Page 12

Chapter

Twelve

S tacia stared at the plain white door of Jason’s condo, her stomach twisted into an anxious knot. She hadn’t been here all weekend, giving him and his mother space to reconnect. She had seen Celia at the stadium, even shared a meal with them before Celia’s flight on Sunday night, but she hadn’t returned with Jason afterward. He’d looked confused—maybe even hurt—but the expression had disappeared so fast she wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined it.

They had work to do. Interviews to prep. It was time to get back on track. Professionally speaking.

Personally speaking? That was an entirely different ballgame. One she was in danger of losing. What had started as a simple business strategy had morphed into something far messier, far more personal. The question she kept circling back to was—what was Jason’s perspective? Was she just convenient? An outlet for sex? Or was there something more?

Sleeping with a client was the ultimate professional sin, and she was dancing dangerously close to the edge. If word got out that she mixed business with pleasure, she’d be ruined. She was already on thin ice with Michael, already carrying the weight of a shattered reputation from her last job. And yet, despite all that, she was still standing in front of this damn door, knocking like she belonged here.

Like she wanted to belong here.

Her knock echoed in the bare spaces of the condo. After what felt like an eternity, the door finally swung open, revealing Jason—rumpled, sleepy, and looking like pure sin in nothing but a pair of low-slung boxers. His hair was a tousled mess, his jaw dark with stubble, and the heat radiating off his bare skin made her mouth go dry. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze instead of letting her eyes drift lower.

His scowl was nothing short of murderous. “What the hell do you want?”

“And a good morning to you, too,” she said brightly, lifting a bag of donuts in offering. “I brought breakfast.”

His eyes narrowed. “There better be coffee.”

She shoved a cup into his hands. “Here, grump.”

He took it without another word, stepping back as if to close the door in her face. She wedged her foot in before he could, then bent down to grab two additional grocery bags. “And something for later.”

Pushing past him, she strode down the hall toward the kitchen, nearly tripping over a stack of unpacked boxes. She threw him an exasperated look. “Jeez, Jason. These are a menace. You ever think about, I don’t know, unpacking?”

“I won’t be here that long,” he muttered, sipping his coffee.

“Doesn’t mean you have to live like a drifter.”

“It’s not my home,” he said flatly, following her into the kitchen. “It’s just where I’m staying until the season ends.”

She plopped the bags onto the counter and turned to face him, arms crossed. “And then what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into the bag, pulled out a donut, and flicked the empty paper aside. It fluttered to the floor at his feet.

She arched a brow. “I suppose you expect me to pick that up?”

He grinned, boyish and wicked, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief. “Up to you. I don’t care.”

She rolled her eyes, annoyance prickling her skin. “You don’t care about a lot of things, Jason. Your home. Your teammates. Your fans. What do you care about?”

His jaw tightened. “Baseball.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s my life. This place?” He gestured around the condo dismissively. “Temporary. My teammates? Half of them will be gone next year. Hell, so will I. And my fans?” His voice dipped into something rougher, rawer. “Where were they when the shit hit the fan? Gone. Like everyone else. So tell me, Stacia—why the hell should I care?”

The bitterness in his voice cut straight through her. He hunched forward, tension tightening his shoulders, his body curling inward as if bracing for a blow. Her instincts screamed at her to stop, to pull back, to protect herself. But something deeper, something raw and unguarded, made her step forward instead.

She touched his shoulder, intending to comfort. But the second her fingers met his bare skin, something shifted. Her touch skimmed across the hard planes of his back, wrapping around him in a quiet embrace. He went rigid beneath her hands, tension radiating through his body.

She pressed a feather-light kiss to his shoulder, a soft, instinctive gesture she hadn’t planned. Then, before he could push her away, she stepped back and busied herself unpacking the groceries, giving him space to breathe.

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. He sat there, unmoving, while she pulled items from the bags, methodically placing them in the fridge. When she reached for a steak and a bag of vegetables, his hand shot out, gripping her wrist.

“What are you doing with that?”

She met his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. “I thought it’d be nice to have an actual meal for once. Something homemade instead of takeout.”

He scoffed. “Who’s gonna cook it? I don’t even know if the stove works.”

She shook her head, amused. “I’ll cook. After your interview. If you behave.”

His expression soured. He tossed his empty coffee cup into the trash. “I thought we agreed interviews were a waste of time.”

“Funny, I don’t remember agreeing to that.” She leaned against the counter. “I remember you saying you’d work with me.”

