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CHAPTER ELEVEN

FORD

In baseball, we learn to play hurt—physically and mentally. Injuries happen, and early on we learn to push past the pain. We leave our families and adapt to compartmentalize home time and game time. We push and we push, never fully healing, until one of two things happens: Your career ends in flames, or you learn to trust the team around you.

I’m really trying to do the latter. Trying to trust the process as I workout with the guys before the game. But I hate that because of the small metacarpal fracture I earned when I punched Earl, I’m not going to be on that field tonight.

Not that I regret it. Not when all I see is the fear in Juliet’s eyes as Earl grabbed her. Or the tears she thinks she hid when she hightailed it out of my apartment three nights ago.

It’s taken everything in me not to check in on her.

Well. Not show up at her apartment, that is. Because I have definitely sent food to her house every day to make sure she’s eating. And every night she has nicely told me to fuck off. Never those exact words, though.

Juliet could never.

Logically, I know she’s probably fine. Especially now Earl has no reason to show up at her apartment. But that doesn’t stop every other worry. Like where she’s living is in a shitty part of the city. Or that some asshole will think her revealing bar uniform is an invitation to take advantage of her. And don’t get me started on the fact that she’s keeping the job as a topless maid.

If she was anyone else, I wouldn’t care.

I shouldn’t care.

It’s her prerogative to do what she wants.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself. But the problem is, she’s not anyone else. She’s Juliet.

“You gonna finish that squat?”

Legs shaking, I glance up and see Bishop standing beside me with a furrowed brow. It’s the almost constipated look he gets when he’s about to try his best to be captainly and chat with one of us about how we’re doing. He has no idea we’ve coined the look, but I’m not going to be the one to tell him.

I press the plate up and lock it into place.

“How’s everything going?”

I almost snort at how right my observation is. Instead, I lift a brow, unable to pass up a moment to fuck with him. “Is this you asking or your girlfriend?”

Bishop huffs, but it’s the equivalent of an eye roll. “Why is it you guys think I tell Willow everything?”

“Pretty sure it was you who told me you don’t keep secrets from her.”

“Well shit. I did say that.” He runs a hand through his hair and tugs at the back. Another one of his telltale signs of discomfort. “But this is all me.”

“It’s going.” I roll out of the leg press and gesture for him to take my place. He does and I grab my water bottle. “I hate that I’m not on that field tonight.”

Every second Bishop leaves me hanging without telling me it will be okay, my guilt festers. It’s my damn fault I’m not playing. I know better than to get into fights. Not only in season but in general. I’m the one who let the team down.

Finally, he puts me out of my misery, though not with any kind of reassurance. “You going to tell me what happened?”

“I fell.” Okay, so maybe I’m not ready to trust the team with Juliet.

Bishop grunts into his next extension. “Into someone’s face?”

“There might have been a jaw on the way down.”

He crosses his arms over his chest between reps, brows furrowed. “Is there any chance he’s going to press charges.”

I shake my head. “No.”

Bishop pushes through his last press and his voice drops to a deadly octave. “Was it for Etta?”

The inside of my cheek nearly bleeds from where my teeth latch down. I don’t want to lie, but I don’t know how much Juliet wants the team to know. And I’ve already told them a lot more than I should have.

“I plead the fifth.”

Bishop nods, judgement thick in his tone. “Good.”

My stomach rolls, a mix of fear and confusion rushing through me. “Is this some kind of trick where you commend me, then try and get me to tell you more?”

“Nah. This is one of those we protect what’s ours things.” He echoes his words from spring training. The same words his girlfriend told me last week. Really, we should get them painted on the wall of the clubhouse at this point because they are slowly becoming the anthem of this team.

Bishop rolls out of the press and crosses the small aisle to the bench press. He jerks his head in a silent request for me to spot him.

It’s not that I don’t want to continue this awkward inquisition, but I was hoping to reach out to a few of my past teammates for Mercer’s recommendations.

But when the captain calls, you answer.

