Page 41 of Renegade Ruin

Every once in a while, I see her stolen glances in my direction. The trepidation in her eyes, not knowing if she should approach me or not. I know she’s waiting for me to make the first move.

“Lawson,” Graham yells from the dugout, and I look over my shoulder to where he’s chatting with Ignacio Perez, our pitching coach. He tips his head, calling me over.

By the time I enter the dugout, Ignacio has stepped onto the field, leaving me to chat with our field manager alone.

Graham spits sunflower seeds on to the dirt and levels his gaze on me. “You haven’t completed your physicals.”

In any other situation, I’d force the innocent smile that has gotten me off the hook more times than I care to admit, but I was expecting this conversation sooner or later. So instead, I offer a half-hearted lift of my shoulders. “I did most of them.”

Graham’s stony gaze doesn’t waver. “Most isn’t all.”

There isn’t any doubt my astute field manager is talking about my session with the team therapist. It’s not something I wanted to do on my first day back at spring training. Hell, it’s not something I wanted to do, period. Which is why I have been putting it off every day since.

Every other season I’ve had no problem with the preseason check-in to make sure players are good to go mentally. This season, I’m not, and I don’t need someone to tell me so. My own therapist already fired me, saying I needed a grief specialist to unpack all the trauma from the crash after she struggled to find a path to help me back to who I was before.

I was more than okay with agreeing to find someone else. Because what if that’s not who I’m meant to be? She knew me when I was searching for love in all the wrong places, giving it to anyone and everyone because I saw the world with the rose-tinted glasses of a hopeless romantic. I don’t think I can go back to that. I need someone who is going to help me navigate the future, not just the past.

But I can’t say that without calling into question if I should be on the field to begin with. Baseball is the only thing giving me a hint of normalcy. If I lose that, I’m a goner.

However, if there’s anyone aside from Willow who can smell my bullshit, it’s Graham. He’s had a front row seat to every one of my fuckups and isn’t going to let me skate by without checking every single one of the boxes I need to be cleared. He wants meon that field as much as I want to be there. He said as much to me after our first team meeting.

Graham sighs and lifts his hand, running it along the back of his neck. “Listen, I hate this as much as you do, but you’ve got two choices. Get your ass inside and finish your physicals, including a stop at mental health, or ride the bench.”

The fact I knew it was coming doesn’t do anything to soothe the way my chest tightens as the weight of his words hit home.

This is the moment I’ve dreaded. From here on out, it’s all or nothing.

My jaw tightens, and I nod.

“Good. Hit the showers. They’re expecting you.”

I pause and look out over the field at the men who are supposed to replace the ghosts that loom forever in my mind. Guilt washes over me.

All or nothing.

Do better.

The mantra’s echo one after another.

Something has to change. This team doesn’t deserve this from me, but neither does the team that left me behind. I’m at a loss on how to honor them and still manage to move on.

Then again, maybe Willow was right. Maybe moving on isn’t the answer.

Just before I exit the field, I look up and my eyes connect with the woman whose wisdom haunts me. She’s looking at me with every ounce of confidence she did in my hotel room, and I remind myself she’s not here for me or to pick up the pieces I leave in my wake.

Fuck off, Bishop. We both know that’s not true,the birthday boy sounds off.She loves this team, but she showed up for you when you needed her. Every. Single. Time.

Fuck.

She’s the answer.

The second the thought crosses my mind, I know I should squash it and go see the damn therapist. But now that it’s grown talons and lodged itself in my chest, I won’t be able to think straight until I let it work itself out.

Willow is the only person who has made me feel anything more than pain, anger, or grief in the last four and a half months.

I called her a distraction, which she is, and that’s all she should be. But the way time stopped when I kissed her—fucked her—has lived in that space rent free all week. What if I could stay there? Where every other emotion doesn’t touch me. Maybe then I could focus and be present for this team just long enough to work out how to make it my future.

It’s a crazy thought, but maybe crazy is what I need to get me through this. Nothing else has worked, and while seeing a therapist is absolutely the better option, I don’t have the time to wade through the bullshit and be okay.

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