“You were naked at the time. I would’ve agreed to almost anything.” He crossed his arms, pouting like a child.

“And so you did.” She smirked. “So, you’re doing the interview.”

“You blackmailed me,” he grumbled. “I’m gonna need more than a steak as payment.”

In one swift movement, he had her trapped against the counter, his arms bracketing her in. His heat seeped into her skin, his scent—a mix of soap and something inherently Jason—wrapping around her senses like a drug.

She reached behind her, pulling out a chocolate cake. Holding it between them, she waved it under his nose. “Truce?”

His eyes darkened, flickering with something molten. He inhaled deeply, groaning in appreciation. He reached for the cake, but she snatched it away. “Only if you’re good.”

He arched a brow, a slow, sinful smirk curving his lips. “I can be very good, darlin’.”

“After the interview.” She slipped out from under his arms, putting much-needed distance between them. “You’re not getting out of this with sex.”

He muttered something under his breath as he followed her toward the bedroom. Once inside, she opened the closet door—and found it completely empty.

“Where are your clothes?”

He waved vaguely at the unopened boxes. “Somewhere.”

She sighed. “You had no problem unpacking the TV.”

“And the sheets,” he added, waggling his eyebrows. “Wanna try them out?”

She fought back a smile, shaking her head. “Not likely. We have four hours until your interview.”

He groaned. “I only need thirty minutes to get ready. Why the hell did you wake me up so early?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because we have work to do.”

He grumbled but finally pushed off the bed. “Fine. But you’re cooking dinner tonight.”

She smirked. “Deal. Now get in the shower, Friar. And don’t even think about touching that cake.”

He grinned as he walked into the bathroom. “No promises.”

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. This was a dangerous game she was playing. And she was already in too deep.

J ason stepped into the shower and turned the water on, keeping it cool in a desperate attempt to douse the fire Stacia Kendall had ignited in him. It didn’t make sense. He wasn’t in a dry spell anymore—not with the way she’d been in his bed just a couple of nights ago. But still, she was under his skin, a constant ache he couldn’t shake, a distraction he didn’t need.

And it wasn’t just the sex, though that was pretty damn amazing. No, it was the way she marched in like she owned the place, bossing him around, straightening his life, making herself comfortable in his space. It was driving him crazy. He’d nearly thrown her onto the bed earlier and made them both late for the damn interview.

Yeah, that would’ve killed two birds with one stone—hot sex and no interview. Then chocolate cake for dessert. What could be better?

Instead, she was downstairs playing house, unpacking his clothes and acting like he needed dressing. As if he hadn’t been doing interviews since he was thirteen, since the Little League World Series. He knew the game. Knew how it worked. It wasn’t his fault the rules had changed.

He braced his hands against the slick tile, lowering his forehead against the coolness, letting the water wash over him. He hated this part. The media, the vultures, the forced smiles and canned responses. The fans were fine, but the reporters? They were another breed. The fans didn’t care if you went home alone or with a supermodel as long as you hit the ball, caught the ball, and legged out your hits.

The rules hadn’t changed. He had. And he didn’t know how to play the game anymore.

A toilet flushed, and a blast of ice-cold water hit him square in the chest. He choked back a curse and bellowed, “Stacia!”

“Are you okay in there?” Her voice floated in from the bedroom, all saccharine innocence despite her obvious sabotage. The shower did nothing to ease the ache in his groin—if anything, it made it worse. The door handle jiggled. “Do you need any help?”

His cock twitched in response, traitorous bastard. He cursed under his breath. “Only if you want to wash my back—and other body parts.”

The rapid click of her heels retreating down the stairs made him grin. Probably for the best. But hell, he wished she’d stayed. And not just for the sex.

He finished his shower and finally turned the water warm, but it was too late. Blue balls were a bitch. He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped into the bedroom. Stacia was perched on the bed, scrolling through her tablet, all composed and professional. Her legs were crossed, her skirt teasing just enough creamy thigh to send a fresh wave of heat through his body.

She glanced up, her gaze dropping to the towel. Pink dusted her cheeks.

Grinning, he dropped the towel. “Did you find my underwear too?”

She pointed to the dresser without looking at him. “Top drawer. I unpacked several things. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Nope. Maybe I should hire you to be my housekeeper.” He pulled out a pair of briefs and bent to step into them. A small choking sound made him smirk.

“I’ll wait for you downstairs. I left the list of questions on the bed.”

