Chapter

Seventeen

W hat has gotten into Georgia Knights’ first baseman Jason Friar? He’s fielding like the Gold Glove first baseman he was, hitting like a batting champ, and has even stolen bases! It’s like he was never injured or on his way out!

Stacia turned up her car radio, the voices of the sports analysts dissecting Jason’s resurgence filling the small space. Not long ago, these same commentators had written him off, calling the Knights’ decision to sign him a mistake. Now, they spoke of him as if they had always known he’d rise from the ashes, a phoenix reborn.

She understood now why Jason hated the media. Why he distrusted her at first. To them, he was just a storyline, a narrative to twist and sell. She listened for a few more minutes before pulling into the stadium employees’ parking garage. As she stepped out, the thick late-afternoon heat wrapped around her like a heavy blanket. The scent of freshly cut grass and the distant echo of batting practice drew her forward.

She emerged onto the field, taking in the scattered players. Some jogged along the warning track, others stretched near the dugout, while a few leaned against the cage, watching as Alex Hernandez stepped in to take his swings. The sharp crack of the bat didn’t come. Instead, he whiffed, the ball sailing past untouched. He cursed, frustration rippling off him in waves. Stacia hesitated, lingering near the edge of the field.

Then Jason stepped forward. He signaled to the BP pitcher to hold and spoke quietly to Hernandez. A few other players moved in, drawn to him, listening. He gestured, demonstrated, his voice calm, sure. Whatever he said, it worked. The next pitch came in, and this time, Hernandez crushed it. The ball soared over the right-field wall, and Hernandez let out a triumphant cheer, immediately turning to Jason, seeking approval. Jason clapped him on the back, laughing.

A warmth spread through Stacia’s chest. This. This was what she had been fighting for—not just Jason’s redemption but his confidence, his leadership, his place on this team. The world felt right in this moment. Jason was playing his best baseball. The Knights were heading toward the playoffs. His reputation was healing.

Not bad for a few weeks’ work.

“Not bad, Stacia.”

She turned at the familiar voice. Miranda stood beside her, watching the field with a knowing expression.

“Thanks, but it was mostly Jason,” Stacia said, shrugging.

“Jason? Are you always so self-deprecating?”

Stacia flushed slightly. “I can only recommend things. He had to put in the work. Only he could decide to change.”

Miranda smiled, a touch amused. “I meant no offense. It’s refreshing in a stadium full of egos and tempers.” She studied Stacia for a long moment. “Do you really think he’s changed? That when you’re not watching him, he won’t fall back into old habits?”

Stacia’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag. “I hope he won’t. Besides, I haven’t exactly been with him twenty-four seven.”

“No one can be.” Miranda started to step away, then paused. “You’ve done a nice job—a miracle, really. Thank you.”

Before Stacia could respond, Miranda turned and walked toward the throng of reporters gathered around the manager.

The weight of an intense gaze burned into her, and she turned her head instinctively. Across the infield, Jason was watching her. His dark eyes held a heat that sent a shiver down her spine, despite the sweltering air. Memories of their last night together rushed back—the feel of his hands, the thrill of the risk, the whispered promises that had felt too real in the moment.

She had convinced herself it was just physical. Just a way to keep him from seeking out someone else, someone who might unravel all the work they had done. But now? Standing under his scorching stare, doubt twisted in her stomach.

To him, she was just his handler. A necessary nuisance. A convenient arrangement.

But was that all she was?

T he moment Stacia stepped into her office, her phone rang. Hail to the Chief . She groaned, the familiar weight of dread settling over her. Of course.

She debated letting it go to voicemail, but she knew better. If she didn’t answer now, he’d just keep calling until she did. With a resigned breath, she pressed the button. “Hello, Father.”

“So, you remember who I am.” His voice carried the same clipped, disapproving edge it always did, full of unspoken judgment. “You haven’t called in several weeks.”

“Neither have you,” she shot back, the words slipping out before she could check them. Too late now.

“I’ve been busy, Stacia, as you well know. I have a country to run.”

Her grip on the phone tightened. And I’m not busy? The words burned the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them down. Instead, she said, “You and ninety-nine other senators. Not to mention the president. You can’t find time to call your daughter? To see how I’m doing?”

