Page 3

Chapter

Three

T he stadium was eerily quiet, the usual electric hum of baseball absent with the team on the road. Beyond the closed doors of the conference room, the machine of the sport churned on—coaches planning, scouts analyzing, trainers working on bodies that would be worn down by the grind of the season. The business of baseball never stopped.

Inside the room, Jason sat motionless, his pulse a steady hammer against his ribs, his jaw locked tight. He was poised on the edge of his seat, every muscle coiled, his gaze fixed on an unseen point beyond the tinted glass. The scent of polished wood, expensive cologne, and desperation lingered in the air. His desperation.

Across from him, Scott, his agent and the only person still willing to go to bat for him, flipped through the thick contract packet. He’d been by Jason’s side through every step of his fall from grace—the injuries, the accusations, the exile. And now, here they were.

If this didn’t work, if this deal didn’t go through, Jason was done. Finished.

No retirement ceremony, no farewell tour, no fanfare. Just an empty locker and a career left in the dust.

His chest felt hollow at the thought.

He had dedicated his entire life to this game. What the hell was he supposed to do if no one wanted him anymore? He had spent months in limbo, training obsessively, convincing himself that he’d get another shot.

If that failed?

He had no Plan B.

The conference room was designed to intimidate—high ceilings, heavy mahogany furniture, and a panoramic window overlooking the field he wasn’t sure he’d ever stand on again. Framed action shots of franchise legends lined the walls: diving catches, game-winning hits, trophies held aloft.

And then there was the largest frame of all.

A life-sized portrait of Seamus Callahan, owner of the Savannah Knights, scowling from behind the head of the table, as if daring anyone to fail.

Jason almost snorted. Got ego?

The real Callahan sat beneath his own watchful gaze, every bit as imposing in person despite his unimpressive height. His scowl was set deep into his craggy face, his salt-and-pepper eyebrows drawn low. The man had steamrolled his way into the league with his wife’s money and his sheer force of will, and now he ran this team the way a dictator ran a country.

The Knights had been on top last year, but now injuries, fatigue, and lack of leadership had them spiraling. That was why Jason was here. He was supposed to help stop the bleeding.

If Callahan let him.

Scott, sensing Jason’s growing impatience, leaned over and spoke under his breath. “If you want to play this year—or ever again—behave yourself. The Knights might not be your first choice, but they’re your only choice. Seamus is proud and prickly. Don’t piss him off.”

Jason’s eyes flicked to the older man, then back to Scott. He smirked. “Must be the size. Short men always have a complex.”

Scott shot him a shut the hell up glare just as the conference room door swung open.

A woman strode in, all business and barely-contained energy, blonde hair slicked into a low bun, sharp eyes scanning the room like she had ten other places to be. The air around her changed the atmosphere in the room—less stale, more charged.

Jason automatically rose to his feet, an old habit ingrained since childhood. His mother would’ve smacked the back of his head if he’d ever stayed seated when a woman entered the room. He’d never really questioned it. Hell, it worked like a charm—women loved it.

Not that he needed help in that department. Well, not until the injury. His dry spell hadn’t been much of a concern until last night.

Scott dug an elbow into his thigh, yanking him out of his thoughts.

He glanced around, realizing that everyone was staring at him.

Callahan scowled. GM Cole Hammonds frowned. The woman’s lips curved slightly, something flickering in her expression—gratitude? Amusement?

Jason cleared his throat and sat back down. “My mother always insisted I stand when a lady walked in. Can’t seem to shake the habit.” He flashed an easy grin. “Apologies.”

Seamus’s scowl softened slightly, but suspicion still lingered in his gaze. Cole frowned at the woman instead of Jason, until she sat down. For her part, her smile faded and she slipped into a seat across from Jason, and looked down at the papers in front of her.

“That’s my daughter, Miranda. She’s learning the ropes before I die so she can take over, unless she marries suitably and he can run the team. But for now, it’s all her. And she’s off limits, Friar. Got it?”