She fled the room like her heels were on fire.

His amusement evaporated when he spotted the piece of paper. Tossing it aside, he dressed quickly and stormed downstairs. “You wrote my answers for me? Like I’m a fucking two-year-old?”

She glanced up from the chair, gesturing to the seat across from her. “They’re just suggestions. Something to guide you down a safe path.”

His jaw tightened. “Do you really think I’m that stupid? That I can’t answer a simple question like, ‘Why do you want to play for the Knights?’”

“Why do you want to play for the Knights?” she countered.

“Duh. Because no one else would hire me. Why else would I play for a perpetual cellar dweller like the Knights?” The second the words left his mouth, guilt prodded him. He ignored it.

“And there is where the interview goes off track. Honesty is good, but it’s better to flavor the pot a little.”

His fists clenched. Like he’d ever actually say that.

She handed him a new copy of the questions. “Read my answer.”

He skimmed the paper, then snorted. “This is sugary bullshit.”

She tapped her foot impatiently, and he sighed, reading aloud. “‘The Knights are a young team, up and coming in baseball. They have great players, and I can really make a difference in their playoff hopes, both on and off the field.’” Laughter burst out of him. “Do you really think anyone is going to buy this load of crap? Remember, the biggest rap against me is that I’m not a team player. No one will believe this shit.”

But something inside him twisted. A part of him wanted it to be true. Wanted to be seen as something more than a washed-up has-been.

“If you say it convincingly, they’ll buy it. Add a charming smile, which we both know you can do, and they’ll eat it up like Thanksgiving. And if you stop torpedoing your career with your attitude, maybe they’ll keep believing it. Let’s try the next one. I’ll be the interviewer.”

He grunted but didn’t argue.

“Jason, you’ve been gone from the sport for a year after a serious shoulder injury. What did you miss most about it?”

“You mean besides the accusations, the booing, the lies, and most of all, the rejection by everyone?”

Stacia shot out of her chair and closed the space between them in three quick steps. She leaned down, nose to nose, her voice low and lethal. “Listen up, Friar, because I’ll only say this once.”

She poked him hard in the chest. “Stop screwing around. This is your last chance, and you’re fucking it up by acting like a prima donna, pushing everyone away, and being a Class-A asshole.”

He opened his mouth, but she pressed her fingers against it, silencing him. “No, I’m talking, and you’re damn well listening. People want to help you. And yes, we have our own agendas—get over it. If you truly want to play next season, you need to straighten up. You’re no longer the golden boy, the darling of baseball. No one wanted to hire you, and no one will again if you keep this up. Get your priorities straight or stop wasting my time.”

She turned back to her chair, grabbed her tablet, and slung her bag over her shoulder, nearly clocking him in the process. “The interview is at the stadium at three p.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”

Then she swept out of the condo.

And for the first time in a long time, Jason didn’t know if he was more pissed off at her—or himself.

T he stadium was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that felt unnatural in a place meant for roaring crowds and the crack of bats. Near the locker room, tucked away in a converted storage closet that doubled as her office, Stacia sat at her desk, the hum of her laptop the only sound. The players hadn’t reported yet for the night game, having played late the night before. Management was lenient about arrival times this deep into the season, especially after grueling road trips. Only those with assigned interviews or extra workouts showed up early. But in August, fatigue clung to the team like humidity, and most players saved their energy for the final push toward September.

She left her office door open, letting the empty corridor breathe some life into the space as she scrolled through her emails and news alerts. One headline snagged her attention:

Jason Friar turning over a new leaf?

Has Jason Friar finally settled down? Gone are the days of groupies. Instead, Jason Friar was recently seen with a girlfriend, not a bevy of girls .

Stacia exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple. So much for his decent showing in the last two games—sports reporters couldn’t resist gossip over actual stats. No wonder Jason was furious. His career was hanging in the balance, and instead of discussing his hits, they wanted to speculate about his sex life. At least her stunt had worked. They were spinning it as a positive. Sort of.

Guilt gnawed at her. She’d orchestrated this entire narrative, but what happened when it unraveled? What would be worse for Jason’s reputation—staying in the lie or the fallout from a staged breakup?

Her phone buzzed, vibrating against the desk. Michael Higgins .

Yeah, that was a conversation she wasn’t ready for. She let the call go to voicemail and returned to her inbox. When the phone buzzed again, she nearly ignored it, assuming it was Michael doubling down. But a flash of pink on the screen made her pause. Sophie .

