Page 24 of Renegade Ruin

Just before Bishop reaches the door, he looks over his shoulder and smirks. “You make for a great distraction. Thanks for that.”

Then he’s gone.

My mouth drops open, and the second I am sure he’s out of hearing range, I let out a frustrated yell and slam my hands on the table in front of me. The fucking audacity of that asshole.

He used me.

What’s worse is he isn't wrong. Kissing him was the best distraction. Even if it was at the expense of my pride and integrity. It’s the first time in months I’ve felt like myself. Free of all the bullshit that came when I was named the owner of this team.

Desperation to reclaim that feeling curls around the base of my spine, igniting the old parts of myself I fight to ignore. Only this time, the spark won’t be put out. It’s the same part of me that stood when we first met, locked on a balcony with the star catcher of the New York Renegades, and accepted his dare to be myself.

A truly terrible idea begins to take form, but with every second that passes, it solidifies into a plan I’m sure will end in mutual destruction.

I might not be the woman I once was, but much like my team, I have the opportunity to write a new ending.

But there’s a chapter I need to close.

The one titled Bishop Lawson.

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 foranother 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.”

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