Jason jerked his chin in acknowledgment.

He could have reassured Callahan that his daughter wasn’t his type, nor did she seem remotely interested in him. If Jason had learned anything about women, it was how to gauge their interest, and Miranda Callahan had none.

More interestingly, it was obvious Callahan wanted Cole to be the one to marry Miranda, but neither of them looked thrilled about the idea.

Not his problem.

Scott exhaled in quiet relief. Jason suddenly realized how much this meeting mattered to him, too. This wasn’t just Jason’s career at stake—Scott’s livelihood was tied to him.

And Scott had a family.

His youngest daughter had medical issues, and Scott had stuck with Jason through the worst of it, believing in him when no one else did.

Jason shifted uncomfortably in his seat, guilt nudging at him. When was the last time he’d thought about anyone but himself?

Seamus shuffled through the papers in front of him and sighed heavily. “You’re a goddamn mess, boy. No wonder my scouts were against signing you.”

Jason’s jaw ticked.

“Drinking. Partying. Womanizing,” Seamus continued, shaking his head. “Ha.”

Jason braced for whatever was coming next.

Seamus barked a laugh, making everyone jolt.

Scott cleared his throat, ready to step in, but Callahan held up a hand.

“On the other hand, impressive numbers—batting average, home runs, RBIs. Even a Gold Glove. Hell, you were on a Hall of Fame track before you screwed the pooch.” Seamus arched a bushy eyebrow. “Steroids?”

Jason saw red.

The room tilted around him as rage flooded his veins, hot and liquid. He shot to his feet, his palms slamming onto the table. “That’s bullshit. I never used drugs.”

Cole was up just as fast. “Back off, Friar.” His voice was calm, but his stance was defensive, like he was prepared to throw Jason out himself.

Scott’s grip on Jason’s arm was tight, his silent plea clear—Don’t ruin this. Don’t be an idiot.

Jason forced himself back into his chair, his teeth grinding. “I denied those charges. I filed a lawsuit against the league. No proof. No positive test. No admission.”

“Just one of your teammates selling you out,” Callahan pointed out.

Jason’s fingers curled into fists under the table. “He was saving his own ass.”

“Doesn’t say much about your clubhouse loyalty.”

Jason huffed a humorless laugh. “Loyalty? He lied. He threw me under the bus to save himself.”

“So you turned on him first. Is that the kind of teammate you are, turning on your fellow players? Must make for an uncomfortable clubhouse.” Cole spoke for the first time from Callahan’s side, his tone mild but the rebuke and distaste was obvious.

Jason shrugged. “He betrayed me first and lied about it. What kind of teammate is that?”

“Irrelevant. He got banned for life from baseball while you rode into the sunset on your white horse.”

Jason snorted. “Some sunset. No job, balky shoulder, bad rep. Yeah, I really made out good in the deal.”

Seamus nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. After a long pause, and an exchange of glances with his general manager, Seamus cleared his throat. “Well, your screw-up could be our gain. You’re not my first choice for a first baseman but we just lost our guy for the season.”

“Or longer if he gets a fine for his drug use.”

Seamus pursed his lips, irritated at the interruption. “Yes, his drug use was…unfortunate. We don’t condone that behavior here and your past is not recommending you for this position. My daughter has pointed out that you could be a huge liability for us. Your old friend, Senator Kendall, is one of my biggest adversaries and would love nothing more than to screw my business. The only other person he has a bigger hard-on for is you. Signing you would tweak his temper and be very satisfying for me.”

“Either way, you’re still a huge liability for us.” Miranda smoothly stepped in to the short pause. “We’re a family-friendly ballpark, working very hard to build good relations with the community. Eduardo’s accident and revelations about drugs hurt our image. We’re getting slammed in the papers and on talk radio.”

Seamus frowned at her and broke in. “Our goal is to win. Who gives a damn about papers and radio commentators?”

