Chapter Seven: Bishop

There is one thought on my mind when I finish checking into the team hotel.

Forget.

Forget where I am. Delete the memories of walking through the silver doors behind me, laughing with my former teammates. Bury the discussion Jackson and I had at the hotel bar about him and Norah trying for a second. Wipe out the image of Luke picking up any and every cleat chaser with cheesy pickup lines. Most of which he hollered loudly solely for our entertainment and not for the woman vying for his bed. But mostly I’d like to erase the recent memory at the hands of the woman who gave me the only freedom I’ve felt since the crash.

Keep telling yourself that, Jackson quips, followed by Tommy’s, Right? He’s delusional if he thinks he’s walking away from this one.

I shake my head—as if that’s going to shut up the fucked-up peanut gallery of my conscience—and head toward the bar, tucked away on the far side of the lobby so it can’t be seen from the entrance.

Two other men sit at the bar top watching sports center, and I’m instantly thankful the team plane doesn’t arrive for another few hours. That’s just enough time for me to drink and disappear, and then sober up for team meetings and physicals in the morning.

Guilt gnaws on me like a dog with a bone. Lana asked me to do better, not only for myself, but for Phoebe. I wish I could say it’s enough to stop me, but the pending spiral is winning.

Tomorrow. I’ll start tomorrow.

Spring training will be the official start of the new me. The version of myself that will be enough for not only Phoebe, but everyone else too.

Why put off till tomorrow what you can do today?

Fuck off, Tommy.

I take a seat at the opposite end of the bar from the others and wait for the bartender, a young guy probably mid-twenties, to notice me.

“What can I get for you?” he stutters nervously.

If his starstruck timidness is any indication, he’s new to the hotel. It’ll wear off in a week or two after serving the team every night, but right now I don’t have time to reassure him I’m just a normal guy.

Normal my ass, Jackson quips.

“A shot of Angel’s Envy. Neat,” I grunt, bitterly.

The bartender’s hands tighten where he grips the edge of the bar. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lawson, I can’t serve you that.”

“What do you mean? I can see the bottle right there.”

“Yes sir,” he stutters. “I mean, we’ve been advised not to serve you alcohol.”

Annoyance flashes over my features. “By who?”

“I’m not sure. My manager only told me there was a phone call received and that we aren’t to serve you any alcohol.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

His eyes dart from side to side, likely looking for anyone to relieve him of this situation. “I’m sorry, sir.”

My jaw tightens and everything in me wants to unleash a rage of “do you know who I am” mixed with a desperate plea to help me numb the emotions brimming within me.

It’s not this kid”s fault, a part of me reasons. Thankfully, it’s loud enough to stop me from laying into him.

“Thanks for nothing,” I snap.

Shoulders tense, I push away from the bar and head to the elevator, contemplating which of the upper management made the call. I punch the elevator button harder than I should, grateful when the doors open immediately and there’s no one else inside. The last thing I need is prying eyes while I work through who is pulling the strings this time.

Not Vaughn. It’s no secret he wants to see me fail.

Not Adrian. He fired me as a client after the second bar fight, and I’ve yet to confirm with the management company who my new agent is.

Possibly my unwanted emergency contact, Graham.He’s been a constant thorn in my side throughout the off season, despite the fact that I’ve only met the man a handful of times. Admittedly, it’s always been when he’s trying to mitigate my fuck ups and I’mtoo intoxicated to care.

I reach the fifth floor and cover the short distance from the elevator to my room. Wrenching the door open, I let out a weighted sigh. It’s nothing special, but it’s home for the next month and a half.I stumble over my bags and head straight for the minibar.

The fridge is tiny, but I know they keep it stocked for their VIP clients. They want us to spend our hard-earned money, and I am more than ready to take the edge off, even if it costs me triple what the bar would. Picking up the glass from the top, I savor the thought of the burning liquid as it slides down my throat. Only when I open the door, it’s empty.

Every. Single. Fucking. Bottle has been removed save for the water and club soda.

What the actual fuck?

It’s one thing to starve me from the endless well downstairs, but to take away the option for release in the privacy of my own room too.

Who cares enough to do that?

The answer hits me like a ton of bricks. It’s simple, really, and I’m a dumbass for not putting it together sooner. Who is the one person who has been the biggest pain in my ass since waltzing back into my life?

