Page 73 of Renegade Ruin

I nod. “So, you know it was a bit of a shit show.”

“It was the first game.”

My chest rumbles with a laugh. “I believe Graham’s exact words, when he ripped us a new one after, were he’s seen little league teams play with more heart than what he saw out there today.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because we can’t play for shit together. But as you said, it’s the first game.” I can only hope it’s not an indicator of how the whole season is going to go.

“That’s an astute observation.” She picks up the notebook again and writes a few words before setting it down once more. “How are you jiving with the team?”

It’s a question we both know the answer to. I’m not.

Most practices have been spent with me showing up late and ducking out early to get a jump on any therapies I need before the guys flood the clubhouse. The short time I am on the field is spent using Carson as a shield in the bullpen or putting everything I have into drills, so that I don’t have to communicate with the men trying to replace my team.

Jolene sighs. “I can see your mind working to try and find an answer that I’ll be happy with, but that’s not what I’m looking for here, Bishop.”

Her prickly stare bores into me as I run my hand across the back of my neck and exhale heavily. “Fine. I’m not. There isn’t a single part of me that wants to look up from behind the plate and see those men on the field.”

“And what can we do to change that?” Jolene prompts, waiting for me to come up with a solution on my own.

Ah. Solutions. I get it now.

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” It’s a cop-out. Mostly because I know, even though I wasn’t the sole reason we lost today, there is more I could be doing.

It’s the gut feeling I get every time I step out on the field. Like I know exactly what I should be doing, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Sometimes it’s fear that stops me. Other times it’s anger. But every time the result is the same. I’m just not ready. Even if I want to be. Even though I know it’s what I need. It’s like there is a mental barrier I just can’t break through.

“To a point, it’s why you’re here, but I’m not going to tell you what to do. As we’ve covered before, I can guide you and make suggestions, but I think it’s better if you realize what you need and then we work together to come up with a plan.”

She’s right. That’s why I’m here. It’s why I’ve fucked Willow every chance I get. To learn to live. To feel something more than grief. But that’s not a plan. It’s not actionable. I’m still running with my tail between my legs.

The realization hits me like a freight train. Coupled with the weight of Phoebe’s phone call, my chest heaves and I struggle to breathe. But damn do I want to. I want to breathe. Which is why I force myself to formulate a plan.

“Fine,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “I need to figure out how to see them as my team.”

Jolene nods, though her approval does nothing to soothe me. “Alright. So, what’s step one?”

Fuck if I know.

I search my mind for an answer—anything I can hold on to that resembles a solid plan. How do I see a team?

My thoughts drift back to my first spring training after being drafted to the Renegades. I was the young, hotshot hopeful straight out of college. The manager made it clear I was the team’s first line of defense behind the plate, and there was a lot of pressure on me to not screw up as I figured out how to lead our team to victory.

A manic laugh bubbles in my throat, but I manage to keep it at bay. The weight of it isn’t much different than it is now. Except now I know too much. Back then, I was a cocky twenty-three-year-old with a love of the game and an even bigger love for life. I was fucking terrified but put on a brave face for everyone else. It wasn’t until our ace pitcher took me aside and gave me a piece of solid advice that I came into confidence of my own.

“It’s just a game,” Peter said. “At the end of the day, those nine innings are just that—nine innings. It’s the people at your side when you walk off the field that matter. Win or lose, you do it together. So as long as you do right by them, you’ll be okay.”

Fuck.

My chest tightens and tears prick at the back of my eyes. I do my best to blink them away, but one or two fall. I haven’t thought of Peter Daily or his words in years, but fuck if they don’t hit me right where it hurts the most.

But how am I supposed to do right by the men on the field when doing so means betraying the ones who they replaced?

We aren’t on the field anymore, Bish,Tommy answers, as if it’s plain and simple.

But you’re supposed to be—is all I can respond with.

Shit. Why did today, of all days, have to be about the hard truths?

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