Chapter

Fifteen

T he next few games after the radio incident were eerily quiet.

Jason wasn’t stupid—he knew the guys were pissed at him. They avoided him in the clubhouse, offered tight-lipped answers when he spoke, and shot daggers at him with their eyes when they thought he wasn’t looking. But on the field? At least there, things had improved—marginally. The team was making fewer sloppy mistakes, paying more attention.

Still, the road trip loomed ahead, a powder keg waiting for a spark. Close quarters, long flights, bad losses—all of it a recipe for disaster.

And Bill Monroe? He was still lurking.

He spent more time being the players’ buddy than actually coaching. Laughing with them, joking around, embedding himself deep in their trust. Every now and then, he’d throw out an olive branch in Jason’s direction—an attempt at civility, at pretending like their past didn’t exist. But Jason?

Jason just walked away.

So here he was, just as isolated as before, only now he had no clue how to fix it. Leading on the field hadn’t worked. Destroying the radio hadn’t worked. He still wasn’t a mentor—not in the way Hammonds wanted.

Hell, he didn’t even know how to mentor these kids. What did that even look like?

Jason sat at the bar, absentmindedly swirling his beer, watching the golden liquid skim dangerously close to the rim of the glass. On the muted TV screen above, SportsCenter droned on, the commentators gleefully picking apart his career, his age, his apparent inability to retire with dignity.

What the hell did they expect?

A home run every night? Batting a thousand?

Whatever.

A thick steak slid under his arms, the bartender giving him a curt nod. Jason swallowed the last of his beer and gestured for another. The dim bar was nearly empty, just the way he liked it—quiet, tucked away, perfect for brooding.

He cut into the steak, savoring the bite, but his mind drifted. Stacia. He missed her. After spending weeks trying to shake her, now he found himself wanting her here. Not just for the sex, though that had been pretty damn spectacular, but for the conversation.

She had called him on his bullshit. Had seen him. And she’d been right—he was lonely. Surrounded by twenty-five guys, and yet he had never felt more alone. She was working herself to the bone trying to keep him relevant, positioning him for next year. But what if there wasn’t a next year? What if this was it? What if… that wasn’t such a bad thing?

A quiet voice in the back of his mind whispered that maybe—just maybe—flaming out of the majors wouldn’t be the worst outcome. Maybe he could stay in Savannah. See where things with Stacia went. See if there was something real there.

Jason snorted. Yeah, right. She was a job. A job with benefits. That was all.

And yet, the thought clung to him.

A sharp burst of raucous laughter at the bar’s entrance cut through his thoughts. Jason tensed, jaw tightening as a handful of younger players stumbled in.

Already half-drunk. Already obnoxious. And leading the charge?

Cody Patterson.

Jason sighed. Fucking great.

Cody had not let go of the radio incident, and Jason could practically see the challenge in his posture as he sauntered up to the bar.

“Hey, bartender? Couple of pitchers of Bud and some wings, okay?”

The bartender gave a nod and got to work. Satisfied, Cody turned his attention toward Jason, a slow smirk spreading across his face.

“Quiet night, old man?” he taunted. “Can’t party like you used to?”

Old man.

Jason slowly turned on his stool, arching a single brow. When the hell did thirty-four become ancient?

“We just lost our fifth game in a row,” he said, voice flat. “Ten losses in twelve games. I’m not much in a partying mood.”

Cody clapped him on the shoulder, grinning like they were old buddies. “It’s no big deal, old man. We’ll come back. We always do. I’m pitching tomorrow. We’ll kick their ass.”

Jason barely resisted the urge to laugh.

“Like last year?” he said. “When your team finished in the cellar?”

Cody’s smile faltered.

Jason leaned in, his voice dropping to something harder. “No, when we lose on the field, it’s stupid to go out and party.”

The smirk fell off Cody’s face completely.

“Tomorrow night,” Jason continued, “we have a nationally televised game against one of the toughest hitters in baseball—Hernandez. You may not respect him, but I do. I’ve faced him. He’ll tear you apart if you’re not ready. Good morning, good afternoon, good night.” Jason sat back, leveling Cody with a stare. “Even a hotshot like you doesn’t have a chance unless you’re rested and focused.”