“We should, since they influence our fans. If our fans are unhappy, they might not come to the ballpark. We need their money to stay in business.” Miranda gave her father a tight smile that held no amusement.

Cole smoothly leaned forward between the dueling family members, blocking the staring contest. “As you can see, you’ve stumbled upon an ancient argument, as old as the chicken versus the egg. Which came first, the fans or the game? Either way, we have serious concerns about adding you to the roster. Probably the most important is your health. Can you still be effective after rotator cuff surgery and at your age?”

And there it was, the final nail in his coffin. As the words droned on, Jason could feel his career, his life, his future drifting way, being slowly pulled away from him like a slowly dying worm on the end of a fishing hook. Teasing, taunting, tantalizing him then yanking away without any thought of him.

“Why the hell are we here then?” Jason stood up, his chair almost toppling behind him. “It’s obvious that I’m not your first choice, and probably not your second or third. In fact, I wonder if you even want me at all? Or was this just some grand joke. Let’s screw around with Friar until we get who we really want? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not amused and don’t need this bullshit.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Friar. How do you think I, the son of poor factory workers, got to be the head of a brewery and a Major League Baseball team owner?”

Jason spoke, before he could call back the words. “I assumed you married it.” The room took a collective inhale and waited for Callahan’s reaction.

An odd light came to Seamus’s eye, a quick glimmer of rage that was ruthlessly suppressed. “Yes, that was part of it but the business has thrived under my control. We’ve expanded operations, are international now. That didn’t happen because of whom I married. No, I have a head for business and I know a winner when I see it. And I never go into contract negotiations unless I know the outcome. Sit down.”

Jason let Scott pull him down into his chair, and wondered where Callahan was going with his reasoning.

Scott leaned forward, hand still firmly planted on Jason’s arm. “Gentlemen, I have to agree with Jason. We came here in good faith, not to be insulted. Jason has passed all of the physicals and will pass any others you need. The drug story is old news and an outright lie. Are you going to negotiate or was this a waste of time?”

“Where there’s smoke, there is usually fire, Scott. Just because there was no proof doesn’t mean he didn’t do drugs.” Cole pointed out.

“And drugs aren’t the main issue,” Miranda broke in. “Jason has a wild reputation, one that may not fit in with the family atmosphere we want.”

“So we wasted our time?”

Before anyone could respond, Jason burst out laughing. “Family-friendly atmosphere? You think your current players are choirboys, in by ten, all alone? Bullshit. Your team is young, full of kids making more money than they ever imagined, and having their pick of women. You can delude yourself all you want but they’re no different than I was at their age. And yes, I did grow up. Most of the rumors are just that, rumors. But who cares about the truth when the rumors are so much fun? You need me as much as I need you. Sad, unfortunate, unwelcome, but true. So what’s it going to be?”

Seamus cleared his throat and all eyes turned to him. “We didn’t waste your time. Yes, we need you and you need us. But you need us more. I can pull up someone from Triple-A. You can’t get another job unless you go to Japan.”

“A Triple-A player won’t bring home a series ring or even a division win. I can.”

Seamus’s face broke out in a broad smile and he guffawed. “Cocky. I like that.”

Jason leaned back in his chair, satisfied he’d made his point. “It’s not cocky if it’s true.”

Seamus grinned and slapped Cole on the back. “Yup, I knew he still had spirit. He ain’t broke yet. See, we both know you’re going to play for us, but there is one condition and, son, I’d advise you take it.”

Scott interrupted before Jason could speak. “What condition?”

“We need a first baseman and you need a chance. We’re offering you a shot for the year, no additional clause, no contract for next year. This is just for the next three months, if we get into the playoffs. A few financial incentives for you depending on your level of play and if we get into the playoffs. Standard stuff really. We’re giving you a shot to prove you can still play. Puts you in good position for next year. In return, you’ll stay squeaky clean and focus solely on the game – hitting, fielding, catching. No more, no less. You will be as monk-like as your name, Friar. Or else, we’ll drop you like yesterday’s garbage and leave you rotting by the side of the road. Got it?”

