Chapter

Thirteen

J ason’s head pounded, the pressure building behind his temples as heat crawled up his neck and burned his face. Fury coiled inside him, white-hot and suffocating. Bill Monroe. Here. How the hell had that parasite followed him? Was he never going to shake him? How many times did he have to cut the man out of his life before it actually stuck?

He stormed into Stacia’s office, his footsteps heavy against the tile, his pulse a roar in his ears. He barely registered the sound of the door swinging shut behind him, waiting with stiff shoulders and clenched fists as Stacia and Cole filed in. Then, without thinking, he slammed the door. The sharp crack of wood against the frame made Stacia flinch before she smoothed her expression into one of cool control, the same unreadable politician’s mask she always wore. Cole scowled, his arms folding across his chest, but before he could speak, Stacia lifted a hand.

“Why don’t we sit down, and you tell us what’s got you all upset, Jason?” Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a warning not to lose his temper any further.

Jason couldn’t sit. His body was wound too tight, a live wire sparking inside him. The small office felt even smaller, the walls creeping inward, leaving him no space to move, no way to bleed off the tension roiling in his gut. He needed to pace, needed to get out of here, but he forced himself to stay. He wasn’t ready for this conversation, but he had demanded it. Now he had to see it through.

“Are you really hiring Bill Monroe as hitting coach?” He barely recognized his own voice—low, rough, raw.

Cole arched an eyebrow, unbothered by Jason’s barely leashed anger. “I’m not sure how the word got out so quickly. Dan needs to take some time off, the rest of the season, to help his wife through chemo. We’re just starting discussions.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “We thought you’d be happy to work with your old coach and mentor. Maybe it would ease your transition.”

Happy? Jason almost laughed. He’d sooner welcome a rattlesnake into his bed.

“Why Bill?” His voice was tight, controlled. “I’ve had plenty of hitting coaches over the years. Why him?” Just when he’d started clawing his way back, just when he was beginning to think he could make a future here without the ghosts of his past sinking their claws into him, this. A specter he had buried. A soul-sucking leech rising from the grave.

Cole frowned, shifting in his chair. “I’m not sure. He’s a coach at Texas A&M now, but it’s their off-season. I think he approached us. He said he’s worked with you in the off-season before.”

Jason sat heavily in the chair next to Cole, the weight of it all pressing down on him like a goddamn boulder. Typical Bill Monroe. Always finding ways to latch on, always riding his coattails, squeezing out whatever he could before slithering off to his next opportunity. Probably angling for a major league spot.

Why couldn’t he be rid of this man?

“Is something wrong, Jason?” Stacia’s voice was quieter now, more careful, like she was trying not to spook a wounded animal.

The question hit him like a gut punch. Everything was wrong.

A year ago, if he had walked in here and said Bill Monroe wasn’t an option, the conversation would have ended there. No questions. No justifications. Just a nod and a shift in plans. But now? Now, he was a short-term player with no leverage, no power. Cole Hammonds had made that abundantly clear—do your job, keep your head down, and shut the hell up.

And now, the one person he’d spent half his life avoiding was about to become an everyday presence in his world.

He took a steadying breath. “I haven’t seen or worked with Bill Monroe since high school.”

Stacia frowned, her brows knitting together. “In the interview, you implied that he was a mentor for you.”

Jason let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound bitter in his own ears. “Yeah, what was I supposed to say? The truth?” His gaze snapped to hers, daring her to push him on this. “Would you have hired me if I’d said what really happened?” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “No, I have to be the reformed player, the good little lapdog who’s nice to everyone, no matter what.”

“What’s the truth then?” Cole asked, cautious now, exchanging a glance with Stacia.

Jason swallowed hard. “It didn’t end well.” That was the simplest way to put it, the least dangerous way. He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. “I’ve had no contact with him since I was eighteen. I’d like to keep it that way.”

Fifteen years, and the betrayal still tasted like acid on his tongue. He didn’t need that shit messing with his focus. Not now. Not ever.

Cole sighed, the sound heavy with frustration, and pushed to his feet. “You’ve put me in a difficult position. We already offered him the job. He’s in the locker room now.”

Jason’s stomach dropped. The words barely registered before the room tilted, his vision narrowing like the air had been sucked out of it. The desk blurred in front of him, his breath coming shallow and sharp.

Stacia stood. “Cole, if he truly misrepresented himself, could we break the contract?”

“Did he? Did he misrepresent himself?” Cole’s voice hardened, his patience thinning. “Because unless Jason has something more to share, I don’t see a reason not to move forward.”

Jason barely heard the rest. The roar in his ears was too loud, drowning out everything but the cold, sinking certainty that he was trapped. He wasn’t going to tell them. He couldn’t. Bill had fooled everyone before—he’d do it again. And Jason? He’d be the one looking like a bitter, washed-up fool.

He forced his expression into something neutral, something that wouldn’t betray the storm raging beneath his skin.

“Jason?” Cole’s voice cut through the haze. “Is this going to be a problem?”

Jason shook his head once. “No.”

It wasn’t like anyone gave a damn either way.

Just another reminder of how far he had fallen.

J ason resisted the childish urge to slam the office door behind him, though every muscle in his body begged for an outlet, a release. He stalked down the hall, his steps hard and unrelenting, barely acknowledging Cole’s presence at his side. At least Stacia had stayed behind. He wasn’t ready to deal with her questions—sharp, incisive, cutting too close. Maybe not ever.

