Chapter

Sixteen

C ody Patterson strode to the mound, shoulders squared, the easy swagger of a kid who thought he had it all figured out. First inning, fresh game. The first two batters never stood a chance—three pitches each, swinging late or not at all. The ball never touched their bats. Cody looked confident. Arrogant, even. And then came Hernandez, the kind of hitter who thrived on arrogance, his own just as pronounced as the kid’s.

Jason jogged over to the mound alongside the catcher, letting his presence settle in. Cody flicked a glance his way, eyes sharp with youthful bravado. “Watch how it’s done, old man.”

Jason bit back a smirk. “I’m watching.”

Three pitches later, the ball soared over the left-field fence, a no-doubter from the moment it left the bat. Hernandez strolled the bases at a leisurely pace, reveling in the moment. Cody, on the other hand, kicked at the mound, frustration turning his face red.

“Next at-bat,” Cody muttered, jaw clenched.

Jason smothered a grin. The kid was cocky, but he was almost ready for his lesson.

By the time Jason stepped into the on-deck circle in the second inning, Cody had struck out the next guy, working fast, throwing harder, channeling his anger into something useful. Jason rotated his shoulders, swinging the bat overhead, feeling out the tweaks he’d been making to his swing. Across the diamond, Troy McCarthy, the opposing pitcher—better known as El Presidente—grinned like he had this all mapped out. Jason had seen that grin before. It meant trouble.

Not this time.

First pitch came in high and tight, too close for comfort. Jason barely had time to lean back before it whooshed past his face. He sent a glare toward the mound. McCarthy lifted his chin, a silent challenge in his eyes.

The next pitch? A mistake. Jason felt it the second the bat connected—sweet spot, pure power. The ball sailed over the short porch in right field, disappearing into the stands. He broke into a grin, rounding the bases with light steps, the adrenaline making it feel like he was floating. As he reached third, his gaze flickered to the crowd. Half-hoping, half-expecting. Stacia wasn’t there. But the camera near the dugout was, and he tipped his cap toward it. Maybe she’d get the message.

The stadium, which had been buzzing with taunts just moments before, fell into a stunned silence. Jason could already imagine the SportsCenter clips, the analysts dissecting the old man’s comeback. He wasn’t done yet.

In the dugout, high fives smacked against his palms until he reached Cody. The younger player stared at him, arms crossed.

“Lucky shot.”

Jason grinned wider. “Good luck, then.”

The game unfolded in a tense rhythm. Cody settled down, handling the lineup better, actually listening to his catcher for once. Jason saved him from two errors, played clean, collected two more hits. But Cody still couldn’t solve Hernandez. Every time the slugger stepped up, he got the better of the kid.

And now, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, one-run lead. And Hernandez was walking to the plate like he already knew how this story ended.

Cody stood frozen on the mound. Jason read it in his posture, the slump in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw. He was beat before he even threw a pitch.

Jason jogged over with the catcher as the pitching coach stormed in.

“Ramirez is almost ready,” the coach said under his breath. “Stall for time.”

“I want this guy,” Cody insisted, stubborn as ever.

The coach shook his head. “You haven’t handled him all night, kid. There are only a few pitchers who can.”

Cody’s gaze darted to Jason, a rare flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Jason sighed and stepped in. “He still has the heat.”

“The heat is what Hernandez wants,” the catcher interjected. “He needs something else.”

Jason turned to Cody. “Try the cutter. You’ve been toying with it, yeah? Start with the heat outside, then come in with the off-speed and the cutter. You might throw his timing off.”

The catcher considered it. “Ramirez is exhausted. Could buy us a minute. Friar, you ready for a hard grounder?”

Jason bared his teeth. “Bring it.”

The umpire walked up, arms crossed. “Break it up. Let’s go.”

The coach sighed, hesitating. Jason took the ball from the catcher and slammed it into Cody’s glove. “Do what you’re told. Make it nasty.”

Cody’s glare was pure defiance, but Jason had been there before, that same fire in his own belly once upon a time. “Look, don’t be stupid, Patterson. You want to win or not?”

Cody exhaled hard, then strode to the back of the mound, palming the resin bag, muttering something under his breath. Jason smirked.

“Arrogant prick,” he murmured as he jogged back to first. He had been the same way, once. Maybe if someone had guided him back then, things would’ve gone differently.

First pitch—wild, outside. The catcher snagged it, gave Cody a quick nod, grounding him. The next pitches were all off-speed, a mix of curves, cutters, and sliders, each one gnawing at Hernandez’s rhythm, chipping away at his timing. The count built, tension mounting with every swing and miss, every ball fouled off.

Full count.

The dugout was electric, players perched on the fence, breath held. The field pulsed with anticipation. Every player on the balls of their feet. The crowd noise faded to a dull roar in Jason’s ears.

Relax, kid. You got this.

Cody exhaled sharply, then threw. Hard, inside. Hernandez’s sweet spot. But the off-speed pitches had done their job—his timing was just a tick off. He rolled over the ball, grounding it hard. Jason reacted on instinct, fielding cleanly and firing home. The catcher made the tag.

Third out. Game over.