The initial exhilaration was slowly replaced by the numbing realization of his precarious position. This wasn’t just a contract. It was a leash.

“To that end,” Seamus continued, “you’ll have a professional babysitter. Someone to watch your ass and clean up after you. Someone to clean up your image. I don’t have time for image issues, even with only a couple of months to go. Miranda has lined up a few options and will go over them with you after the contract is finalized. Are we clear?”

Jason studied the field for a long moment, watching the grounds crew work on the turf. He could almost smell the fresh-cut grass, the pine tar, sweat, not to mention the food from the stands. He ached to be on the field, it was the only thing he knew, his whole life. Could he seriously bend over for Callahan and let him run his life, personal and professional on the odd chance that he could excel here?

He glanced at Scott. His agent’s jaw was tense and shoulders held tight against the inevitable decision. He realized that it wasn’t just his life he was screwing around with but his agent’s. And Scott deserved better, after sticking with him through everything. His hand brushed a piece of cardstock in his pocket.

Decision made, Jason stood and looked Callahan square in the eye. He held out his hand. “We have a deal. But I have a suggestion for my babysitter.”

Callahan stood up also and shook his hand in a firm grip, continuing the shake for a few seconds longer than necessary. “Glad to hear it. Don’t blow it.”

S tacia pushed open the door to her condo, and a wave of stale, thick air smacked her in the face. Damn it. Had she forgotten to leave the AC on again? Savannah summers were not the time for a lapse in judgment like that.

With a tired sigh, she shoved the door closed behind her, tossing her purse and briefcase onto the entryway table. Home sweet home.

Except, standing there, staring at the untouched silence of her condo, she realized it didn’t feel like home at all.

The place was neat but impersonal—more like a temporary stop than a destination. A place to crash between jobs, not to live. The bare walls, the pristine countertops, the lack of anything personal staring back at her—it might as well have been another generic hotel room.

And now, for the first time in years, she had no job to run off to.

What the hell was she supposed to do now?

The thought left a sickly, twisting sensation in her gut.

She needed to move, to do something before she spiraled into an existential crisis. First step—fix the sauna-like conditions suffocating her condo.

She strode down the hall, adjusting the thermostat with a few quick jabs of her finger, before heading straight for the kitchen. Hunger gnawed at her, though she wasn’t sure if it was actual food she needed or just a distraction.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. Another text from Sophie. A quick glance at her voicemail showed unread messages piling up there, too. She ignored them all.

If Glazier had reconsidered firing her, she’d know by now. If her father had magically developed a conscience and wanted to apologize—please—she’d be more likely to win the lottery.

She snorted. Yeah. Her new reality—delusional fantasies.

Though last night’s fantasy had been real enough.

A hot, mind-blowing, no-strings-attached night with a man who had nothing to do with her career, her father, or the wreckage of her professional life.

The thought of Jason sent an unexpected flutter through her stomach, a warm shiver running down her spine.

The way he’d touched her—like he needed her, like he was starving for her.

The way he’d looked at her, as if she wasn’t just another job, another problem to solve, another task to check off a list.

She swallowed hard and yanked open the fridge, searching for anything that could cool the heat still lingering in her body.

One glance confirmed her fears—bare shelves, a few takeout containers growing science experiments, and a carton of milk that smelled dangerously close to becoming sentient.

“Great.” She sighed and grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary.

Add grocery shopping to the list of crap she didn’t want to do today. Thank God for delivery.

But first, she had to check in.

She strode toward the table, grabbed a notepad and sat down. Once she felt prepared—not hardly—she pressed play and began to run down the list of voicemails.

“Stacia, it’s me. Sophie. What happened last night? Are you okay? Are you dead by the side of the road? Or are you weak from pleasure? Call me. Must. Have. Details.”