The old wound yawned open inside her, raw and familiar. She shoved it back where it belonged, deep beneath layers of indifference. She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care. And yet… she did.

“Are you so busy screwing that ballplayer that you can’t call your father?”

The casual cruelty of it struck like a slap, stealing her breath for half a second. A hot prickling sensation built behind her eyes, but she forced it down, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “So good to hear how you feel about me.” Her voice was cool, controlled. Detached. “What do you want?”

“I told you how I felt about you working with him. I even spoke with your boss, but apparently you’re just as insubordinate to him as you are to me.”

A muscle twitched in her jaw. She could almost picture it: her father, standing in his pristine office, looking down his nose at the world, at her, like he was issuing commands from his throne. She straightened her spine, bracing herself. “Yes, I heard you demanded I be reassigned. Sorry to disappoint you, but you taught me something else—honor your word. And I’m honoring mine, whether you like it or not.”

Even if you never honored yours.

Honor. Commitment. Duty. Words he had wielded like a weapon, only to discard when they no longer suited him. She had spent her whole life living by them, carving out her own path, only for him to act as if none of it mattered.

“I taught you to honor your word when it made sense. This situation makes no sense and only makes me look weak to my colleagues, opponents, and constituents.”

And there it was. It’s always about him.

“Why can’t you just support me?” she asked, hating the way her voice softened at the end, betraying too much. Why was it always about what he needed, never about her?

“Why can’t you do as you’re told?” he snapped. Exasperation. Frustration. As if he genuinely couldn’t comprehend why she refused to fall in line.

Stacia exhaled slowly. There’s no point. He would never change. “Did you call for a reason?”

“Of course. Why else would I call you?”

Her fingers curled around the edge of her desk. She closed her eyes briefly. Why did she keep expecting anything different?

“I don’t know,” she said, voice measured. “To say hi. See how I’m doing. Tell me you love me.”

“Don’t be foolish.” The words landed like a gavel striking a bench. Final. Unyielding. “I have a political event tomorrow night, and I need you to act as hostess for me. It’s a charity event for something or other. Doesn’t matter. You will accompany me.”

Of course. Because when he needed an accessory, she was suddenly useful.

“What about Mommy Dearest? Is she having more work done?”

He made a sound—something between a sigh and a huff. “Don’t be rude, Stacia. Actually, she is… unavailable.”

Something in his tone shifted. She caught it immediately. Her father was never uncertain. Never stumbled over his words.

Her brows lifted. “Really? I thought that wasn’t allowed.”

A longer pause. Then, “If you must know, she and I are divorcing.”

For the first time in the conversation, genuine shock rippled through her. She shot upright in her chair. “What happened? I thought you were both so happy.” The sarcasm rolled off her tongue effortlessly.

“Irrelevant, but the timing is damned inconvenient,” he snapped, ignoring her dig the way he always did. “The political season is heating up, and I need someone by my side. The event is at the?—”

“I never said I would go, Father.” Her voice was quieter this time, but no less firm.

“Nonsense. Of course you’ll go. You always go.”

“When you have no one else,” she countered. “You don’t care who is with you, only that someone is, for appearances and to cater to you.”

The words hung between them like a blade. For a heartbeat, she thought he might deny it, might even say something human, but no.

“Just once,” she continued, softer now, “I’d love a call from you asking how I am instead of ordering me around. Just once, I’d like to hear you’re proud of me. That you actually care.”

His silence stretched.

Then he spoke just as softly but no less hard, “Then do something I can be proud of.”

The words sliced her open. She pressed her lips together, choking on the sting.

He would never change. He would never see her.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t go.” The strength in her voice wavered, but it held. “Find one of your political allies or, better yet, your favorite protege, Representative Glazier. You’d probably be happier that way anyway.”

She ended the call before he could respond.

For a moment, she just sat there, staring at the phone in her hand. The small flicker of victory she had felt at the beginning of the conversation was gone, replaced by the familiar ache of never being enough.

A tear splashed onto the back of her hand. Then another.

She blinked at them, almost startled. It had been years since he had made her cry. The last time had been right after her mother’s funeral, when he had ordered her to cry for the cameras—but do it pretty.

Cold. Bastard.

A tissue dangled in front of her. She looked up, finding Jason standing beside her.

