Page 18
Chapter
Eighteen
A few days later, Jason and Stacia had settled back into their usual rhythm, but something felt off. The playful ease they had built was still there, yet beneath it, an undercurrent of something heavier, something unspoken. He was more aware of her—of every glance, every subtle shift in her body language—and she seemed to sense the change in him too.
He wanted to talk to her about it. Hell, he wanted to demand to know what was going on inside that sharp, stubborn mind of hers. But he didn’t want to assume she felt the same, didn’t want to push when he wasn’t even sure what he wanted.
Instead, he did what he always did—waited. Let things play out. See if she stuck around when everything was over.
For now, he focused on the job. The Knights had fought their way back, tied for first place in both the division and the wild card. One more week of play left. One brutal stretch of games against some of the toughest teams, including their nemesis, Detroit.
But before that, there was today.
The old-timers' game.
Jason scanned the infield, picking out faces—some familiar, some less so. A few former teammates, none he had been particularly close to. It was strange, stepping onto the field in this kind of environment, caught between generations of the game. The ones who had already said their goodbyes, and the ones, like him, who were holding on with everything they had.
And then, he felt her.
The air changed. A subtle, electric shift.
It was always like this when Stacia was near—like a thunderstorm rolling in, charging the space around her with barely restrained energy. His skin prickled with awareness before he even saw her.
She was talking to Miranda Callahan near the dugout, her body poised with effortless confidence, her blonde hair catching in the afternoon sun. Then, as if sensing his gaze, she turned.
Heat flared in her eyes, sharp and undeniable.
There it was.
It was the same fire, the same pull that had been there from the start. And yet, something about it was different now.
Jason clenched his jaw, his pulse hammering against his ribs. Maybe—just maybe—they had a shot at something real. Something more than stolen nights and heated moments behind locked doors.
But then, as fast as it had come, the warmth in her eyes faded. Her expression shuttered, her gaze slipping past him as if he weren’t even there. Without hesitation, she turned and disappeared down the tunnel leading to the offices, not sparing him a backward glance.
The rejection hit him square in the chest.
What the hell was that?
For the first time in years, the game in front of him felt like a distraction instead of a purpose. But he didn’t have time to chase her, not with a group of young players circling him, firing off questions about his hitting strategy.
He forced himself to focus, answering their questions with the practiced ease of a veteran who had been in the game too long to let his personal life interfere.
Then, a familiar voice cut through the chatter.
“Cody, what the hell have you done to your swing? You’re swinging at all the wrong pitches, son.”
Jason turned at the sound of the gruff, authoritative tone and immediately recognized the man standing beside the GM.
Cody Patterson Senior.
It took a second, but the memory clicked into place. Perennially on the Hall of Fame ballot but never quite getting the votes. A star on a failing team, then a journeyman bouncing from club to club, never sticking but always known as a hard-nosed, clutch player. Jason had played with the older Patterson briefly—his first September call-up had been Patterson’s last season. He barely knew the man, but he remembered the reputation. Bitter. Demanding. Impossible to please.
Jason turned his attention to Cody in the batting cage. The younger Patterson visibly tensed at his father’s censure, then squared his shoulders, bracing himself.
“Don’t tell me Friar is giving you hitting tips,” Patterson Senior scoffed, shooting Jason a look of disdain. “You’re a pitcher, but you have my genes. You could be a home run hitter, not a rinky-dink singles guy. You could be the first pitcher to be a hitting star.”
Jason bit back a response, watching Cody’s hands tighten around the bat.
“Dad,” Cody said, his voice slipping into something almost small, something that didn’t belong to a grown man standing at the plate. “Our goal is to get guys on base and then score. We don’t want everyone swinging for the fences. If they do, they strike out more, and we lose.”
“Bullshit,” Patterson Senior growled. “I never agreed with that numbers baseball crap. Besides, your contract is up soon, and you needs to start showing the big leagues what you can do. You won’t stay on this losing team forever.”
“We’re in first place,” Cody muttered.
“Tied for first place,” his father corrected, waving a dismissive hand. “Next year, your team will be gutted, and back to the cellar you go. You can’t compete the way you’ve set it up.” His gaze flicked to Jason, filled with derision. “Signing has-beens, minor league players, and journeymen will never get you to the Series. No offense, Friar.”
Jason’s teeth clenched.
Cody’s confidence was draining right in front of him, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his father’s words. Cole’s face was turning red, his hands balled into fists.
Jason took a step forward, cutting between them. “To be honest, I do take offense,” he said, his voice cool but laced with steel. “I’m hitting the ball solidly. The team is scoring runs. And Cody is playing the best baseball of his career. I think your son has done something right.”
Patterson Senior spat a wad of tobacco onto the dirt, eyeing Jason with barely concealed disdain. “I hope you’re not spending too much time with this lover boy, Cody. I’d hate for your reputation to be ruined along with his.”
Jason’s stomach twisted. The jab wasn’t subtle, and neither was the implication.
Cole stepped in smoothly, clearly trying to diffuse the situation. “Mr. Patterson, maybe you’d like to check out some of the new facilities here.”
“Why?” Patterson Senior snapped. “I don’t need to see any new weight rooms or training rooms. My son is screwing up his career by listening to your advice, and I want to make sure he gets back on track.”
Jason studied him, suddenly seeing the man for what he was—someone who lived through his kid, who used guilt and pressure to mold him into something he wanted him to be.
It was a familiar sight.
For so long, Jason had envied the guys who had fathers who cared. But now, looking at Cody flinch under his father’s glare, Jason realized something.
Maybe it had been a blessing that he had no one pushing him from the sidelines. Because at least his career had belonged to him.
Patterson Senior kept talking, but Jason wasn’t listening anymore. His gaze drifted toward the tunnel where Stacia had disappeared, his mind spinning with thoughts he didn’t want to name.
He had spent his entire life focusing on one thing—baseball. And someday, when it was over, when his time on the field was up, he’d be an outsider looking in, watching someone else take his place.
But maybe—just maybe—if he played this right, he wouldn’t have to lose everything.
Maybe, before the season ended, he’d finally figure out where Stacia fit into all of this.
And then, he’d talk to her.
Before it was too late.