Page 24

Chapter

Twenty-Four

J ason slumped in the chair, the dim glow of the silent television the only light in the room. The shades were drawn tight, barricading the sun, sealing him off from the outside world. It was pathetic, really—like a scene from some cliché melodrama about a washed-up has-been. But he didn’t care.

The phone on the side table blinked with unread messages, persistent, nagging. He hadn’t checked them. Didn’t have the heart. He had no idea how the Knights were doing in the playoffs. The last time he had given a damn was the night they won without him. Since then, the days had bled together in a haze of nothingness.

People had come. And gone.

Cole Hammonds. Miranda Callahan. Some of the guys from the team. Even staff members had knocked on his door, voices muffled through the thick wood, their concern evident. He hadn’t answered. Hadn’t moved.

Scott, his agent, had been the latest to try. He had the advantage of a key—why, Jason had no clue—and had actually made it inside. He had rattled off options in a steady, businesslike voice. Color commentary. Play-by-play reporting. Coaching. Futures Jason refused to consider. Because none of it mattered.

There was only one thing he wanted.

And it was the one thing he couldn’t have.

Stacia.

Her name was a permanent echo in his mind, looping in an endless, torturous replay. He had driven her away, pushed too hard, hurt her too deeply. And yet, part of him had still expected her to come back. She always had before. But maybe… maybe he had finally fucked up beyond repair.

The quiet creak of the front door interrupted his brooding.

Without lifting his head, he muttered, “Get out, Scott. I don’t need any more bullshit today.”

A pause. Then?—

“Well, you need something.”

Jason froze. The voice wasn’t Scott’s. It was hers.

Stacia.

The sound of her heels clicking against the hardwood floor was sharp, precise, each step a dagger. His pulse slammed in his chest, but before he could fully process her presence, she was moving—storming across the room with the force of a hurricane, yanking the curtains open in one swift motion.

Sunlight exploded into the room. He winced, instinctively raising a hand against the blinding assault.

“Jesus, Stacia?—”

“I thought so,” she cut him off, her voice laced with acid. “Hiding in the dark like some tragic movie hero, drowning in self-pity. Poor Jason.” She spun to face him, arms crossed, eyes blazing. “I get that you’re hurting, but guess what? The world hasn’t stopped turning. There’s a whole life waiting for you outside this goddamn cave you’ve built for yourself.”

Not what he’d wanted.

If she had come back, it should have been with soft words, with warmth, with declarations of love and second chances. Instead, she was standing there, throwing daggers of truth at him with pinpoint accuracy.

He gritted his teeth, jaw tight. “You have no idea how I feel.”

“Really?” Her brow arched. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever lost something? Get over yourself, Jason. You have more years left than you know what to do with, and you’re sitting here acting like your life is over.”

“Baseball was my life,” he bit out. “I have nothing else.”

“Boohoo,” she said flatly. “Seriously, Jason. Are you going to sit here until the day you die? Until that chair literally becomes part of your ass?”

He jerked his head up, blinking at her. “What?”

“That can happen, you know.” She nodded, dead serious. “I saw it on TV.”

A startled laugh nearly escaped him before he shoved it down.

She folded her arms. “The Knights are playing in the final game of the Division Series tonight. It’s win or go home. They want you there. A morale boost for the team. A nice gesture to the fans.” Her eyes locked onto his. “You’re going.”

He slowly pushed to his feet, rolling his shoulder, testing the familiar throb of pain. “I think you forgot something.” His voice was low, measured. “I fired you.”

She smiled, the kind that made his stomach twist in ways he wasn’t ready to admit. “I’m not here as your image consultant,” she said sweetly. “I’m here as your personal ass-kicker.” She leaned in slightly. “And you couldn’t fire me, since I never worked for you in the first place.”

He turned away. “No thanks.”

She grabbed his good arm and yanked.

“Not an option.” Her grip was firm, unrelenting. “Come on. Get dressed.” She sniffed, scrunching her nose. “And you might want to shower. Seriously, that’s a ripe odor. Need help with your arm?”

His glare could have melted steel. But she didn’t even flinch.

With an exasperated sigh, he turned and stalked toward the stairs, his footsteps heavy against the wood. What the hell was he doing? Was he really going to let himself be paraded around like some charity case? A washed-up ballplayer there for pity applause? His foot hovered on the bottom step, hesitation curling through him. He started to turn, to shut this down, but— Damn it She was right behind him.

“Move it,” she ordered, giving him a firm push.

For a moment, he stood there, frozen.

This wasn’t how he had imagined seeing her again. But she was here. Despite everything, despite how brutally he had pushed her away, she had come back.

A flicker of something unfamiliar stirred inside him—something dangerously close to hope.

Could he fix what he had broken?

Could there still be a chance for them?

His grip tightened on the railing, and for the first time in days, he moved forward.

J ason lingered in the darkened tunnel, his breath shallow, his heartbeat a slow, deliberate drum against his ribs. The roar of the crowd echoed through the concrete walls, a living, pulsing thing that threatened to swallow him whole.

The team was already on the field, oblivious to his presence, probably just in case he lost his nerve at the last second.

Seamus Callahan stood beside him, arms crossed, his usual stoicism barely hiding a smirk. Miranda and Cole Hammonds flanked his other side, their quiet support grounding him as the national anthem played, the familiar notes vibrating through his chest.

And then, his moment came.

He inhaled sharply, his lungs filling with the crisp night air, his stomach tightening with anticipation. A warm hand pressed against his back, fingers tracing slow, soothing circles—then, suddenly, a sharp push.

