Page 52 of Renegade Ruin

For a heartbeat no one moves, then one by one the team starts moving, and I’m grateful when Graham takes it upon himself to usher me toward the exit.

Just before we reach the door, we’re stopped by our starting pitcher, Carson Whitmore. Graham gives me a look, silently asking if I want him to stay for whatever he has to say. I give him a curt nod letting him know I can handle it. I might not need his protection, but I’m happy to have him in my corner.

“Hi, I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Carson?—”

“Whitmore,” I finish for him. “I know who you are. What can I do for you?”

Carson runs a hand through the curls of the shaggy blonde hair that reaches just below the nape of his neck. He’s tall, not quite as tall as Bishop, and where Bishop is all muscle, Carson is more lithe and lean with bulk in just the right places. He’s the epitome of a perfect pitcher’s build.

His blue eyes soften when he smiles. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss. Your dad was an incredible man and a staple in this league.”

My heart constricts, and my eyes rim with tears. “Thank you.”

He’s not the first to give his condolences, but he’s the only one on this team, aside from Graham, to acknowledge that I’ve lost someone too. Not even Vaughn has gone so far as to ask how I’m doing. Everything out of his mouth is how I couldn’t possibly be as great of an owner as my father.

Carson smiles, revealing two deep dimples in his cheeks and nods. I expect him to walk away, but then he hesitates. His shoulders hunch slightly and when he speaks, his voice is low. “Don’t worry about Lawson. He’s had a rough go of it, but the guy has a heart of gold. He’ll eventually get his head out of his ass and when he does, he’ll be unstoppable.”

If you only knew the half of it, buddy.

“You know from experience?” I ask, more than a little curious to get a feel on how the team is reacting to our prickly catcher’s hot and cold streaks.

Carson sighs, letting his hand fall to his side. He works his fists a few times before he continues. “We’ve played against each other for years. Heckled each other for the majority of them. He’s a sore loser, which was the driving force behind me perfecting my sinker. He can’t hit them, and he hates it.”

I laugh. “It’s a good thing you’re on our team, then.”

Carson nods and offers me a reassuring smile. “It’s also how I know he’ll come around. He feels hard, but he always manages to pull through.”

I nod. “I think you’re right.”

He lifts his head toward the exit that leads to the practice fields. “I should probably head out there.”

“Have a good day.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you around.”

I sidestep Carson and slip through the open locker room door. Focused on my phone and the mountain of emails that have come through in the thirty minutes I spent in the clubhouse, I don’t notice the wall of a man standing in front of me before I crash into his chest.

Wobbling on my heels, Bishop reaches out and wraps his hand around my bicep to steady me. His heated gaze darts in both directions, and I only have a moment to right myself before he plunges me into the darkness of the nearest equipment room.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WILLOW

It smells like wood and oiled leather. Probably because this is the room that houses the extra bats and gloves for the team. I blink, my eyes adjusting to the dim fluorescent overhead. When they do, I’m greeted with the sight of Bishop, chest heaving paired with a heated stare that’s eerily similar to the one he gave me earlierwhile defending me.

Once the door clicks closed, he unleashes on me. “What the hell was that with Carson?”

My brows raise and I smirk as my hands dig into the curve of my hips, fully preparing to poke the bear. “Oh hello, Bishop. Of course, I’d love to talk with you in this tiny equipment closet. Why was I talking to a member of my team? Oh, I don’t know? Maybe because I’m the owner and he wanted to offer his condolences.”

“You don’t need to be talking with him,” he growls. “Any of them. You don’t need to show up to practices. It’s a distraction.”

His declaration catches me off guard, but I quickly catch up and refuse to believe the audacity he’s displaying. “Oh, so it’s only okay when I’m your distraction.”

Bishop’s jaw tightens. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” I press, not entirely sure how we got here, but I can’t deny there’s a small part of me that likes seeing Bishop unsettled. Not upset or spiraling, but on his toes, in a way I don’t think very many people keep him.

Amusement sparkles in my eyes, and I wait for his snarky response. When Bishop remains quiet, I change the subject, hoping it will catch him off guard. “You want to tell me why you just stormed out of that meeting?”

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