s useless. “I’m aware. What are you guys doing here?”

“Nana took me to Renegade Hearts and said we could come see Daddy after.”

I turn away in the hopes neither of them sees how hearing about Willow’s foundation or the fact my goddaughter was there affects me. As someone who wants the best for this little girl, I hate that Willow is able to provide her support where I can’t. Mostly because I can barely help myself.

Schooling my features, I turn back to Phoebe. “Is that right?”

“Yup!” She pops the p at the end in the most adorable way. “Oh! Uncle Bish, I made you something!” Phoebe jumps excitedly on the balls of her feet before racing back to her grandmother.

Lana pulls an item wrapped in a dish towel with tiny ducks on it and offers it to her granddaughter, who turns around and dashes back so she can give it to me.

“I was going to leave it here for you, but now that you’re here, I can just give it to you.”

“Thanks, Phoebes,” I say with a smile, unwrapping the gift.

Inside sits a handmade ceramic mug, painted with uneven flowers and a tiny ladybug. It’s lopsided. The handle has a wonky curve, and the lip of the cup bows enough that any liquid would spill out.

I lift my gaze to Phoebe, who in all her innocence, stands there with her hands twisted in front of her, waiting for my reaction.

“I know you love dipping your donuts in coffee, so I wanted to make you something to put it in.”

“It’s perfect.” I reach out and mussy the top of her head with my hand. “Thank you.”

“Hey, Phoebes, why don’t you go grab a hot chocolate for the both of us from the nurses station? I’m sure Greta will be happy to see you.”

Phoebe gives her grandmother a narrow-eyed gaze that screams she’s Norah’s daughter. “Are you going to have an adult conversation?”

Lana returns with a pointed stare of her own. It’s one perfected by moms everywhere.

Letting out a sigh far too exasperated for a nine-year-old, Phoebe crosses her arms and huffs toward the door. “Fine.”

Once the little ears are gone, I pad over to one of the two chairs in the room and gesture for Lana to join me. “Why do I feel like you’re about to ruin my day?” Adding a silent, please, not today.

I had to watch my entire team be replaced one fucking draft pick at a time. I’m not sure I can take much more.

Lana laughs as she lowers herself into the uncomfortable armchair beside me. “I think you do that well enough on your own, don’t you?”

“Touché,” I rasp. Over the last four months, she’s never had an issue calling me out on my shit. It’s one of the reasons I tend to take Phoebe out instead of hanging at the apartment. If I wanted to be mothered, I’d answer the dozen messages I’ve got sitting in my inbox from my own. That doesn’t mean Lana hasn’t tried. Lord knows the meals she’s forced down my throat have been the only ones not heavily made up of alcohol and stale peanuts.

Her hands find her lap, twisting in the same nervous way Phoebe does. “Where have you been staying?”

I wish she would just put me out of my misery already.

“Did you really come here to make small talk?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Her voice is soft. Too soft. It’s the kind of tone people use when they are trying to prepare you for disappointment.

I bite my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, as if that will somehow distract me from the tears slowly rimming her eyes. My chest tightens. I can’t do this. I need to get out of there before the walls I’ve worked so hard to keep up come crashing down. Anger I can channel. Regret and guilt are my best friends. But the tears of my best friend’s mom will break me.

Lana reaches into her bag and pulls out a manila folder, offering it to me. “Have you read this?”

I take the folder and open it. Scanning the title, I drop it into my lap as if it’s burned me.

My lip quivers. “This is Jackson and Norah’s will.”

She nods past a sympathetic smile and reaches over, turning to a page marked by a bright pink post-it.

As if it wasn’t suffocating enough to hold the final wishes of my best friends in my hands, I’m choked by the words on the page.

I tip my head to meet Lana’s gaze, tears now openly falling down her face. “Is this real?”

She nods. “If anything happened to them, they wanted you to have Phoebe.”

“Why am I just seeing this now?”

Lana winces, and I watch as this force of a woman shrinks back like she’s been caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar.“Since Jackson isn’t dead, there was a bit of confusion as to who custody would be given to. I asked the lawyers to let me talk to you first.”

My jaw tics, and I’m not sure if I want to rage or cry. Mostly, I want my best friend to wake up and tell me what the hell they were thinking. Every reason why I can’t be in charge of another human races through my mind. Especially one as precious as Phoebe. I can barely take care of myself most days. I’m a shell of who I was when they wrote their will.If I’m not using alcohol to chase the pain, I’m huddled in the damn shower where I can’t tell the difference between my tears and the water washing them away. At the same time, I want nothing more than to protect her. To ensure she knows exactly how incredible her parents are and how much they love her.

Loved her.

Panic grips my spine as I try to reason how I can be what she needs, only to continuously come to the same conclusion. I can’t.

I inhale a breath that’s meant to steady me but only serves to further my anxiety. “Why are you showing me this now?”

“Because even though I think this is a terrible idea, Phoebe loves you and deserves to have a guardian who will put her first. Who is young enough to be there for her for the rest of her life. We aren’t getting any younger, and I intend to respect my son”s wishes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I need you to do better. Not only for her, but for you.”

“And if I can’t?” My words are whispered. Defeated.

“Then we’re going to petition the court for custody.”

“And move her to Oklahoma with you.” I finish her statement for her. If there’s one thing I know about Jackson’s parents, it”s that they hate the city. It’s too fast—too loud—all the things her son loves about this place.

Lana nods.

“But Jackson is still here.”

“That’s the other thing I need to talk to you about.”

Fuck, the hits just keep coming.

“We want to move him to Oklahoma as well.”

“And you need me to sign off on it.”

Before Jackson and Norah got married, we gave each other medical power of attorney in the event something happened to us on the road. It’s why I’m allowed to be here and talk with the doctors even though I’m not immediate family. Every decision is run through me. And they can’t move him without my approval.

She nods again, solemnly.

“Lana, I?—”

“Please. Don’t say anything now. We don’t have to make any decisions today. I just wanted you to know before you head down for spring training, so you can decide what you want to do.”

No pressure.

“Okay.” That”s all I can bring myself to say. I can’t even thank her for telling me, because how do you thank someone who has every intention of ripping away the last inkling of hope left in your life?

“I better get going. I need to get Phoebe before she inevitably talks Greta into sharing whatever sweets they have at the nurses station and ruins her dinner.”

“Yeah. Okay.”It’s something I wouldn’t have even considered.

Seriously, Jackson, what the hell were you and Norah thinking?

When I don’t get an answer—not even from the fucked-up version of him that stalks my mind—I glance over to the still form lying in the hospital bed.

Please, wake up, I silently beg.

Without another word, Lana gets up and leans over to press a kiss to Jackson’s temple and whispers something in his ear.

I look away, not wanting to encroach on this moment with her son. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her pause before she reaches the door, and I will the universe to make her go.

But I’m not that lucky.

“You’re allowed to grieve, Bishop. Just don’t lose yourself along the way.”

Before I can answer, she’s gone, leaving me alone with nothing but my thoughts.

No matter how hard I try to come to terms with everything I’ve done and learned today, I keep coming back to the same problem.I have no idea who I am anymore, only who everyone wants me to be.

The team wants me to be Bishop Lawson, star catcher of the New York Renegades.

Willow wants me to stand with them—lead them.

The press wants me to be their cover story.

Jackson and Norah want me to be a guardian to their daughter.

But none of those are who I am.

Because the truth is I’m lost.

I can’t retrace my steps. I can only move forward. And fuck if I know what comes next.