Cody’s face flushed deep red. “Hey, I care about the team as much as you do,” he shot back. “Maybe more since I’ve actually been here the whole season, while you just waltzed in.”

Jason let his gaze drift over the younger players, the women flirting with them, the utter lack of concern in their eyes.

“I can see that,” he said dryly.

Cody snorted. “Yeah, like you were a monk. I’ve heard the stories—girl in every city, partying all night.”

Jason sighed, shaking his head. “I wasn’t in a slump, and my team was winning. And besides—rumors tend to be exaggerated.” He let out a long breath, hating how the truth sat heavy in his gut. “It was stupid. I was stupid.”

“Whatever, man,” Cody muttered. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Hungover?” He leaned forward, voice sharp. “Man, pitching without sleep is stupid. But to be drinking? I get that you want to blow off steam, but you’re pissing away your shot.”

Cody laughed. “The way I see it? You partied your way through the majors and were at the top of your game. Age killed you. Besides, I need to protect my hands. You’re the one fielding the ball.” He smirked. “Not my fault if you can’t handle it.”

Jason shrugged and turned back to his meal. “Whatever you want to believe.”

Cody hesitated, something flickering behind his eyes. “You don’t think I can handle Hernandez?”

Jason took a slow sip of his beer. “Few can.”

Cody’s bravado cracked. “I’m leading all rookie pitchers in ERA.”

Jason nodded. “Yeah? You couldn’t handle Percival last week. His bat speed’s slower than Hernandez’s.” He took another bite. “Make one mistake, and he’ll take you out of the park.”

Cody straightened, that damn cocky smirk faltering.

Jason knew that look. He’d been that kid once.

“You need to show up. No excuses. No bullshit.” He fixed Cody with a hard stare. “Take responsibility.”

The words echoed in Jason’s head. But the voice wasn’t his. It was Stacia’s.

Cody’s jaw clenched. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating, old man.”

Jason wiped his mouth and stood. “Good luck tomorrow, Patterson.”

Cody squared his shoulders. “Bet you I strike Hernandez out every time. And you won’t get a hit off their ace.”

Jason smiled. Finally, a challenge. “What do I get when I win?”

Cody grinned. “A steak dinner.”

Jason smirked. “Not interested.” He let the silence hang, then said, “No parties until we win three in a row.”

Cody scoffed, but Jason saw it. The hesitation.

“Good luck, kid,” Jason murmured. You’re gonna need it.

J ason arrived at the park early the next afternoon, earlier than anyone else. He needed time. Time to think, time to focus, time to shut out the noise in his head.

Sequestered in the video room, he hunched over his notebook, scribbling notes as he studied the tape. The dim light from the screen flickered against the walls, the familiar grainy footage pulling him into the rhythm of the game, the cadence of each pitch, each swing.

Thirty minutes in, the door creaked open. Jason tensed before he even turned.

Monroe.

“Want to go over the tape together?” Bill’s voice was smooth, easy—too easy.

Jason’s shoulders tightened, his grip on the pen going rigid. The dull throb that had been simmering behind his eyes all morning flared, spreading through his skull like a warning bell.

The usual reaction to Bill Monroe.

“No thanks,” Jason muttered, eyes still on the screen. “I can figure it out.”

The door clicked shut, and suddenly, Monroe was inside, crowding the already small media room. Jason forced himself to breathe.

"Look," Monroe started, leaning against the table like they were old friends. "I know you have something against me—who knows what—but I’m the hitting coach, and you could use some help. I know your swing as well as you do.”

Jason lunged to his feet, the chair skidding back with the force of it.

“It’s been fifteen years.” His voice was rough, barely controlled. “Fifteen years since we’ve worked together. But that’s not what you told Hammonds to get this job, was it?”

The old rage surged. The old pain. The old betrayal.

It coiled in his gut, burned in his chest, clawed its way up his throat. He’d been swallowing it for too long, pretending it didn’t matter.

But it did. It did, and Monroe knew it.

