Page 86 of Renegade Rift
“Exactly.” I swap my glove for my helmet in my cubby. I’m the fifth guy up to bat in the lineup, but it’s a toss-up if I’ll actually get to step into the box. “You think Willow can get the commissioner to step in and issue a statement?”
Bishop pulls off his mask and starts tugging off the chest plate. “She’ll sure as hell try. I’ve never known that woman to give up, but this reeks of bureaucracy bullshit, and we’ve seen how slow that is to change.”
He’s not wrong. Willow might have cleaned house when she took over and put a more progressive and levelheaded board in place, but the other clubs haven’t been so quick to change. It seems at every turn they are trying to undermine her plans to bring our club into the twenty-first century.
“Will you handle updating her, or should I?” This is one-hundred percent me passing the buck so I don’t have to try to track down our team owner after the game.
Bishop chuckles, and we slide up to the railing and watch as Garcia is hit with a wild pitch. It barely grazes his calf, but ever the drama queen, Garcia jumps and leans over like he’s been struck with an arrow.
He’s given the base, and by the time he gets to first he’s hopping on both feet like nothing happened.
“I can talk to Willow.” Bishop zeros in on the box as Etchers steps in and the Aviator’s pitcher tries to shake off the shitty start to the at bat.
He doesn’t pay me any attention as he silently makes notes on the pitches thrown. Glancing down the dugout, I’m not surprised to find every starting member of the Renegades doing the same thing. We might be at bat, but that doesn’t mean it’s time to relax. Our manager, Graham, likes to call it constant vigilance. It’s the only way we can stay ahead of our opponent.
After the fourth pitch, Bishop must feel confident in his observations because he turns to face me. “You wouldn’t be handing this testimony problem off to me so you can get home to that sweet woman I hear you now have living with you?”
I groan. I swear the Row is like living in a damn frat house. Nothing is sacred or above the team gossip mill. “That depends. Are you asking as my team captain or my friend?”
He tilts his head to the side and frowns. “Does it matter?”
“Only if you're going to tell me it’s a bad idea since she’s Tyler’s widow, and the team doesn’t need another scandal.”
Bishop flutters his lips and laughs. “As the perpetrator of the most recent scandal, I don’t think I have a leg to stand on.”
“Touché.” I grin.
“The question is, doyouthink it’s a bad idea?”
“Absolutely,” I say without missing a beat. “Juliet is…fragile. But not like a flower. Like a bomb. She’s determined and headstrong, but still figuring out what she wants, and while I am committed to helping her figure it out, I’m also trying to keep her. So, I’m not exactly playing fair.”
“Do you love her?”
“I could,” I admit, knowing damn well I’m on my way, if not already there.
Bishop searches my face, and I’m pretty sure he knows by the smile spanning his lips that I’m a goner. It’s likely the same look on his face when he talks about Willow. “Keep showing her what she could have, McCoy. Sometimes we can be a bit dense to what’s right in front of us.” He tips his head back and looks to the owner’s suite where Willow is watching the game with the majority of the other wives and girlfriends.
“Thanks, Bish.”
“Any time,” he says, focusing back on Etchers as he takes the walk and Elliot Stone, our first baseman, takes to the box. “Let’s go, Stoney!”
I clap my hands and echo the cheer for our teammate.
We hold our breath as Stone carefully watches four balls go by and takes his base. That’s bases loaded and three potential runs on base. Kiefer’s up next, and I’m on deck.
I grab my bat and climb the steps of the dugout. By the time I step into the orange circle and slide the weighted donut onto my bat, Kiefer is already at a count of one strike, one ball.
Closing my eyes, I take the next pitch to slow my breathing. In and out. I feel the weight of my bat in my hands, and imagine it’s an extension of me. I swing, focusing on the power in my hips and keeping my bat level.
“Strike,” the ump calls out.
Fuck.
The count is one-two.
I set my feet and watch as the pitch comes down. I practice my timing, swinging at the same time Kiefer does and relishing in the crack of the bat as he makes contact.
It’s a line drive, right into that same pocket the Aviators found during their at bat. It’s a solid hit and because of a bad bounce, Kiefer makes it to second, sending Stone to third, and driving Etchers and Garciahome to score our first two runs of the game.
