Page 51 of Renegade Ruin

“I didn’t—” Sharpe chokes out, and Bishop presses harder on his windpipe.

Instinctively, I reach out and place my hand on Bishop’s shoulder, trying to deescalate the situation. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” Bishop side-eyes me with the same rage he wore in the locker room in New York, and I back off, dropping my hand.

Sucking in a breath, I hold it as if that will somehow encourage Sharpe to just apologize before this turns into an all-out brawl, effectively ending Bishop’s season before it even starts. Because I have no doubt that’s where this is going with a look like that.

“I’m sorry, Willow,” Sharpe grunts, half-heartedly.

“Ms. York,” Bishop corrects.

Sharpe rolls his eyes and repeats, “I’m sorry, Ms. York.”

“If I ever hear you disrespecting our owner like that again, I’ll make sure you never play in this league again.”

Sharpe scoffs but doesn’t put up more of a fight. “Message received.”

Bishop shoves off Sharpe and shakes his hands out like he’s offended just by the touch of him. The three of us watch silently as the backup catcher takes off toward the locker room.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

Bishop turns, pinning his icy glare in my direction. “I didn’t do it for you. We have standards on this team, and that guy is an asshat.”

“Still,” I murmur, ignoring the way my stomach flutters at his act of protection, “thank you.”

Bishop blinks like he finally sees me before I’m rewarded with a muffled grunt as he shakes his head, following his teammate toward the locker room.

Graham’s chuckle fills the silence between us. “Well, there’s a plot twist.”

“What?” I stammer, fully convinced my godfather has figured us out, and I’m about to be read the riot act for fraternization.

“That’s the most I’ve seen Lawson give a shit since the crash.”

“Oh. Me too,” I mutter, wondering if our conversation last night had anything to do with Bishop’s actions. Either way, I was just privy to Bishop Lawson’s first show of leadership on this team. It’s a good look on him.

I smooth down my skirt—yes, I wore it to aggravate Bishop—as Graham introduces me to the whole team.All eyes turn in my direction. All except the one set I wish would look. Bishop’s gaze is glued to the wood floor as I push off the door I was leaning against and make my way to the front of the room beside my uncle.

The spring training facility is not as extravagant as the clubhouse in New York. There’s one large table in the center of the room with chairs surrounding it, though those are all empty now. Everyone instead is seated in the folding chairs in front of each of the coveted cubbies that line the four walls.

As I walk, I look around the room, mentally cataloging the faces I recognize, their stories and those that I only know by name who, as Graham so eloquently put it, are hoping to make the team. Some are smiling, like one of our relief pitchers, Joshua Shepherd, while others like Elliot Stone, our first baseman, study me with open skepticism. Still others, like ourfarm team catcher Noah Smith, look at me like I’m their ticket to something they’ve dreamed of their entire life. Bishop’s gaze remains on that treasured spot on the floor.

I want so badly to ask him what’s wrong. There’s no way he’s still sulking about what happened in the hallway. Sure, he was pissed about Sharpe’s comment, but that was honestly small dice compared to some of the things the press has written about me. I don’t see him going after them. No, this is something else. There’s something keeping him from looking up, and I want to know what it is.

But at the moment, I’m his owner, not his friend, and absolutely not his fuckbuddy.

Clearing my throat, I shake Bishop from my mind and offer my team a genuine smile.

“Let me start by saying I know this isn’t ideal. Each of you planned to start this season with the teams I’m sure you’ve come to love and respect. Instead, you’re here with us with zero sense of stability. I know I’m just the team owner and you don’t have to listen to anything I’m about to say. After all, I just sign your paychecks. What do I know? But I’m here to tell you that even though I’m just a figure in an office on the concourse, I’m happy you’re here. This team has been through a lot in the last year. We’ve lost great men and women who were the foundation of this organization. We were on our way to a pennant run, and that’s not something you forget. But that doesn’t mean we can’t rise from the ashes and be great with the men in this locker room right now. You don’t have to show up, you don’t have to give it your all, and you absolutely don’t have to believe in what this team stands for. But I hope you do, because even though you didn’t ask to be here, you are and that makes you a Renega?—”

A crack echoes through the otherwise silent locker room and all eyes whip to see Bishop standing, his helmet spinning in a circle where he chucked it at the ground. His chest heaves, andeven though everyone is looking at him, his gaze is locked on me. Whatever goodwill he had for me when he walked in and defended me is gone.

Without a word, he kicks the helmet from in front of him. It hits the shins of one of the farm team pitchers across from him. Not that Bishop takes notice. He’s already halfway to the exit.

The silence is deafening. Everyone’s eyes dart from him to me, and back again until he’s gone, and I can feel the rift tearing through the team I was moments ago trying to unite. So much for starting off on the right foot.

“I guess that’s my cue to leave the baseball to you guys,” I stammer, barely managing to keep the feeling of failure from my voice.

“The lady has spoken.” Graham steps in. “You know the drill. Everyone needs to complete first day physicals and mental health screenings today. You’re on your own today for workouts, and tomorrow we’ll hit the ground running on the field.”

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