Willow. Fucking. York.

Everything always comes back to her.

I back away from the fridge and clench my empty fist. I need to hit something courses through my veins.

How dare she?

It’s one thing to take over my team and exploit them in every interview and press conference imaginable. I’d even be willing to give her a free pass on her genius plan to use their children as a money-making ploy, especially if she is indeed going to fix it, as she claims. But to strip me of the vice that makes my very existence bearable is too far. It was fine when she was just the imaginary force pulling the strings?—

Fuck.

It’s been her all along.

The back of my legs hit the bed and I sink onto the plush pillow top, dropping the glass onto the bedside table beside me. My elbows find my knees, and I let my head fall into my hands, my fingers taking out some of my rage in the strands of my hair.

Graham always being the first call.

The fact I haven’t been fined a penny by the league.

A private plane.

It’s all been her.

Fuck.

Guilt for my actions starts to creep in before I actively shut it down. I can’t think about that right now.

Maybe you need to.

“Fuck you,” I yell at Jackson “And you, too, Tommy. I know you’re there, too, you opinionated fuck.”

Shit, I’m going crazy, yelling at the imaginary voices in my head. But I can’t go down the path that leads me to scrutinize every action and inaction since the crash and if she had her hand in it. I can’t consider that despite pushing away every single member of my family and friends, it’s Willow who has been the one looking out for me—a silent life raft keeping me from drowning.

Not my siblings who stopped calling when I told them they’d never understand.

Not even my parents, whose love scares me the most, because one day I’ll lose them too.

No.

It’s goddamned Willow.

My chest constricts, and I don’t bother to choke back the guttural sob in my throat as my mind continues to wrap itself around the notion it’s always been her. Anguish morphs into anger, and I pick up the glass beside me and slam it onto the bedside table, shattering it into a million tiny pieces.

The sound of the crash reverberates off the sand-colored walls, and I’m instantly thankful the rooms on either side of me aren’t yet occupied by my new teammates. They don’t need to see me like this. No one does. I’m alone, which is how it needs to be. Phoebe can’t get hurt if I’m not her guardian.I can’t get hurt if I’m alone.

The blood catches my eye long before the pain begins to throb from where glass sliced my palm. I work my fist open and closed. It’s not too deep, but it is my glove hand. Somewhere through the haze, I know I should care, but my first thought is at least every pitch thrown will ache. A constant reminder of just how fucked I am.

Teetering somewhere between self-loathing and rock bottom, I manage to get to my feet and stumble my way to the bathroom. Careful not to stain the countertop, I turn on the faucet and run my hand under the water, washing away any remaining shards of glass.

My mouth tightens as pain radiates from the wound and out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

That can’t be me.

I catalog my features. Same brown hair and eyes. The signature scruff that has become a bit unruly as of late. The scar on my chin I got from falling off my bike as a kid and the tiny freckle at the corner of my eye that no one but me ever notices.

What’s different is the permanent bruising under my eyes from lack of sleep. The hollow dips in my cheeks. The vacant stare of a man who has lost the will to fight.

I am just so fucking tired.

Tears rim my eyes, and I don’t have it in me to stop them from falling. This stings worse than all the other times reality bitch-slapped me. At least I had the sense to be drunk first or plans to be drunk soon after. Grief when sober is infinitely worse.

My knees buckle and I hit the floor with a thud, my shoulder against the vanity is the only thing keeping me upright.

“Bishop?”

No.

Absolutely not.

This isn’t happening.

She calls my name again, her voice a beacon—it always is—and because life is a cruel bitch, I’m helpless to do anything but let her find me like this, broken and sobbing on the bathroom floor.

The door creaks open, and in an instant, Willow is on her knees in front of me. “Shit, you”re hurt.”

Fucking understatement of the year.

She takes my hand in hers, concern marring her beautiful face. She’s wiped away the smeared makeup I left her with on the plane. Not that she usually wears much, but I like that I can see the faint smattering of freckles that dot the tops of her cheeks.My eyes lock on the blonde curl that has fallen across her face. The curl that, not an hour ago, was wrapped around my fingers.

She shouldn’t be here.

