Page 4 of Renegade Ruin

“You didn’t know?” he asks, his lips twitching into a small grin like he’s just happened upon the golden ticket for his story. “The Foul Linejust reported Ms. York has been named the owner of the Renegades in accordance with instructions left by her father with the commissioner.”

My head whips to Willow, whose mouth hangs open, clearly hearing this news for the first time.

Her hand drops from my arm, taking with it the warmth of her presence. It’s a line in the sand she doesn’t even know she’s drawing. The shift is subtle, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. Willow steps in front of me, embracing the role thrust upon her in the last sixty seconds like she’s born to do it.

Willow is the new owner of the Renegades.

It’s at that moment the final piece of my heart shatters.

She’s my boss.

Autopilot takes over and I turn, lifting my hand to hail a cab. God must take pity on me because one appears instantly and I slide in, ignoring the way she calls my name.

I can’t look back, but I don’t especially feel like looking forward either.

This was supposed to be a new chapter, not a nightmare.

The cab pulls away from the curb, and I only just get out Norah and Jackson’s address before I’m reduced to heaving sobs.

This was supposed to be our time.

Jackson and Norah, trying for a second child.

Tommy’s first pennant run.

Willow.

CHAPTER TWO

WILLOW

Four Months Later

My eyes dart to the door for the tenth time, an uneasy flutter taking flight in my gut. He’s supposed to be here already.

I search the room one more time for an unkept mop of brown hair and matching eyes. Every flit of gray gives me pause that maybe it’s his favorite gray suit and I just missed his entrance, but once again I come up empty.

Panic starts to buzz at the base of my spine, and I glance unceremoniously at my Uncle Graham, who is fidgeting with his tie on the other side of the stage. With a slight nod, I signal him over, hoping none of the press takes notice.

The last thing I need are these vultures coming up with yet another story based on unsubstantiated facts. As it is, they’ve had a field day with the addition of Graham to our coaching staff. They’re calling it nepotism, when really there isn’t anyone more qualified for the job.

Graham isn’t my uncle, but as my father’s college best friend, he took his godfatherly duties seriously and earned the title. He never forgot a birthday or Christmas, even when baseball took him to Texas and then on to rebuild the team at Seattle State. He was there for me when my mother died because, initially,my father couldn’t deal with the grief. Their friendship fell apart when he was exiled from major league baseball for getting caught up in a cheating scandal. It didn’t matter that he was cleared of all the charges, his friendship with my father was never the same. But he never left me.

Which is why, even though I caught a lot of flack for it, he was my choice for the open manager position. It was one of my two demands as the acting owner of the team. The other was keeping Bishop Lawson—aka the current shitstorm I’m dealing with.

My uncle slides up beside me, and I pull my clipboard up to whisper. “Where is he?”

“Hell if I know, Wills. I got a text when he arrived at the stadium, but from the moment I left my office, I’ve been fielding asinine questions from the press.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale. He’s just trying to get through today as much as I am. “Sorry, I just need the draft to go perfect.”

“Have you considered he doesn't want to do this?”

Every damn day.

We might not have had anything permanent, but I came to care about Bishop. More than I should. Even after only two nights spent together, I know him better than most. What started as a connection forged through sex and limitless orgasms, ended with us talking until the morning light reminded us who we were and why we couldn’t make it work. Me because I was chasing my dreams and building a name for my philanthropy, and him because, well—I’m not sure he ever truly gave me a reason.

What I do know is he lives for the feeling of the dirt on his cleats and the sound of a perfectly framed pitch hitting his glove.

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