The stadium erupted. Jason barely heard it over the rush in his ears. The dugout emptied onto the field, chaos and triumph colliding. He turned just in time to see Hernandez’s face twist in disbelief. He wasn’t the type to take a loss lightly. Jason jogged over, putting himself between him and Cody.

Hernandez’s glare cut to Jason. “He did something to the ball.”

Jason cocked his head, muscles tensing. “You saying my guy cheated?”

The accusation lingered, then crumbled. Hernandez exhaled, shaking his head. “Nah. He got lucky.”

Jason grinned, slapping him on the back. “Next time, man.”

He turned, jogging back to his teammates, fists bumping, hands slapping against his shoulders. This? This was why he played.

Winning never felt so damn sweet.

J ason barely had time to react before the shaving cream pie hit him square in the face, the cold foam seeping into his beard, dripping down his neck. Laughter rang around him, teammates clapping him on the back, and in the center of it all, Cody Patterson, grinning like a kid who’d just pulled off the perfect prank.

Cody grabbed him by the shoulder, leaning in as the crowd around them whooped and cheered. “Thanks for the advice, man. I owe you.”

Jason wiped his eyes, blinking through the white mess, and let out a laugh. Something warm settled in his chest—something that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of the win or the sting of the shaving cream mixing with sweat. This. This was what he’d been missing for the past year, maybe longer. The camaraderie, the unspoken bond, the knowledge that these guys had his back just as he had theirs. It wasn’t about being perfect. It was about knowing that when you failed, your team would pick you up.

He let the moment sink in, savoring it, but as the celebration died down, his hand drifted to his pocket. He pulled out his phone, checking for messages. Nothing from Stacia. No text, no missed call. He exhaled through his nose, pushing down the disappointment. She should have been here. He wouldn’t have pulled this off without her—not without her coaching, her nagging, her relentless belief in him.

Shaking it off, he headed for the showers, the icy water washing away sweat and remnants of the pie. He dressed quickly, then grabbed a plate from the post-game spread, eating absently while waiting for the bus.

“Friar! In my office.”

Jason glanced up. Sam Monteleone stood in the doorway of the visiting manager’s office, expression unreadable. Jason didn’t rush. He finished chewing, wiped his mouth, then tossed his plate before making his way over. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, as instructed.

Sam sat on a small bench against the wall, already dressed in street clothes, ready to get the hell out of there. “Good catch on McCarthy. Nice job. And great job with Cody. Heard how you coached him a little in the ninth.”

Jason shrugged, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. “Faced McCarthy a lot last year. He got the best of me more times than I care to admit. Felt good to get some payback. And Patterson? Kid just needs a little guidance.”

Sam exhaled heavily, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah, nice win. And we needed it.” He sat back, fingers tapping against the armrest. “I don’t need to tell you I wasn’t exactly thrilled when the front office signed you. Still not sure about you. But I hear you and Patterson have a little side bet going?”

Jason smirked. “Friendly competition. Athletes thrive on it. He’s got good hands, a good eye. Just needs some seasoning.”

“Yeah, and that’s the thing.” Sam’s tone shifted, his expression darkening slightly. “I’m afraid he’s going down the wrong path. Most of our pitchers are older, so he’s been looking to the younger position players for downtime. But those guys? They don’t have the experience to be role models. Not the kind he needs. If he doesn’t get his head on straight, he could wipe out early. Would be a damn waste.”

Jason crossed his arms, bracing himself. Here it comes.

Sam stood and walked around his desk, leaning on it, spitting a few sunflower seed shells into a coffee can before speaking again. “Look, I know you’ve had your rough patches. And the press, God love them, spread more lies as fact than a farmer spreads shit on a field. I don’t know what’s true, and I don’t really care. But we got a bunch of young guys here who barely know how to win and sure as hell don’t know how to handle losing. They need seasoning. Guidance. A leader.”

Jason stiffened, the weight of expectation pressing down on him. “Skip, I’ve been there, sure, but I’ve never won it all. And let’s be honest—no one considers me a role model anymore.” His voice was even, but the words felt heavy. “I thought you wanted me to keep my distance. Stay out of trouble. Don’t corrupt the minors.”

Sam snorted. “That’s the past. I don’t give a hairy rat’s ass about that, as long as you get these guys on the right track. You know the mistakes. You know how to avoid them. And once these guys respect you, they’ll listen. Cody already does, whether he admits it or not. The others will follow. I just need you to stop being a damn loner and start being a team player. Can you handle that?”

Jason exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He hadn’t planned on sticking around this long. Another month, maybe two if they made the post-season. But the kid… hell, he kind of liked the kid, even if he was an arrogant little shit. And if he could keep him from making the same mistakes Jason had, wasn’t that worth something?

More than that, though, he liked being part of something again. Liked feeling like his experience meant something. That he wasn’t just passing time, waiting for the next chapter to begin. Maybe he wasn’t done just yet.

“I can’t promise much,” he finally said, rolling his shoulders. “But I’ll do what I can.”

Sam nodded once, satisfied. He stuck out his hand. “That’s all I ask, son.”

Jason hesitated for half a beat, then shook it, the deal sealed with a firm grip. As he stepped out of the office, the sounds of his teammates laughing and joking filled the air, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself enjoy it.