The pounding bass of rap music pulsed through the walls, rattling his bones. The noise grated against his nerves, each beat a reminder of how much the game had changed since he first walked into a professional locker room.

Cole shot him a knowing glance. “I can leave, but you’re stuck in there. Ever feel old around these kids?”

Jason swallowed the automatic retort—I’m not old—but it sat bitter on his tongue. The truth was, yeah, sometimes he did feel old in that locker room. The dynamic had shifted. The game had shifted. And Jason? He wasn’t sure where he fit anymore. He gave a tight shrug, too distracted by the impending confrontation to offer anything more.

Before he could push through the locker room doors, Cole clamped a hand on his arm, his grip surprisingly firm. Jason stopped, narrowing his eyes.

“Jason, I’ve made no secret that I didn’t agree with your signing,” Cole said bluntly. “But you’re here, and I have to deal with that.”

“Thanks, Hammonds.” Jason’s voice dripped with sarcasm, and he yanked his arm away, but Cole didn’t let go.

“You’ve been around these guys for a few weeks now. You’ve seen it. They’re at loose ends. No guidance, no direction. All talent, no discipline. They want to win, but they don’t know how to handle losing, so they just screw around.”

Jason exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, and?” His mind was still locked onto Monroe’s presence, still running through the possibilities, the ways he could work around this mess. He had no interest in Cole’s problems.

“I can’t say anything,” Cole continued, his expression dark with frustration. “They’d ignore me. And the manager? He doesn’t know how to handle the younger guys.”

Jason scoffed. “You sign their checks. Hit ’em where it hurts. Be a bastard. They need it.”

Cole arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Really? These kids are making more money than most people see in a lifetime. You think a piddly fine will do anything? They’ll pay it and move on.”

Jason shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall, buying himself another minute before he had to walk into that room. “So, what do you want from me?”

Cole studied him, then sighed. “Teams police themselves, Jason. You know that. Beanballs, spiking at the bases, calling a players-only meeting—whatever it takes. How would your last team have handled this?”

Jason hesitated, the question twisting something deep in his gut. Another reminder of just how much things had changed. Back then, guys didn’t dog it. You played hard, every single day. Losing sucked, and you didn’t celebrate a loss. If someone slacked off, the team handled it—out of sight, no management interference.

“We never had this issue,” he said flatly.

Cole let out a humorless chuckle. “Really? Even when guys jogged to first or screwed around too much? I know some of the guys you played with, Jason. Don’t bullshit me.”

Jason clenched his jaw. “These kids see me as one of those guys. They’re not going to listen to me.” He met Cole’s gaze, hard and unyielding. “Besides, you made it pretty damn clear that you wanted me to stay away from them. Didn’t want me corrupting the rookies.”

Cole’s jaw tightened, irritation flickering across his face. “That was when we were sitting comfortably in first. Now? We’re in the middle of a weeks-long losing streak. Something needs to shake these guys up. They need a mentor. A role model.”

Jason snorted, pushing off the wall. “Isn’t that what you hired Monroe for?”

And with that, he shoved past Cole and into the locker room.

The music slammed into him, a visceral punch of bass and noise. The locker room was chaos—guys joking, screwing around, nowhere near the pre-game preparation he was used to. Jason barely concealed his disgust as he scanned the room, taking in the players who had no idea what real discipline looked like.

He kept his head down, angling toward his locker along the perimeter of the room, keeping his breathing steady, his temper locked down. He could handle this. A couple of months, then he’d be gone.

“Jason! It’s been a while! Great to see you, boy!”

The words sent ice slamming through his veins a second before thick, beefy arms wrapped around him, trapping him in an unwanted embrace. The scent of stale sweat and cheap aftershave filled his nose. Monroe.

Jason’s body reacted before his mind caught up. He twisted, breaking the hold with a sharp block and a hard shove. Monroe stumbled back, surprise flashing across his face, but Jason barely noticed. His gaze was locked on the man who had once been his coach, his mentor, a father figure. Until the final betrayal.

The locker room fell silent, the music cutting out. Players stilled, watching the interaction unfold like wolves scenting blood. Jason’s heart pounded against his ribs, but his face remained cold, controlled. He knew Monroe too well. The man was already recalculating, already spinning this moment into an angle he could use.

Jason stuffed every ounce of emotion into the deep, impenetrable well where he kept the past buried. His voice was clipped, icy. “You’ve changed, Monroe.”

Monroe grinned, his round face splitting into an easy, practiced smile. “It’s been a long time, son. Years.”

That word—son—hit like a slap.

Jason’s fingers twitched at his sides, but he didn’t let himself react. He knew better than that. He saw the gleam in Monroe’s eyes, the one he could never quite hide. Monroe didn’t care about him. He never had. He cared about the opportunity Jason represented, about the potential payout, about the connections and status he could siphon off him.

Jason forced a smirk, but his voice was razor-sharp. “That’s not what you told Hammonds.” His gaze narrowed. “And don’t call me son.”

The locker room was deathly silent now, the players caught between curiosity and wariness. Jason didn’t give a damn about their reactions. He turned to his locker, yanking off his jacket and reaching for a T-shirt and sweats.

“I’m hitting the cage. Warming up for the game.” His voice was final, dismissive.

Monroe stepped forward, still playing the role, still trying to worm his way in. “Want some help? Your swing was a little rusty in Kansas City.”

Jason didn’t look at him. “No thanks. I got this.”

And just like that, he turned his back on Monroe. Again.