Chapter

Fourteen

A nother loss. Another night wasted.

Jason stormed out of the locker room, his hair still damp from the rushed shower, his muscles tight with frustration. The bitter taste of failure coated his tongue, an all-too-familiar burn in the back of his throat. The game had been a disaster, another in a growing line of them, and now he just wanted to be alone—to let the anger simmer in silence, let the weight of the night settle into something manageable.

But, of course, nothing was that easy.

Stacia stood by the locker room door, arms folded, waiting. Jason scowled, barely slowing his stride as he brushed past her with a low, warning snarl. He had no interest in discussing the interview, the confrontation with Monroe, or the game. He sure as hell didn’t need a pep talk.

Undeterred, she scrambled to keep up, her heels clicking against the pavement as she struggled to match his long strides. He ignored her, focusing on the burn in his legs, the rhythmic pound of his feet against the concrete. It was the only thing grounding him.

When they reached his SUV, he yanked the door open, ready to slam it shut and peel out of there, but Stacia moved faster than expected. She reached for the keys.

“You’re in no condition to drive.” Her voice was firm, laced with something that almost sounded like concern.

Jason whirled on her, muscles coiled, hands raised in warning. His patience had run out. “I’m not drunk, just pissed. Back off.”

His tone was sharp enough to slice through steel, but she didn’t flinch.

He wasn’t going to stand here arguing. He wasn’t going to wait for her to get her own damn car and trail him like some overbearing babysitter. He just wanted to get in, get gone, and forget this entire night existed.

But Stacia had other plans.

Before he could react, she bolted around the front of the SUV, yanked open the passenger door, and slid inside, buckling up just as he dropped into the driver’s seat.

Jason swore, slamming his foot on the brake. His grip tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as he turned to glare at her. “Out. I’m in no mood for Little Miss Sunshine and Rainbows.” He jabbed a finger toward the door, his voice edged with warning.

She met his glare with infuriating calm, not the least bit intimidated. “I’m going with you.” She clicked her seat belt into place, locking herself in. “Besides, I promised you a steak dinner, and judging by your attitude, you need to eat.”

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown.

For a brief second, confusion flickered across his face, disrupting the storm cloud brewing behind his eyes. Then, just as quickly, his scowl returned, lips pressing into a firm, stubborn line.

He could have argued. Could have thrown her out. But at this point, it wasn’t worth it.

Fine.

She wanted to come along for the ride? Let her.

His jaw clenched as he shifted into reverse, tearing out of the parking space with a sharp turn.

“You asked for it,” he muttered.

T he drive to Jason’s condo was filled with thick, suffocating silence. Stacia sat rigid in the passenger seat, her fingers curled around the door’s side handle in a white-knuckled grip. She kept her breaths even, her expression neutral, but Jason wasn’t an idiot. She caught his sidelong glances, the way his gaze flicked between her hand and the invisible brake pedal she wasn’t pressing. He didn’t say anything, but she could feel the tension rolling off him in waves, sharp enough to cut through the thick air between them.

Daring him to speak, she met his gaze head-on. Jason scowled and refocused on the road.

When they finally pulled up to his condo, Stacia wasted no time scrambling out of the SUV, juggling her briefcase, purse, and laptop. She fully expected him to slam the door in her face, leaving her standing in the humid night air. Instead, he was already at the door, holding it open, his expression unreadable.

A small victory.

She stepped inside, setting her things down on the kitchen table, and moved toward the stove. If he was going to stew in his own misery, he might as well do it on a full stomach.

She’d barely started prepping dinner when she heard him stomp back down the stairs.

“What the hell?” His voice was a thunderclap in the quiet space. “Stacia, get in here.”

She flinched at the raw frustration in his tone, her hands pausing mid-motion over the cutting board. Maybe she should have reconsidered coming here tonight—especially after the afternoon she’d had.

Steeling herself, she wiped her hands on a dish towel and stepped into the living room. “Is there a problem?”

Jason’s glare could have melted steel. “You bet your sweet little ass there is. What the hell happened to my furniture?”

She glanced around at the now-furnished living room, taking in the warm glow of the newly placed lamps, the plush couch replacing the lone, pathetic lawn chair, and the distinct lack of moving boxes. A pleased smile spread across her lips.

“Isn’t this more comfortable?” she said, gesturing to the upgrades. “A couch instead of a lawn chair, actual chairs to sit in, lights that don’t buzz, no boxes. I unpacked for you since you said you didn’t have time.”

