Page 101 of Renegade Ruin

Except it’s not moving on.

It’s living.

I will,I promise her.Always.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

BISHOP

When I turn to talk to Willow, she’s already walking away. Craning my neck, I watch as she heads toward the brick wall separating the field from the stands behind home plate.

That’s when I see it.

My breath catches.

L-A-W-S-O-N stitched in orange and lined up perfectly between her shoulder blades above the number sixty-eight.

My breath catches in my throat, and I struggle to keep it together. It’s the number I adopted this year in memory of the sixty-eight souls lost in the crash.It won’t be released as my official jersey until opening day.

No one has worn that number paired with my last name except me.Not my family. Not any previous girlfriends. Not my ex-wife. Only Willow. And damn if she doesn’t look good wearing me.

Every possessive bone in my body flares as I swallow the space between us, vaguely aware McCoy is still watching from a few feet away. I should care that the field is littered with my teammates and coaches, but it’s the last thing on my mind. Right now, I only see Willow wearing my name. Mine. And the only thing I want to do is claim what’s mine.

Willow reaches the wall seconds before me, and when she turns around,she chokes out a gasp at my proximity. Her eyes dart side to side, cautious of those around us, before she tips her head back and meets my narrowed gaze.

“Bishop.” Her voice is breathy and little more than a murmur. It’s a statement laced in a question—a plea to follow our rules.

“You’re lucky we’re on this field, Kitten, and that Phoebe is here.” My voice is gravely and barely a whisper. “Because if we weren’t, you’d already be bent over, taking my cock in that pretty little cunt of yours while I relish at the sight my name across your back.”

Her eyes go wide and pink colors her cheeks. “You want to?—”

“God yes, Willow,” I growl. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I?”

“I figured you’d be pissed off I was wearing your jersey after what happened yesterday,” she stammers. “But Phoebe felt bad wearing her dad’s number when she was here to see you, so she had this idea that I should wear your jersey, so you didn’t feel left out.”

“Willow,” I say, smiling, but it doesn’t halt her nervous ramble. An adorable trait I hope she never loses. But at the moment, I need her to hear what I have to say.

“And I don’t know if you’ve ever tried saying no to her, but it’s damn near impossible. And I really am sorry for agreeing to the interview for you. I just?—”

“Willow, I’m going to need you to stop rambling, or I’ll have to stop you and you won’t approve of my methods.” My gaze falls to her painted red lips, and I watch as she puts meaning to my words.

“Oh,” she mutters. “Um, yeah, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea here.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” I should take a step back. There’s no reason for me to be crowding her like this, but before I do, I want tomake sure she feels the weight of my words and lets them sink in. “I’m not mad about the jersey.”

“Really?” she breathes, her chest brushing against me.

“No,” I reassure her.“And I plan to show you just how not mad I am later, but we’ve got a few things to clear up between us first.”

She presses her lips together, and her eyes drop to the floor beside us. “Yeah. We do.”

As much as it pains me to disengage, I slide to the side and turn, leaning against the brick wall. Willow joins me, close enough that we can talk and not have to worry about anyone overhearing us, but not as close as I’d like. My only saving grace is the space between us where our hands grip the wall is small enough that, if I wanted to, I could reach out and lace my pinky finger with hers.

We stand there in silence, eyes forward, watching Graham walk Phoebe through the mechanics of swinging like her father wasn’t a pro player himself. Phoebe knew how to swing a bat before she could walk, but she patiently lets the old guy walk her through setting her feet at the plate and the art of a perfect follow through.

McCoy trots over to help along with Stone and Winters, and I can’t help but smile. Phoebe already has this team wrapped around her little finger. Just like she did before. Now all we need is her dad to wake the fuck up and join us.

I swear I hear Jackson whisperI’m trying, but I write it off as my mind hoping he’s going to wake up.

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