I was an ass. I pushed her away on the plane before I gave into the need to get lost in her presence. Because it’s not real. She’s not real. What we had before is now nothing but a daydream. That doesn’t mean we aren’t insanely compatible. We are. Chemistry has never been our problem. Fuck. She tasted as pure as I remember. Like stepping out into an empty stadium before a big game, all nerves and excitement. But it’s not real. And I made sure she knew that with my dickish words.

Yet here she is.

“What happened?” Willow gasps, leaning in to get a closer look at my palm.

I look down numbly at where she’s taken my hand in hers. It’s bleeding again.

She turns around and digs in her purse, procuring a Band-Aid which she quickly opens and uses to cover the cut.

As soon as she’s done, I snatch my hand back and hold it against my chest. My eyes fall to the ugly mosaic tile on the floor. “Please go.”

“What happened?” she repeats, this time a little more forcefully.

My pulse pounds in my throat, resulting in my voice becoming unsteady. “I need you to go.”

“I’m not leaving,”Willow says defiantly. She shifts her weight, shoving her knees forward so they interlock with mine.Her hand raises and she uses her fingers to lift my chin, so my gazemeets glittering blue ones. It’s in moments like these, like on the plane, laced in panic and fear, with a hint of self-loathing that it’s hard to see the person she’s become. When she looks at me like she is right now, I can almost believe she cares.

“Please,” I beg, something I never do, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “I don’t want you here.”

She huffs a challenging laugh, and it might’ve warmed my heart in any other situation. “I’m done caring what you want.”

Fuck, I just need her to go. Leave. I don’t want to talk.

“You don’t have to.”

Shit, now I can’t even tell what I’m saying out loud verses in my head. Maybe I am going crazy.

Her fingers trace the stubble on my jaw before sliding up, cupping my jaw. I lean into her touch, soft and delicate. Every moment she’s got her hands on me, I lose a little of my resolve to throw her out. The problem is, I don’t know what happens if she stays. I can’t trust her. And I don’t trust myself.

I open my mouth to tell her to go, but before I can, she whispers, “What do you need?”

My mouth gapes like a fish out of water, struck stupid by the question. It’s the first time anyone has asked me that. They always ask if I’m okay. Or tell me what I should do, how I should feel. It’s not that simple.

Willow sees that.

Before I can stop myself, my brain short circuits and word vomit takes hold. “I just want to be okay.”

A weak smile tips her lips. “Okay is overrated.”

“Says the woman who has it all together.”

She shrinks back like I’ve slapped her. And a hint of something new flashes across her face. Anger. “Is that what you think?”

It catches me off guard. Aside from the obvious, what does she have to be angry about? She’s got it all figured out. She’s playing the game and winning.

Then again, if she’s angry, then she’ll leave. So, of course, I poke the bear. “Sure as hell seems like it.”

Willow sits with my words for a second before her gaze falls and she lets out a weighted sigh. “Then you don’t know me. Maybe you never did.”

“You’re right.”

She leans back on her heels, creating the space I desperately need. At this point, I just need to push a little more and she’ll leave. Shit, when did I become an expert in pushing people away? This isn’t who I am. I’ve always been an open book. I don’t hurt people—I welcome them. I was walking fucking sunshine.

You do what you have to in order to survive.

Tommy’s right. That’s all I’ve been able to do for the last four months. Survive. I’m sick of surviving, but I don’t know how to do much more.

Despite the war going on in my mind between who I was and who I’ve become, I open my mouth to tell her again to leave, but Willow beats me to speak.

“Have you considered that maybe it’s not about being okay?” she whispers, almost like she’s afraid to say anything. “Maybe it’s about figuring out how to live again.”

“Oh, it’s just that easy?” I groan. “It’s as simple as saying I don’t want to feel this way.”

“And which way is that?”

I run my uninjured hand through my hair, tightening around the strands at the base of my skull. “Like I’m constantly falling short of who everyone expects me to be. Like I’m drowning with every breath. Like I’m the only one who remembers them. Like I can’t move on.”

Tears stream down my face, the weight of my plea heavy in my chest. I’m not sure why I keep letting things slip to her. She’s not on my side. Not really. Everything she does is for the sake of the team. But there’s just something about Willow that constantly catches me off guard.

She worries her lower lip, catching it between her teeth. “What if you could not feel it? Even for just one night?”