His fists planted on his hips, his body rigid with tension. He looked like he was one step away from throwing something. “I told you to stop mothering me,” he growled. “I was fine with my chair and boxes. I’m barely here, and I won’t be staying long.” His scowl deepened. “And how the hell did you get in?”

She shrugged. “It’s the team’s condo. I asked for a key.” She held her breath, bracing for the inevitable explosion.

Jason let out a low, guttural growl and stalked across the room, dropping onto the couch with an audible thud. He grabbed the remote and flipped on ESPN, turning the volume up just enough to drown out any further conversation.

Stacia exhaled, muttering under her breath as she returned to the kitchen. Ungrateful ass. She flipped the steak over in the pan, a little harder than necessary, sending a spray of sizzling grease up toward her hand.

She yelped, jerking back and shaking her hand to ease the sting.

Before she could even think, Jason was beside her, grabbing her wrist and guiding it under the cold water. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his rough fingers carefully rubbing the burn clean.

Heat of a different kind curled through her stomach and lower still.

“Are you okay?” His voice had lost its edge, softened into something deep and quiet.

She nodded, but the stinging in her hand wasn’t what made her eyes water.

Jason let out a low breath and guided her toward a chair, pressing a makeshift ice wrap into her palm. He crouched in front of her, rubbing her arms lightly, his touch sending tiny shivers through her. She didn’t know what stunned her more—the soothing way he handled her or the way he had changed in just a matter of moments.

Then, just as easily, he stood and strode back into the kitchen, adjusting the temperature on the steak, dropping the vegetables into the microwave, like it was his routine and not hers.

She watched, fascinated. “I thought you didn’t cook?”

Jason didn’t look up. “I like to eat. Gotta cook to eat.”

“Did your mom teach you?”

A brief pause—so quick she almost missed it—before he continued, flipping the steak with practiced ease. “Mom was too busy to cook. She worked two jobs just to keep us fed. She was fresh out of high school, trying to make ends meet. Most times, it was barely enough.”

Her chest tightened. “Did you cook for her?”

He kept his focus on the stove, his voice turning rough, tired. “Sometimes. When I got older. She’d come home exhausted.” He exhaled through his nose. “She tried to be a good mom. She just didn’t have the time.”

Stacia hesitated before asking, “What about your father?”

His shoulders tensed. “Bailed when she was still pregnant.”

She already knew that. His mother had told her. But she wanted to hear it from him.

“Have you ever thought about looking him up?”

Jason stilled. The spatula in his hand hovered over the pan for just a second too long before he turned, his expression flat, eyes like stone. “He found me when I signed my first contract. Wanted his cut as my so-called father.” His voice dripped with bitterness, old wounds flaring open. “Man was nothing more than a sperm donor. Didn’t support us, didn’t check in, didn’t do a damn thing. Then he expected me to hand him a paycheck?” A humorless chuckle left his lips. “I made sure he’d never bother either of us again.”

A sharp pang settled in Stacia’s chest. This man—so hardened, so guarded—had been just a kid, abandoned, left to fend for himself and his mother.

“Not very forgiving,” she murmured, careful to keep any trace of judgment out of her voice.

Jason’s eyes darkened. “He didn’t deserve it.”

“Sounds like they were both young when you came along.”

He stilled again, turning toward her with something unreadable in his expression. “Yeah. They were. Young and stupid. But they handled it differently. Mom took responsibility. He ran.” His voice dropped to something razor-sharp. “He deserved nothing because he gave nothing.”

“What did you do?”

“My agent helped me get a lawyer to make sure my father never got a damn cent. I owe him nothing.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with ghosts.

Jason turned, sliding a plate in front of her—a perfectly cooked steak, a loaded baked potato, a generous portion of vegetables.

She smiled. “Not bad, Friar.”

He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “You started it. I just finished it.”

They ate in comfortable silence, but Jason was the first to break it. “The place looks nice,” he muttered.

Warmth spread through her chest. “You’re welcome.”

“You shouldn’t have done it. I won’t be here that long.”

And there it was. He just had to ruin the moment.

“Isn’t it nice to have a real couch instead of boxes? Now you can even find your clothes.”

Jason froze mid-bite. “You went through my clothes?”

“Yes, and we need to talk about your wardrobe. One color. Black. Seriously. Have you seen the rainbow?”

His fork clattered onto his plate. “No more, Stacia. Stop changing me.” His jaw tightened. “Maybe I’m just not that guy.”