It’s between Bishop’s seventh and eighth rep that a thought hits me. After Juliet’s visit, I’ve never been more certain that there are holes in her story. And as much as I want to ask her directly, it’s hit and miss on what information she’ll give me. Not that I can blame her. She has no reason to trust me.

Yet.

Bishop on the other hand, may have some answers I need.

I shift my weight behind the bench, and in a spectacular bout of word vomit, sputter, “You played with Tyler, right?”

“Your brother?” He exhales a harsh breath as he raises the bar. “Yeah. For a couple seasons.”

“What was he like on the team?”

Bishop’s brows knit together. “Why do you ask?”

“Honestly? I’m trying to piece together what happened between him and Juliet.”

“Did you ask her?” He grunts, lifting the bar up again and thankfully missing my grimace.

“I’m not exactly someone she trusts.”

“And was that before or after you paid off a million-dollar debt?”

“Fucking Willow,” I mutter.

“Hey.” He growls. Replacing the bar, he snaps up and faces me. “That’s not only your team owner but my future wife you’re cursing.”

My jaw drops a beat before spreading into a genuine smile. “You got plans to ask her something?”

“Not anytime soon.” A mischievous grin tips the right side of his lips as he reaches for his water and takes a sip. “But when you know, you know.”

“Can’t relate.” I chuckle.

“You will someday.” He says it like it’s a fact, but honestly, I’m not so sure. As much as I’d love to have what he and Willow have—because frankly, it’s sickening how perfect they are for each other—I’m not sure that’s in the cards for me.

“But to answer your question.” Bishop gets this far off look, like he’s glancing into the past. “I hate to speak ill of the dead…”

“But…”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he prefaces. “Tyler was a great first baseman, but as a teammate and overall human he was the worst.”

A guttural “Ha” bubbles from me. If only he knew.

“No, what I mean is—” He rubs the back of his neck and I’m hanging on his every word. “Fuck, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

“Believe me, there is no love lost between me and Tyler. I’m just trying to understand.” I swear if he leaves me hanging, captain or not, he’s going to get a piece of my mind. “This isn’t about me. It’s for Juliet.”

Bishop hops off the weight bench and stands, jerking his head in a “follow me” manner.

We walk in silence out of the weight room toward the clubhouse showers, stopping in a deserted hallway. “I can’t prove anything, but Tyler was the kind of player who lived up to the notion of hoes in every area code.”

“He—” My words die on my lips, rage striking like lightning through my veins. I instantly regret leaving the weight room. At least there I could punch something without it being a cement wall. Then again, punching things is how I ended up where I am now.

“Whoa, McCoy, take a breath.”

It takes five before I’m able to speak. “He was cheating on Juliet?”

Bishop’s face twists as he nods.

Shit. Does she know? Do I have to be the one to tell her now?

These are questions for when I can think past my need to hit something.

“Why are you telling me this now?” I ask.

“I didn’t think his extramarital tendencies were relevant to finding her,” Bishop says with a shrug.

My mind races, trying to put together all the reasons this could be relevant to Tyler accumulating millions in debt that then fell on to Juliet. “What if one of those women had gone after her? Maybe one of them came demanding money and threatened to expose his affair publicly.”

That gets a chuckle out of Bishop. “What is this, a daytime TV show?”

“What if he got one of them pregnant?”

“And they extorted Etta for millions?”

“I don’t know.” I scrub my face with my uninjured hand. “At this point, my mind has come up with a million different scenarios why Tyler had all that debt.”

“Wait, the debt was Tyler’s, not Etta’s?”

“One point six million, to be exact.”

He lets out a falling whistle, as he turns and leans against the wall. “But it kind of makes sense.”

I tilt my head and arch my brow. “It does?”

“I’m not sure if it’s related, but your brother liked to bet on anything and everything he could. He was the first to get a poker game going on the plane. Hell, I’m pretty sure he had a standing bet with Tommy every game on how long the national anthem would go.”

“Why the hell would you bet on that?”

“Because I suspect your brother had a gambling problem.”

A gambling problem.

Fuck.

Bishop is right. It all makes sense.

