Page 154 of Renegade Ruin

After he’s let every tear fall, Bishop pulls back and wipes his eyes. “You know I haven’t been here since the memorial when this was nothing more than a pile of dirt. Seeing it and not hearing him anymore, it’s like it’s finally sinking in that he's really gone.”

I cock my head to the side. “Hearing him?”

Bishop chuckles. “After the crash, I heard him, Jackson and Norah in my head a lot. Norah filtered out early on. And when Jackson woke up, his voice disappeared too. But Tommy—Tommy was with me until the day of the fight.”

I gasp. “When you accepted the new team.”

“Yeah,” he says, a strangled laugh bubbling from his throat. “You know he would have loved you. I can imagine the two of you would have had a blast ganging up on me. Even for a rookie with a fuckboy mentality, he had his head on straight. He was a good kid.”

“He always will be.”

He nods. “Jolene said something the other day that’s resonating with me right now.”

“What’s that?”

“Healing isn’t linear.” Bishop’s lips twitch upward, and he tips his head toward me. “You said something similar to me that day in the equipment room. But sitting here, in front of Tommy’s grave, I feel like I’m being tugged back to those moments after the crash. Guilt and anger are slamming me from all sides, settling in my stomach like an endless pit. But at the same time, it’s different.” He laces the fingers of his left hand through my right. “I have you. I have the team. I have my family. And unlike before, I’m open to those things bringing me back to life—bringing me joy. I want to live. I didn’t back then. But fuck, if I don’t still feel the weight of it all.”

Tears burn at the corner of my eyes. I run my free hand through his wind tousled-hair and cup his stubbled chin. “You’re allowed to feel all those things. Feel them, acknowledge them, give space to them, but as long as you continue to remember who you are and how far you’ve come, then grief and joy can coexist. And that’s what makes life beautiful.”

Bishop stares at me with hope in his eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to my lips. “I’m so damn lucky to have you.”

I shrug playfully. “I like to think so.”

We spend the next half hour sitting there enjoying the sunshine, and I listen as Bishop tells me stories about Tommy and the rest of his teammates.

The peace in his voice gives me hope for his future.

“You missed the turn,” I say, whipping around as the street that leads to my father’s penthouse fades from view.

Bishop’s eyes don’t veer from the road. “That’s because I have plans for us before the game.”

I raise a brow. “What plans?”

There’s a part of me that wants to argue. The gala went off without a hitch. Birthdaypalooza might have been a bust, but that one night was the best birthday present I could have asked for. We raised well over a million dollars for Renegade Hearts, and it was the first time Bishop and I got to step out as a couple. The media went nuts, labeling us a love story for the ages. Of course, there are those who love to troll the internet and say we are going to ruin the franchise, but for every one of those assholes, there are a thousand more people there to cheer us on.

Between that excitement and all the meetings for the league investigation into Vaughn’s cheating scandal and the board's involvement, Bishop and I have had next to no downtime to just be a couple. I was looking forward to the few hours before Bishop and I have to be at the field for today’s game.

Then again, given the hint of mischief glinting in his eyes, I’m curious what these plans are.

Bishop reaches out and places his hand on my thigh, digging his fingertips into the denim of my jeans. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

For a planner like me, they are the worst. I like to know what’s coming. I want to plan for any and all possibilities.

I roll my eyes. “I hate surprises.”

He looks over, gaze narrowed above a wicked smile. “I know.”

A few moments later, he pulls his truck into the player parking lot at Manila Stadium. It’s empty except for a few members of the ground crew who are here to prepare the field for the game.

After helping me out of the truck, he silently leads me with a hand at the small of my back through the player entrance to the newly renovated clubhouse.

“I like my decorating better,” he says offhandedly under his breath.

I scoff and roll my eyes. “Maybe if the guys wanted splinters in their asses every time they sat down.”

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