“Go,” Miranda whispered.

His feet carried him forward before his mind could catch up.

The tunnel spit him into the dugout, the bright stadium lights nearly blinding him. He climbed the steps to the field, his vision adjusting just as a hush fell over the crowd.

A beat of silence. Then a tidal wave of sound crashed over him.

The noise was deafening. Louder than he had ever heard in this stadium, louder than any game he had ever played. The moment the cameras found him, the energy of the crowd shifted from shock to unrestrained euphoria.

His teammates swarmed, surrounding him in an instant. Hands clapped gently against his back, fingers ruffled his hair, careful not to jostle his bad shoulder but still making it clear. They were damn glad he was here.

For the first time in weeks, he laughed. It wasn’t much, just a small exhale of sound, but it was real. Then he heard his name over the loudspeakers.

He turned toward the announcer’s booth, waving as the noise swelled again, a tidal surge of cheers that vibrated in his bones. His pulse hammered in his ears, emotion pressing against the back of his throat. He had no idea they still cared. That they ever had.

He took the ball from the umpire, its familiar weight settling into his palm, and walked to the mound. The dirt felt steady beneath his feet, grounding him, familiar in a way nothing else had been since the injury.

The crowd quieted just enough to let him think.

Alex, the catcher, crouched behind home plate, moving in a little closer, an unspoken offering of mercy. Jason narrowed his eyes and shook his head. No way. If he was doing this, he was doing it right.

He waved Alex back. Set his stance. And threw.

The ball sailed through the air, a little wide but solid, landing clean in the catcher’s glove without a bounce. Not quite a strike, but close enough.

The stadium erupted again.

His teammates flooded him, mobbing him in celebration. He let himself sink into the moment, absorbing the noise, the joy, the sheer overwhelming presence of it all.

Two months ago, these same people had booed him. Written him off. Hell, he had written himself off. Now, they loved him. Go figure. Hope, cautious and fragile, bloomed in his chest.

He jogged down the dugout steps, the tunnel ahead swallowing the bright lights of the field. Cole and Miranda waited, their faces lit with something like pride.

But his eyes scanned past them, searching, heart pounding for an entirely different reason. She wasn’t there. He swallowed hard, scanning the crowd, the shadowed corners, anywhere she could have been waiting.

“She left,” Miranda said softly, watching him too closely. “She thought it was best.”

Something inside him twisted painfully.

Cole rested a hand on his shoulder, anchoring him in place. “Come up to the owner’s box for the game,” he said. “We have a lot to talk about.”

Jason barely heard him. His mind was caught on one single, undeniable fact. Stacia had left. She had made him, rebuilt him, dragged him out of the pit he had buried himself in. And now, when he had finally, finally realized how much he needed her?—

She was gone.

J ason stared at the paper in his hands, the words blurring as Cole Hammonds’ voice echoed in his head.

A contract. For next season.

The roar of the crowd in the background was a distant hum, a sound that should have mattered, that once would have sent adrenaline surging through his veins. The team was fighting for a championship, pushing deeper into the playoffs, but for him, everything had crystallized into this single moment.

Everything he thought he wanted—everything he had fought for, bled for, broken himself for—was right here in his hands.

So why did he feel so hollow?

“I may not be able to play,” he murmured, his voice rough. “The doctor says I’ll never play again. So why the contract?”

Seamus Callahan leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “You’re a member of the Knights family. No matter what happened, you belong to us now.”

Belong.

The word lodged deep in Jason’s chest.

“There’s a surgeon on the West Coast,” Seamus continued. “One of the best. He’s been doing incredible work with shoulders, getting guys back in the game when everyone thought they were done. We’ve already set up an appointment for you next week, when the team’s on the coast for the next round. Get a second opinion. See what he says.”

Jason let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. Hope was dangerous. It could build you up just to let you crash harder. Dare he even consider it? Could he really have his career back?

Cole watched him carefully. “You may never play the field again,” he admitted, always the pragmatist. “Even if the surgery works, it might only be enough for you to be a designated hitter. Maybe an occasional first baseman. We both know shoulder injuries don’t go away. It’s just a matter of time.”

Jason clenched his jaw. A matter of time. How long had he been playing on borrowed time?

Cole leaned forward, his gaze sharp. “But as a designated hitter, you could still work with these kids. Help develop them. Mentor them. Be a player-coach.”

Jason swallowed hard and sat back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the field. His team.

The Knights were winning, not just the game, but something bigger. They had become a unit—a force. And he knew, deep in his bones, that he had played a part in that. He had helped build them, shape them, push them to be better. And that—more than any win, more than any home run or highlight reel play—gave him a satisfaction he had never felt before.

Because it wasn’t about him anymore.

The realization settled over him like a slow, warming tide. His identity wasn’t tied to the game the way he had always believed. His worth wasn’t measured in RBIs or batting averages. He had other options. The Knights had shown him that. Stacia had shown him that.

Scott leaned in, his voice low. “What do you think?”

Jason exhaled, slowly folding the contract and setting it on the table. Then he met Cole and Seamus’s eyes, steady and unwavering.

“No thanks,” he said. “I won’t be signing it.”

A sharp intake of breath from Scott.

A frown from Seamus. “It was a good offer, boy. We’re taking a risk on you.”

“I know my shoulder.” Jason shrugged, a slow, fatalistic roll of his good arm. “It’s done.”

Seamus studied him for a long moment, but it was Cole who smiled—not in triumph, not in satisfaction, but in understanding.

“I had hoped you’d say that,” Cole said. Then he leaned forward, his grin widening. “How about another proposition?”