Page 145 of Renegade Ruin

It’s all the encouragement Bishop needs. He drops my hand and tangles his in my hair. The other wraps around my waist. He dips me like we’re lovers in a movie and crashes his lips to mine. This kiss breathes life back into me. It gives me hope, not only for us, but for this team. We are exactly what Bishop said, a family. And for a girl who doesn’t have any living blood relatives, I’ll take all I can get.

Before I know it, the team crowds around us and Carson yells, “Who are we?”

“Renegades!” the team yells back.

“Who the fuck are we?”

“Renegades!”

I laugh, breaking our kiss.

Bishop presses his forehead to mine and smiles. “Renegades, baby. We protect what’s ours.”

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.”

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