Relief slammed into her with an intensity that nearly undid her. The wall she had so carefully constructed threatened to crumble. He didn’t speak, just reached forward, gently wiping her tears away before pulling her into his arms.

Warmth. Comfort. Safety.

She let herself sink into it, into him, his hands moving soothingly up and down her back, grounding her as silent sobs wracked her body.

Minutes passed before she finally pulled back, sniffing. “How do I look?” She tried for a smile, watery and wobbly.

Jason studied her for a long beat before cupping her chin and brushing a kiss across her lips. It wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t hungry. It was soft. Gentle.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured.

Her laugh was weak but real. Instead of despising the vulnerability, as her father would have, she let herself feel.

“Did you need anything?” she asked, suddenly hoping—desperately hoping—he did.

But Jason stepped back, putting distance between them. “Nope, just checking in. Why don’t you head home and we’ll connect tomorrow?”

Her heart squeezed.

He handed her her things, pushing her toward the door. “Call your friend Sophie. Grab some ice cream. Just no strippers or porn, okay?”

She laughed, despite herself. “That’s a guys’ night.”

“A guy can dream.”

She walked to her car in a daze. And then it hit her.

She had fallen for him. Fallen hard.

A s soon as Stacia walked out the door, Jason dropped into the office chair, exhaling sharply. His pulse pounded in his ears, not from exertion but from something deeper, something dangerous.

Shit.

He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck as if that could somehow ground him. He was getting in too deep. Way too deep.

When had the job turned into something else—something more than late-night strategy sessions, than stolen moments behind closed doors? When had it stopped being just sex, just work, just something casual?

Somewhere along the line, she’d slipped under his skin, burrowing deep, weaving herself into him in a way he couldn’t ignore.

And the scariest part?

He wasn’t even freaking out.

No, the usual alarms in his head weren’t blaring, warning him to bail before she could hurt him. Instead, something wild and reckless clawed at his chest, demanding more. Hell, he wanted to shout it to the damn world.

He wanted to grab her, haul her against him, and tell her she wasn’t alone—that she didn’t have to be. More than anything, he wanted to take her home, strip away every ounce of pain her father had inflicted, and love her until she finally believed she was worth it.

His head screamed at him to run. Run far. Run fast. Run before it’s too late.

Because it would be too late soon. He knew how this went—had seen it play out before. She would use him, take what she needed, and when the moment came, she’d toss him aside. Everyone did.

Everyone always had.

But his heart…

His heart was a different beast entirely. It didn’t care about logic, about self-preservation, about the deep scars others had left behind. It didn’t care that the safe bet would be to shut her out before she could do real damage.

No, his heart wanted to try.

It wanted to believe, against all odds, that maybe—just maybe—this time would be different. That maybe, Stacia was different.

Maybe, for the first time in his life, there was someone who saw him, not his career, not his money, not his skill in bed.

Someone who actually cared.

A thought curled around the edges of his mind, hesitant and dangerous, terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

Was it possible Stacia truly loved him?

S tacia tried her best to ignore the gnawing sensation in her gut, the one whispering that something had shifted between her and Jason. She couldn’t pinpoint when or how, but it was there—a subtle but undeniable distance that hadn’t been there before.

Her father’s words still echoed in her head, razor-sharp and unshakable, cutting into her like they always did. She should be used to it by now, should have built up an immunity to his particular brand of disappointment. And yet, every time, it left its mark.

The only thing that had made it easier was Jason—the way he had soothed her hurt, held her together when she felt like she might shatter. But then, he had pulled away. Not in an obvious, dramatic way, but something in his posture, in the way he had stepped back, had felt like a wall going up. And she had no idea why.

Since she couldn’t make sense of it, she did what women had done since the dawn of time. Called her best friend, stocked up on ice cream and cookies, and got to work unraveling her emotions.

She plunged her spoon into a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough, scooping up a bite with deliberate focus. The vanilla ice cream glistened under the soft living room light, the chunks of cookie dough peeking through like tiny promises of comfort. She lifted the spoon halfway to her mouth, only to find Sophie staring at her from across the coffee table.

Sophie’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you, and what have you done with my friend?”

Stacia shrugged and slid the spoon between her lips, letting the cold sweetness melt on her tongue, a temporary balm against the ache in her chest.