That call she’d take.

“Where the hell have you been?” Sophie demanded the second Stacia answered, her voice sharp and brimming with accusation. “I’ve been trying to call you all week. Never mind that. Are you seriously dating Jason Friar? He’s your client. What the hell are you thinking?”

Stacia swiveled her chair to face the wall, suddenly grateful for the tiny office and its solitude. “I’m not.”

“Bullshit. You’re sleeping with your client?” Sophie’s voice rose to a near screech. “After the whole Glazier disaster? Stacia, this is a bad idea.”

“I know, I know. But I didn’t know that night.” She clamped her teeth together, frustration tightening her chest. Since when did her personal life become Sophie’s business?

Sophie snorted. “Only you. I mean, he’s hot, but a client? You’re smarter than this.”

“The team is my client, not Jason.”

“Semantics, and you damn well know it.” Sophie’s tone softened, concern threading through the exasperation. “Just be careful, okay? I know how you are.”

Stacia bristled. “And what exactly does that mean?”

Sophie sighed. “Friar isn’t the settling-down type. He’s dated supermodels, actresses, women who see him as a trophy. The media loves this story, but once the season ends, where does that leave you?”

“I know that, Sophie.” She forced the words out, her throat suddenly tight. “It’s just PR. For the ratings.”

She crossed her fingers beneath the desk at the blatant lie.

“Right.” Sophie clearly didn’t buy it. “Well, take care of yourself. And just so you know, Glazier is tanking. Donna’s screwing it up, and he’s pissed. He might not admit it, but he’s missing you.”

A wicked surge of satisfaction coursed through her. “Good.”

A cough from the doorway had her twisting in her chair. Cole Hammonds leaned against the frame, arms crossed, unreadable expression in place.

“I’ve got to go,” Stacia said quickly. “I’ll call you later.”

“I want details!” Sophie’s voice rang out just before she ended the call.

Cole arched a knowing eyebrow but said nothing. He strolled in, settling into the chair across from her, crossing one leg over the other like he had all the time in the world. “I’ll admit, I had my doubts about your plan, but the headlines are working in our favor. It’s giving you an excuse to stay close, keep him in check. Your boss isn’t as confident.”

The sideways glance confirmed her worst fears. Michael was going around her. Undermining her.

Damn it. One mistake, and she was still paying for it. How long was she going to have to prove herself?

Cole stood. “I disagree with him. Keep going. Just keep me in the loop. The interview is set up in the media room. Walk with me?”

She nodded, smoothing her skirt and ignoring the slight tremor in her hands as they stepped into the hallway.

“I was concerned when I saw this interview on your schedule,” Cole murmured. “Is he ready?”

“He’s been giving interviews since high school. He’ll handle it.”

“He better,” Cole muttered.

They entered the media room as the crew finished setting up.

Cole leaned in. “I still don’t know how you landed this. Hank Ryan is one of the biggest names in sports media.”

Stacia gave him a small, tight smile. “That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

A commotion near the locker room drew her gaze. Jason strode in, looking effortlessly confident—except he wasn’t wearing the outfit she’d picked for him. The khakis and sports jacket were fine, but they sent the wrong message.

Damn him. He was supposed to trust her on this.

Hank greeted Jason, and they exchanged easy laughs before the interview began. Stacia clenched her jaw.

At first, Jason handled it well—charming, composed. But then Hank went for the jugular.

“You passed on a full scholarship to Texas A&M for the draft. Considering your recent shoulder injury, do you regret that choice?”

Jason’s easy smile stiffened, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes before he masked it. “I was young. Thought I was ready.”

“Your coach thought differently, didn’t he?” Hank pressed. “Rumor has it he’s joining the Knights as hitting coach. Are you looking forward to that reunion?”

The color drained from Jason’s face. His hands curled into fists. “Bill Monroe is coming here?”

Hank feigned innocence, but his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Oh, was I not supposed to say anything? The rumor’s all over the networks.”

Jason shot a glare at Cole and Stacia. Panic flickered in his gaze before he smothered it. “Obviously, I hadn’t heard.”

Stacia’s pulse kicked into overdrive.

She leaned toward Cole. “End it. Now.”

Cole gave a sharp nod and signaled the crew. The interview wrapped up quickly.

Jason yanked off the mic, his jaw clenched. “We need to talk. Now.”

And without waiting for a response, he stalked out of the room.