Page 6 of Renegade Ruin

If his glare were daggers, I’d be dead.

While I appreciate my uncle standing up for me, we’re playing with fire protecting Bishop and walking this fine line is bound to get us burned someday.

“You won’t always be able to protect him,” Vaughn sneers.

“No,” I say with a resolute sigh, “but I can protect this team and the legacy my father would have wanted. As we previously agreed, Mr. Lawson stays through spring training. If at that time we, collectively as upper management, feel like he’s a hindrance to our organization, we’ll release him.”

And he'll be forced to retire, is the part I leave off. Everyone standing there knows if Bishop is released to the trade waivers, no other team will pick up his hefty contract, and even if they are willing, he’s only proven to be a liability since the crash.

A reporter from the front row of the press room tilts his head, eyes zeroed in on our group. He’s far enough away I don’t think he can hear our conversation, but I wouldn’t put it past the press to have bugged the entire room with mics. By the way he leans in our direction, he’s clearly picked up that something is going on.

Never has Major League Baseball had a catastrophe that resulted in holding a disaster draft. Especially one of this caliber, where every team must volunteer five players from which we get to choose one to restock our team.

It’s all been building up to this moment. Even non-sports fans are invested in our story, waiting to see who will make upthis iconic roster. And these reporters will do anything for the inside scoop.

We’re making history.

Which is why I don’t need this today. What I need is Bishop to keep it together—to stand with our organization as we redraft his team and get himself down to Florida for spring training. Then we can figure out what the hell we’re going to do to get him back to the man and player I met a year ago.

“Mrs. York,” Harold interrupts. I didn’t even notice him slide up beside me. He leans in to whisper in my ear, and I don’t miss the way Vaughn and George subtly crane their necks at the same time to see if they can catch whatever he’s about to tell me.

“Uh,” Harold mutters, “Mr. Lawson is trashing the clubhouse locker room.”

I pull back and whip my gaze toward my assistant, searching his face for any hint of a misunderstanding.

“He’s what?” I whisper-yell.

Harold’s eyes dart toward the door that leads to the clubhouse.

Shit.

Anger and sympathy war for dominance in my mind, but I keep my features a blank slate.

“Is everything okay?” Vaughn asks, his voice lilting like a cat ready to catch a mouse.

Plastering a picturesque smile on my face, I spin around and face him and the commissioner. “Peachy. Why don’t you guys go ahead and get started with questions, and I’ll join you with Bishop at the start of the draft?”

“You’re sure?” George asks.

No, but at this point I’ve made my bed, so I’ve got to lie in it.

Nodding, I pray I’m not making a giant mistake.

He made it clear he didn’t want my help. So for the past four months, I’ve given him space, allowing everyone else to be the ones to check in on him and keep him in line.

That ends today.

If he wants to live in the ruins of this team, I’ll let him. God knows it would make my life easier.

As I make my way to the clubhouse locker room, memories of last New Year’s flash through my mind. The way he talked me through a panic attack and challenged me to be more than what society demanded of me. He pushed me to be myself. Something I’ve forced myself to continue long after that night.

Bishop was once the only person who saw me.

Believed in me.

Now it’s my turn to return the favor.

CHAPTER THREE

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