“What’s the deal, Stacia?” Sophie lunged across the table and snatched the pint from her hand, eyes flashing with concern. “Ice cream is for break-ups or post-job boredom. So what’s going on with Mr. Baseball?”

Stacia exhaled, setting the spoon down with slow precision before resting her forearms on her knees. “My father called today.”

Sophie winced. “Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry.” She shoved the pint back across the table, like it was a prescribed remedy. “What did he want this time?”

She toyed with the edge of the lid, tracing the condensation with her fingertip. “The usual. To express his undying disapproval of my life choices, criticize my dating decisions, and demand I host an event for him tomorrow.” Her lips curled into a humorless smile. “Oh, and he and Vanessa are divorcing.”

Sophie’s hand immediately covered hers. “I’m sorry. But honestly, it’s about damn time. She was only, what, two years older than you?”

Stacia let out a laugh, but it came out hollow. She wiped at her eyes, surprised to find moisture clinging to her fingers. She hadn’t even realized she was crying.

“I know,” she murmured, shaking her head. “But now I’m back on deck.”

Sophie’s brow furrowed. “Huh?”

Stacia huffed a small laugh. “Baseball term. Means I’m about to be at-bat. I could have gone my whole life without saying those words, and yet here we are.” She gestured at herself. “I think in baseball terms now.”

Sophie smirked. “I know what it means. I just didn’t think you knew.” She leaned back against the couch, eyes glinting with mischief. “So, how are things going with the baseball guy?”

“Jason,” she corrected automatically, but the name came out shakier than expected. She swallowed, forcing a small smile. “Honestly? He was great when my father called. Handled the whole mess like a pro.” Her gaze dropped to the spoon in her hand. “And then he sent me home.”

Sophie’s brows lifted. “Afraid of the tears?”

Stacia shook her head, chewing her bottom lip before scooping up another bite of ice cream. “You’d think, right? But no. He seemed fine with that part.” She let out a slow breath, rolling the spoon between her fingers. “It wasn’t the tears. It was something else. Like he put up this… wall all of a sudden. And I have no idea why.”

Sophie tilted her head, studying her like a puzzle she was piecing together. “Stacia, this is a job. A pretty unconventional one, yeah, but what exactly did you think was going to happen after the season?”

“I didn’t think about it,” Stacia admitted. “I was doing what you told me to do—live in the moment, don’t think about the future. Only now…” She trailed off, staring out the window at the streetlights flickering outside.

Sophie sat up straighter. “Only now what?”

Stacia dragged the spoon over her lips, hesitating. Finally, she whispered, “Now, I’m in too deep.”

Sophie’s expression softened. “You love him.”

The words hit like a hammer to her chest. She had thought it, had felt it, but hearing it spoken aloud was different. More real. More terrifying.

She nodded, the weight of it pressing down on her.

Sophie leaned in. “Does he love you?”

Stacia hesitated, her fingers tightening around the ice cream pint. “I don’t know,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe. But I doubt it.” She exhaled slowly, her breath trembling. “This was supposed to be short-term. No strings. No expectations. It had an expiration date from the start.”

Sophie’s lips pressed together. “So what are you going to do?”

Instead of answering, Stacia swiped the container back from Sophie’s grasp, spoon diving in like a reflex.

Sophie arched an eyebrow. “That’s not an answer.”

Stacia scooped up another bite, focusing on the ice cream instead of the pit in her stomach. “I can’t tell him,” she said finally. “He doesn’t want commitments. I can’t distract him now.” Her spine straightened, jaw firming with determination. “It’s just another week or so. Then we’re done. Once the season ends, I’ll let him go.”

Sophie gave her a long, measured look. “Really?”

“Yes.” The answer came too quickly, too forcefully.

Sophie tilted her head. “Can you really just walk away?”

The question sent a tremor through her, one she tried to ignore.

Stacia forced a smirk and snatched the container closer, lifting her chin. “Maybe I won’t have to.” She shoved another spoonful into her mouth, hoping the cold would numb something.

Sophie didn’t press further, but her knowing gaze stayed locked onto her.

Stacia ignored it.

She had to.

Because if she let herself believe, even for a second, that Jason might want more—might love her back—then she wouldn’t be able to let go.

And she wasn’t sure she would survive that kind of heartbreak.