She met his gaze, heart pounding. “I want people to see the real you. When you wear all black, you look like your best friend just died.”

“I don’t have a best friend,” he grumbled.

She stared at him for a long moment, then the words slipped out before she could call them back. “Well, that’s just pathetic.”

He stared back, looking stunned. Then he laughed, a loud booming sound with a hint of rust falling off. “It is, isn’t it?” Then he quickly sobered, looking thoughtful. “It is, isn’t it?” he repeated.

Sensing the conversation headed down a deep and depressing path, she changed the subject. “How is the team doing?”

Judging by the anger darkening his face, that was not the best choices of topics either. The television echoed Jason’s reaction as the sportscaster began a story on the Georgia Knights.

What’s going on with the Georgia Knights? Is this young team overcome by the pressures of big league ball, can’t handle the stretch?

What did they expect? They brought in Jason Friar, a washed-up has-been who has no idea how to pull a team together.

Jason stood and walked into the living room, staring at the television. Stacia followed him, listening to the sportscasters debate the team.

I disagree, Bill. Friar has held up his end of the bargain. His on-base percentage is the highest on the team. His average is close to 400. And he’s been hitting the home runs. What more can you ask?

This is a young team. Maybe they need more than numbers to help them win.

Jason flicked off the set, eyes shuttered. He sagged onto the couch, head falling back on the cushion, a deep sigh forced out from his lips. Stacia sat on the couch next to him, her feet tucked under her, a hand resting on his thigh.

“The announcer is right. You’ve done everything the team asked of you.”

“But it’s not working. We’re losing. You’ve seen our record since I’ve joined the team. Four and twelve. With a record like that, we can’t hope to win the division or even the wild card.” He leaned forward and ran his fingers through his hair, then sat there head in his hands. “It’s like these kids don’t care.”

“Do you really believe that? Do you really believe they want to lose? Maybe they need a wakeup call. Someone to shake them out of their funk.”

He laughed. “Funk? These kids are happy to be in the majors. They’re partying every night, loud music in the locker room, more money than they know what to spend it on. They think they’re in fucking paradise.”

“Maybe they need a reminder of why they’re in the major leagues.” Just like you do, she added as she cleared the table.

S tacia’s words echoed in Jason’s head through the long, miserable night and straight into the next day, following him like a relentless shadow.

Maybe they need a reminder of why they’re in the major leagues.

That reminder never came.

The team played like they were already dead in the water. Three errors. Sloppy base running. No fire. No focus. And when it all crumbled in the ninth inning, they barely seemed to care. The closer, Juan Ramirez, had done his job, but when the defense fell apart behind him, the game slipped away. By the time the final out was recorded, another loss was in the books.

Jason sat in the dugout, watching Ramirez yank his mitt off and hurl it with enough force that it clattered against the dugout wall. He didn’t acknowledge the other players, didn’t pump fists or nod to anyone. Just sat there, seething, his entire body rigid with unspent fury.

Jason waited for the others to clear out before he approached.

“Tough break, man.”

Ramirez exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “We had it. We had the damn game.” His jaw clenched. “What the hell’s going on with Patterson? He didn’t even try to catch that ball. Had plenty of time to get off the mound and catch that ball. And it’s not just tonight. He can’t pitch, can’t catch, can’t hit. He’s dragging the whole team down.”

From the locker room, bass-heavy rap music pounded, the deep thrum vibrating through the floorboards like an aftershock. Ramirez’s scowl deepened. “And this? This is the shit I have to deal with? Like we won? Like we didn’t just humiliate ourselves again?”

Jason said nothing. Ramirez didn’t need an answer.

“They need to wake the hell up, man,” Ramirez muttered. “But you know I can’t do it. Pitchers and position players, different worlds. You guys police yourselves.”

Jason let out a short, humorless laugh. “What do you want me to do? They think I’m a joke. And Patterson is a pitcher.”

Ramirez’s gaze hardened. “Then make them see you differently.”

Jason stepped into the locker room, immediately hit with the stench of sweat, beer, and cologne. It smelled more like a frat house than a professional baseball clubhouse. Reporters were scattered around, some scribbling notes, others holding up recorders while players fed them empty platitudes about “trusting the process” and “staying the course.”

Meanwhile, Cody Patterson—the self-appointed ringleader of the young guys, the newest phenom, the team’s supposed rising star—was at the center of it all.

Dancing.

Dancing.