Tyler’s father was an alcoholic with the most addictive personality I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Not to mention he was competitive as hell. Of course, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. But then to let it trickle down and become Juliet’s problem? As if the cheating wasn’t enough.

It’s a good thing my stepbrother is dead, because if he wasn’t, he would be as soon as I got my hands on him.

“Ford,” Bishop calls my name, and by the way he’s looking at me, I get the feeling he’s said it more than once.

My eyes narrow, filled with emotion that morphs into bitter accusation. “Why are you just telling me about this now?”

Bishop scoffs. “Are you fucking kidding me? Sorry, I was a little busy dealing with the fact I lost my entire team in one night.”

“Fuck.” Guilt wracks me as I remember the front-row seat I had to watching Bishop claw his way back from the depths of his grief. It wasn’t pretty, and here I am, all but insinuating he should have put my needs first. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”

“I know.” Bishop nods, and there truly is nothing but understanding in his gaze. “You’re just trying to figure out what happened and deal with the fallout. I get it. And I’m sorry I haven’t been more help. I sort of pushed a lot of things to the back of my mind in order to survive.”

I understand too. I did the same thing when my mom passed. My teammates were the ones who made sure I didn’t let the tendrils of grief sneak up and consume me. Bishop didn’t have that until Willow stepped up and took on that role, eventually leading him to be the heart of the Renegades.

“It’s not your fault.” I reassure him, cupping my hand on his shoulder. “I was an ass.”

We stand there in silence, each of us no doubt mulling over all the information and our actions over the last year. This team may be the greatest thing that ever happened to us, but it also has wreaked nothing but havoc in each of our lives.

“Fucking hell.” Tyler did this.

“That’s why she disappeared, isn’t it?” Bishop surmises. “Why the penthouse was sold and none of us could find her. Someone came after her for the money Tyler owed.”

My jaw tightens hard enough my molars might crack from the pressure. “All signs are pointing that way.”

“But you paid them.”

I nod. “We protect what’s ours.”

Respect shines in his gaze as he returns a nod. “Exactly.”

Bishop gives me a soft punch on the shoulder and takes his leave, heading for the clubhouse so he can shower and dress for the game.

I wish I was doing the same.

Instead, I’m lost in my thoughts as I head to the small media center off the press room to check for emails regarding testimonials for Mercer. My chest falls when I find there aren’t many. Two, to be exact, and even then they’re halfhearted at best. It’s not the first time I’ve been left questioning the ass backwards loyalty of people in this league.

I’m in the middle of organizing the meager responses to send to Willow when my phone buzzes.

JULIET: Are we still good for tomorrow morning?

FORD: Absolutely.

My thumbs hover over the keyboard, and I debate if I should bring up everything I just learned.

On the one hand, it truly doesn’t matter. She’s free from the chains of debt. On the other, I want her to know she can trust me with everything that happened.

The words my mother used to tell me echo through my mind.

Trust isn’t gained by giving help. It’s earned by asking for it .

There was a time I’d disagreed wholeheartedly. How could you possibly gain trust by asking for help? But then I found my mom, cheek caved in from where Marcus hit her. Anger doesn’t even come close to describing how I felt. But what hurt the most was that she didn’t feel like she could come to me. She said it was because she didn’t want to burden me, but I didn’t understand how she could believe that to be true. I lost a piece of the trust I had for her for a long time after that. Questioned everything she said. It wasn’t until she started being forthcoming with me I began to relax. But that took time.

Something I haven’t given to Juliet.

I came barreling in like the damn Hulk, demanding she give me the trust I thought I deserved for helping her.

I let loose a sigh, swallowing every ounce of pride and comfort.

FORD: How do you feel about setting aside a few more days while I’m on IR to go through each room in my apartment and come up with a plan to make it less cluttered and more organized chaos?

JULIET: Is that an official term?

FORD: Yes.

JULIET: I think I can make that happen.

Relief floods through me, giving just an ounce of hope to every cell in my body. I’m not sure what it is about this entire situation, or why it matters so much to me that Juliet knows she can count on me, but I’m not about to examine it too closely. For now, I’ll just take the win.