Page 75 of Renegade Ruin

I don’t bother thanking her. In fact, I don’t say a single thing as I storm out the door, straight through an emergency exit and out of the stadium. The alarm blares, alerting the staff that someone has opened a door, but I don’t give a shit. I’m sure this will count as one of those fuck ups Willow cautioned me about, but I can’t go through the clubhouse right now. I can’t look the Renegades in the eye and pretend I’m okay with them standing there.

Fuck.

This isn’t supposed to be this hard.

Says who? I’m incredible. Of course you miss me,Tommy sounds off, and I can’t stop the chuckled sob that wracks my body.

No one stops me as I exit the stadium, which is good because they’d probably get a fist to the face if they did. I’m not sure where I’m headed, but I know it’s got to be far away from here. Far from the pressure of who I’m supposed to be. Who I want to be. Who I’m not sure I’ll ever be again.

But fuck, I want to be that person.

I yank open the truck door and slide in, my hands white knuckling the steering wheel as I peel out of the parking lot and drive. It’s not until I’m on the highway that I realize where my body has taken me. The sign reads one hundred and sixty miles to Miami. In silence I seethe at what this might mean, but ultimately give up on caring. Instead, I focus on nothing but the road ahead, leading me toward the only thing that will calm the storm raging inside me.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

WILLOW

It doesn’t matter how many times I give a speech—it doesn’t get any easier.

Prior to last year, Leigh handled all speaking engagements Renegade Hearts was asked to participate in. I blame Bishop for the fact I’m here instead. If he hadn’t dared me to get up on that stage and tell my story to that crowd last New Year’s, I wouldn’t have been asked to headline as many conferences. He encouraged me to share a piece of myself that night and it, in turn, inspired others. It’s only gotten worse since becoming the owner of the Renegades. Organizations love to add that to the headline beside my picture in their event programs.

I hate it. But at the same time, I love it. Every time I step out on a stage, I still experience the trickle of anxiety, but getting to witness the wheels click for people who have never experienced loss is truly amazing. Seeing the change that comes from what I do, the difference it makes when it comes from me instead of Leigh, is breathtaking.

Smiling as I wrap my speech, I never lose sight of the clock on the back wall, specifically the number six. Bishop might be to blame for my rise in public speaking, but he’s also the reason I can get through it without crumbling into an anxious mess.Focus on one thing, he told me. Something that isn’t going to waiver. Then talk to it like it’s the only thing in the room. Hence the number six at the bottom of the clock.

It’s also the first digit in the number he wears on the back of his jersey, but I refuse to acknowledge the correlation.

The audience is engaged, hanging on my every word, and I’m thankful the press isn’t involved at events like these. It would ruin what we’re trying to do. Plus, they’re far too busy working to weave a tale of fabricated lies to care about a conference for educators or my talk on guiding students who have lost a parent.

My new favorite press story is that I missed the team’s first home spring training game because I had to get my bikini waxed for my date with Jensen Fox, the significantly older owner of the Boston Navigators. All because I ran into him as I was exiting a salon and we exchanged hellos.

Imagine if they knew why I really had a wax appointment.

I finish my speech, and I’m about to take questions when a shuffling at the back of the room catches my attention.

My heart skips a beat, and my stomach drops when my gaze connects with the desperate brown stare of the man whose number I’ve fixated on for the last hour. I let out an unintelligible mumble as I take in his bloodshot eyes and the bags beneath them. His hair is tousled like he’s been running his fingers through it nonstop, and his shoulders are slumped forward.

What is he doing here? Doesn’t he have a game?

My eyes dart back to the clock, and I remember this is the evening session. The game ended hours ago.

Mind racing, I quickly thank the attendees and apologize for not taking questions before rushing from the stage toward the exit.

My heart pounds against my rib cage as I search for Bishop in the crowd exiting the ballroom. I need to find him and make sure he’s okay, even if I already know the answer.

He isn’t.

I’m halfway down the hall, heading toward the lobby of the hotel when a large hand wraps around my bicep and yanks me into a small alcove.

Without a single word, Bishop tugs me against his chest. Clinging to me tightly, he nuzzles his nose into my hair and lets out a sigh of relief.

A few moments pass before I carefully pull back and tilt my head to meet his gaze.We can’t be here like this, out in the open. Even with the press not present, all it would take is one person—the right person—to see us together, and we’d both be in hot water.

“Let’s go talk somewhere quieter,” I offer.

“Kitten, please.”His words are a strangled plea, paired with a hefty dose of desperation framing his eyes.

Kitten. Not Willow.

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