Jason’s stomach twisted with disgust as Patterson thrusted his hips in time with the thudding bass, drawing hoots and laughter. The reporters ignored it, probably too uncomfortable to acknowledge the disconnect between the post-game party and the disaster that had just unfolded on the field.

Jason’s hands curled into fists.

The manager’s office door was shut, blocking out most of the chaos. Of course. No help from that corner.

Jason turned toward the showers, hoping the scalding water might wash off some of the frustration. But even there, the pounding bass followed him, vibrating through the walls, a steady, relentless reminder of how badly this team had lost itself. His blood thrummed in time with the beat, hammering against his skull.

He was finally playing well again—his on-base percentage was solid, his home run count climbing, his fielding clean. He was doing his part. But the team? They were crumbling, and no one seemed to care.

His hands pressed against the cool tile of the shower wall.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Once upon a time, stepping up his game had been enough. If he played harder, if he set the tone, the team followed. That was how baseball worked.

Not here. Not now.

The bass reverberated through his skull. Stacia’s voice layered over it.

Maybe they need a reminder of why they’re in the major leagues.

Something inside him snapped.

He shut off the water, yanked a towel around his waist, and stormed out of the showers, still dripping, his pulse a steady drumbeat of frustration and fury.

When he entered the locker area, Bill Monroe was there, laughing with Patterson.

Of course, he was.

Jason’s stomach curdled. Monroe had no business messing with a pitcher, let alone this pitcher. As a hitting coach, he had one job, but instead of doing it, he was here, sinking his hooks into another young kid, sucking him in like a leech.

Jason knew exactly how this played out.

He’d been that kid once.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let it happen again.

Across the room, Ramirez caught Jason’s gaze and immediately stiffened. He read the intent in Jason’s eyes, recognition flashing across his face. “Hey, man, it’s not worth it. I was just blowing off steam. Let it go,” he murmured, voice low. “They’re young and stupid.”

Jason’s grip tightened around the towel. “And they’re pissing away any shot they have at the playoffs. Any chance we have.”

Then he spotted it.

A bat, leaning negligently against the wall.

He snatched it up, gripping it tight in both hands. Then, without hesitation, he swung.

The bat connected with the boom box, shattering plastic and metal in a single brutal hit. The music cut off instantly, the sudden silence deafening.

He swung again. And again. The sharp, violent crack of destruction filled the locker room, drowning out the stunned gasps behind him. The pieces scattered at his feet, obliterated beyond repair.

Finally, Jason let the bat drop.

He turned, facing the team. Patterson had stopped mid-swagger, his face twisted in outrage.

“What the hell, man?” he snapped.

Jason’s glare burned into him. “Is losing fun? Do you like losing? Because I fucking hate it. There’s no trophies for participation. No almost-won rings. No parades for losers. There’s only one ring, and you don’t get it unless you win it all.”

“We’re just blowing off steam,” Patterson shot back, sullen.

Jason barked out a sharp laugh, void of humor. “You’re blowing off steam? Congrats. You’ve also blown first place. A month ago, you were in control of this division. Now? You’re sliding fast, and at this rate, you’ll be back in the cellar before the season’s over. Maybe that’s where you belong.”

Patterson’s nostrils flared, his chest puffing up. “What do you care, old man? You just got here. You’ll be gone as soon as the season ends. It’s our team. We’ll do what we want.”

Jason’s stomach curled at the sheer stupidity of the statement. He tossed the bat aside and stepped up, meeting Patterson toe to toe. “It’s your team, and you don’t give a shit if you win or lose? Why the fuck should I bust my ass out there? Why should any of us? Hell, maybe we should all just phone it in like you’ve been doing. Jogging to first. Dropping routine plays. Letting guys walk all over you.”

Patterson smirked, stretching his arms out. “Not all of us had the luxury of half the season off. Most of us have been grinding while you sat on your ass.”

Jason let out a slow breath, barely restraining himself. “If you don’t have the endurance, get the hell out of the game. Let someone else have a shot. Someone who actually gives a shit. You have real talent. All of you do.” He turned, leveling his gaze at the rest of the team, daring them to meet his eyes. “But you’re wasting it.”

Silence swallowed the room.

One by one, players drifted to their lockers, heads lowered. No one looked his way. No one argued.

And for the first time in weeks, the locker room felt like a losing team.

Jason grabbed his clothes, dressing in silence.

Maybe, just maybe, they’d finally gotten the message.

J ason stepped out of the locker room, the tension from his outburst still coiling tight in his muscles. The hallway was dim, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow on the concrete floor. As he turned toward the exit ramp, his stomach sank.

