Page 13 of Renegade Rift

But I’ve got nothing. Juliet made it clear she doesn’t want me in her life, let alone asking questions. It doesn’t matter that I’m dying inside trying to let it go.

When I don’t respond, he keeps going. “Dude, she was in your apartment cleaning topless. How do you go from being the wife of a major league ballplayer to that?”

Isn’t that the million-dollar question? The same question I’ve been asking myself for the last five hours since she left the Row.

It’s a miracle I even made it to the field for morning work. If it wasn’t for Smitty banging down my door and demanding I come to the field early with him to work on quickening up his reaction throws to third, I probably would have resorted to scouring the city for her.

As it is, I feel like fucking prince charming searching for Cinderella. All I have to go on is the name of the maid service. And they were zero help. Don’t get me wrong, I admire their commitment to keeping their women safe, but it’s not like I’m a crazy customer or an ex-boyfriend.

Okay, maybe I technically fall into the first one. But I just need to know she’s okay. Because Smitty is right. None of it adds up.

“I don’t know,” I finally concede. “But as I told you and the other two topless cohorts this morning, let’s keep it to ourselves until I’m able to find out more.” Bare Necessities might not have been forthcoming, but I have an arsenal of private investigators that now have something to go off of. Hopefully, they’ll be able to give me at least a hint of what Julietta—Etta—is up to.

God, I hate that name. It sounds like an old grandma who is looking to share her Werther’s Originals. It doesn’t suit the stunning woman she is.

Smitty nods and bumps his glove against my shoulder. “Whatever you need, we’re here to help.”

He means it. As do the other guys on the team.

I might have come to the Renegades searching for absolution, but I lucked into a family of guys who unconditionally have my back.

“Thanks.” I jerk my head toward home plate in a silent offer to continue our workout.

He nods, and heads to take his position.

In the time he takes to get set, I squat down along the third baseline and stare at the line where chalk meets dirt. Usually, I’d wait to set an intention before the actual game. And maybe I still will later, but right now there’s one word turning over in my head.

Family.

It’s not pretty. My chicken scratch is barely legible. But I know it’s there. And for the first time in months, my intention isn’t depressing.

* * *

Smitty and I fall into a rhythm. He pops up at the plate and careens the ball down the baseline to my waiting glove. I focus on the motions, giving him a target and dropping for the tag. Muscle memory takes over and I’m able to relax and let baseball heal me in the way it always has.

For most, it’s just a game. Something you play as a kid, maybe through high school and college if you’re lucky and dedicated, but for me—and I’d venture to say most guys at the professional level—baseball becomes a part of you. A living entity that can’t be ignored. From the moment my dad put a glove on my hand and threw me a ball at the ripe age of six, I knew this was what I was meant to do. Playing with him, listening to coaches, learning the ways I could push my body to be better, faster, it gave me an indescribable high. Which was welcomed when everything else in life always felt cluttered and messy.

This field is my church. The game a form of worship.

“You’ve got the right idea, but you need to shorten your step just a smidge.”

Smitty and I both swivel our heads to where Bishop Lawson, the Renegades lead catcher and other unofficial co-captain, sidesteps around the dugout barrier and onto the warning track.

Smitty lowers himself to a squat and practices another pop up, shortening the step he takes toward third.

“Yeah, that’s better. Now drill it into your brain until it becomes instant.”

The rookie does it again, leaving Bishop to turn to me. “I’ll take over with him. Willow wants to see you in her office.”

In any other situation, being called to the owner’s office would leave me with nothing but dread, but with Willow York, it’s different. She was thrust into the position after her father died in the same crash that took the lives of his team, and ever since she’s caused nothing but chaos in the league. She’s done the unimaginable: firing the majority of her board, uncovering a cheating scandal, and then topping it all off by dating Bishop. Willow is unlike any owner I’ve ever had the pleasure of playing for, and I wouldn’t change a damn thing about her.

She’s also been the biggest supporter in my quest to find Juliet.

I step forward and pop the ball into Bishop’s waiting glove. “Any idea what it’s about?”

He shrugs and takes my position at third. “She mentioned needing your help with something for Mercer’s reinstatement.”

Shit. I forgot the hearing for that was coming up.

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