Monroe sighed, exasperated. “Is that what’s bothering you? That I exaggerated slightly to get the job? Well, I’m sorry. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Jason let out a short, sharp laugh, devoid of humor. “Slightly?” His voice dripped with disdain. “Fifteen years is not slightly. And let’s be real—you’re not exactly coaching these kids. You’re their buddy. You’re looking for your next meal ticket. Same as always.”

The words barely left his mouth before Monroe grabbed him by the shirt, slamming him against the wall. Tapes clattered to the floor. Jason’s chair toppled over.

“How dare you, Friar?” Monroe’s breath was hot against his face, his grip iron-tight. “I made you. I made you who you are today.”

Jason’s vision flashed white. The hell he did. Every damn person in his life had tried to own him. Take credit for him. Use him. But no one owned him.

Jason gritted his teeth, voice low and lethal. “No. I made me. You used me for a job at Texas A&M.”

Monroe’s face twisted, his own rage surfacing. “You had a full ride there. I got you that.”

Jason yanked himself free, stepping forward, every muscle in his body coiled tight with fury.

“My skills got me that scholarship.” His voice was sharp as steel. “You got a cushy job by selling me out.”

Monroe scoffed, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt. “I never sold anyone out,” he snapped. “I just ensured that you had support when you got there. It was all for you.”

Bullshit.

A sharp noise from the door made them both turn. Sam, the manager, and the first base coach stood there, expressions a mix of shock and wariness.

Monroe let go of Jason’s shirt, smoothing the fabric like that would erase the fact that he had just shoved him against a wall.

Jason took a sharp step back, brushing his hands over his chest like he could wipe away every lingering piece of Monroe’s touch.

Sam cleared his throat. “Bill, some of the guys want to hit in the underground cage. Why don’t you go help them?”

A silent dismissal. Monroe hesitated, but after a second, he nodded, adjusting his sleeves as he strode out of the room.

Jason exhaled sharply, forcing himself to unclench his fists.

Sam looked at him. Really looked at him. “Friar, stay a few minutes.”

Jason didn’t argue.

As the room cleared out, he bent down, fixing the fallen tapes, righting the chair. He forced his breaths to slow, his heartbeat to steady.

Sam lowered himself into a chair and gestured for Jason to take the other. “It’s been a while since I’ve been a hitting coach,” he said, his voice even, steady. “But I might be able to help with McCarthy. Nasty pitcher. Let’s take a look at what you’ve got.”

Jason hesitated, waiting for the inevitable lecture about what had just happened. It never came.

After a few seconds, he gestured toward the screen. “It’s been a while since I’ve gone against this guy. Doesn’t look like he’s changed much except for this new arm angle on his slider. More like a cutter now.”

Sam leaned in, studying the tape with an expert eye. “Didn’t notice that. I’m new to this guy. Does he drop his arm every time?”

Jason shook his head. “No. Only against lefties and only on out pitches. Tough angle to see the ball.”

Sam nodded. “The break is late, too. And always just out of the zone.”

“Sneaky bastard,” Jason muttered, his irritation shifting into something sharper, focused. He could see the angle now, see the trap McCarthy set for hitters.

“Gonna be tough for these young guys to lay off,” he added.

“Yeah.” Sam tapped a finger against the desk. “Great catch. I noticed a couple of things in your swing, if you want to run through it.”

Jason nodded, the tension from Monroe slowly slipping away.

For the next hour, they poured over the footage, comparing it to the previous season. Fine-tuning. Breaking things down. And when they were done, they headed to the cage.

Jason lost himself in the repetition. The swing, the weight shift, the contact—it all started to feel right again.

By the time his arms burned with exhaustion, Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “I think you got it.”

Jason exhaled, flexing his fingers. “Felt good.”

“Now rest before tonight.”

Jason smirked. “Yes, coach.”

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Smartass.”

As Jason peeled off his gloves, a strange feeling settled in his chest. Satisfaction. Not just with his swing. Not just with the work he’d put in. With the team.

For the first time since he arrived, he didn’t feel like an outsider. Didn’t feel like a has-been. Didn’t feel alone.

He felt… free.