Shit.

Cole Hammonds leaned against the wall, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Of all the people to be waiting for him.

Jason swallowed back a curse. He had just gone off on the team, humiliated Hammonds’ golden boy, and obliterated company property in the process. He didn’t need another reminder of just how thin his leash was. He already knew—one misstep, and he was done.

Gritting his teeth, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ll pay for the damn radio,” he muttered, fully expecting the GM to rip into him.

But to his surprise, Cole pushed off the wall and fell into step beside him, walking up the ramp as if they were just two guys shooting the breeze.

“The hell you will,” Cole said. “They needed that wake-up call. All of them.”

Jason cut him a sideways glance. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but this wasn’t it.

“They don’t know how to lose,” Cole continued, his tone mild, like they were talking about the weather.

Jason let out a short, humorless laugh. “Hell, they barely know how to win.”

Cole nodded. “That’s what Callahan wanted you to teach them.”

Jason exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Shit, you saw what they think of me. A washed-up old-timer who doesn’t belong.”

“Is that what you think?”

For the first time, Cole sounded like he actually cared about his answer.

Jason let the question hang in the air between them. Did it matter? Did it even matter what he thought anymore?

Cole shrugged. “Well, I’d think it would be a matter of pride. Besides, you won’t get a decent contract anywhere if the team goes into free fall—which, coincidentally, happens to have started right when you arrived.” He gave Jason a pointed look. “You know how that’s gonna look, right? You’ll be blamed.”

Jason smirked, though there was no humor in it. “Won’t be the first time I’m blamed for something I didn’t do. Sure as hell won’t be the last.”

“Maybe not,” Cole admitted. “But wouldn’t you like to prove everyone wrong?”

Before Jason could respond, Cole grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. His expression was sharp, intense, his usual cool detachment replaced with something burning.

“You and I both know your shoulder is balky,” Cole said, his voice dropping lower. “You don’t have many years left. One more big injury, and you’re done. For good. But you have a shot here. A real shot. A chance to go out on a high note, to play in the playoffs—hell, maybe even the World Series. The only thing standing in your way is this team of young, stupid players.”

Jason stared at him, dubious. “You seriously expect me to turn them around?”

Cole didn’t blink. “Yeah. I do.”

Jason shook his head, half laughing, half stunned. Son of a bitch.

A month ago, Hammonds had been treating him like a virus—some corrupting force, a dangerous influence that needed to be quarantined from the rookies. Now? Now, he wanted Jason to be their mentor?

Talk about a hell of a turnaround.

So now he wasn’t a problem but a solution? Just like that?

Shit. Was he even ready for that?

Being the team’s mentor was one step closer to retirement. The old warhorse passing down wisdom to the next generation before riding off into the sunset. And yet… he wasn’t far from that reality anyway.

And he already knew Stacia would be dancing a damn jig if he even pretended to embrace what she called team-fucking-spirit .

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Thought you didn’t want me corrupting your precious young players.”

Cole lifted a shoulder. “In the game, not off the field. From what I hear, they’ve got the partying part down just fine. But they need someone to give a damn. An encouraging word here, a guiding touch there. You never know. It could help.”

Jason arched a brow. “Is this a condition of my contract?”

Cole’s gaze went cold, his entire posture shifting. “Do I need to make it a condition?”

Jason snorted. There it was.

Everyone assumed this was just about the contract for him, about squeezing a few more months out of his career before he faded into obscurity.

But what if it wasn’t?

What if—just maybe—this was a chance to be part of something again?

It had been so damn long since he’d felt that. The camaraderie. The winning.

He missed it. More than he cared to admit.

“Nah, I’ve got you,” Jason said after a beat. “I’ll see what I can do. But I do it my own way.”

Cole nodded. “Fine.” A rare smile tugged at the GM’s lips—the first one Jason had ever seen from him. “Just don’t break any more radios, okay? And if it takes a few days to replace the one in there… well, let’s just say I won’t be in a rush.”

Jason smirked. “A little silence and soul-searching, huh?”

“Something like that. Might be good for them.”

Jason scoffed. “Yeah, right. Communing with the baseball gods? I don’t see these kids as choirboys.”

Cole clapped him on the back, his grip firm, almost approving. “We just might be coming to some sort of agreement here, Friar.”

Jason rolled his shoulders, exhaling as they reached the parking lot.

Maybe, just maybe, he was finally part of something again.