A slow grin spread across her face.

Oh yeah. Sophie would definitely want details.

But Stacia wasn’t ready to share them yet. She wanted to hold onto that post-Jason glow a little while longer—at least through breakfast.

She took a sip of water as the next message played.

“Stacia, it’s Mike. What the hell happened with Glazier? Senator Kendall called last night, said you had been replaced. By Donna, an intern, of all people. Call me. Immediately.”

And just like that, the fantasy bubble popped.

Jason. Sex. Fun.

Gone.

In its place, the gnawing ache of reality settled in, clawing at her stomach with sharp, merciless edges.

Stacia exhaled slowly, shrugging off her business jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair. She wiped a hand over her face and considered what to say. Her fingers hovered over the keypad for a beat longer than necessary.

Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she dialed.

Mike answered on the first ring. “Stacia. About time. I expected a call from you last night, not your father, not Glazier, and certainly not Donna. What the hell happened?”

His voice was clipped, sharp with frustration.

She gritted her teeth and forced herself to stay calm, quickly running through the events of the past week. The downward spiral, the betrayal, the public humiliation.

When she finished, silence stretched on the other end.

A faint buzz of background noise filtered through the phone. Mike shifting papers, his breath a steady exhale.

She popped open the bottle of antacids on the counter and tossed two into her mouth, chasing them with a gulp of water.

Then, finally?—

“Your father wants you replaced on the campaign.”

Her throat tightened. Completely expected. Her father had not had a change of heart, not that she thought he would. He would have to have a heart to change it. “I thought that had already been decided.”

“I’m your boss, not Senator Kendall or Glazier. You work for me, as does Donna. I thought you and Glazier were an item. Is it true—she slept with him?”

Stacia stiffened. “There was no relationship between us beyond business. What he does on his own time is his problem.”

“Bullshit.” Mike’s voice was like a gunshot, blunt and unyielding. “He’s a politician. He should have known better. He tanked his own campaign. No one could have saved it.”

Stacia clenched her jaw. That wasn’t her father’s opinion.

“Donna is finished with me. If he wants her, he can have her.”

A small, bitter part of Stacia wanted to feel satisfied. But the truth was, none of it mattered. She was still out of a job.

“What about me?” she asked. “I can’t go back, even if he’s running independently.”

Mike hesitated. “No, you’re not being brought back. They don’t think you have the finesse to whitewash this campaign.”

Her stomach twisted. She forced her voice to stay even. “Fine. Maybe it’s time for a change. Do you have anything else?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then—

“I have one thing that just crossed my desk. I was about to turn it down, but...”

Her grip on the phone tightened. “Mike, what is it? I need a job.”

“Are you sure? You’ve been running for weeks. Maybe taking a break wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

She scanned the room—dust-covered furniture, blank walls, empty space.

A break?

She’d go insane in here.

If she sat still too long, the whispers of failure, of her father’s disappointment, of everything she’d lost would close in around her.

No. She needed work.

“I want it.” She tried to sound firm, but she knew Mike could hear the desperation beneath the words.

“Okay. I’ll email you the details, though there’s not much yet. It’s with the Georgia Knights. Their owner, Seamus Callahan, asked for you specifically. They’re expecting your call.”

Stacia blinked. “Wait. They asked for me? How the hell do they even know I’m available?”

“Doesn’t matter. Miranda’s there. She’ll look out for you.”

Relief crashed into her so hard it nearly knocked the breath from her lungs.

She was back in the game.

Even if it was a different game than she’d expected.

S tacia walked into the sleek, glass-walled offices of the Georgia Knights’ front office and was immediately hit by the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the faint, lingering traces of leather and turf. The headquarters of a major league team had a different energy—fast-paced, efficient, and built on the constant undercurrent of competition.

This wasn’t politics.

But it was still a game.

A game she intended to win.

She strode across the marble floor, her heels clicking a confident rhythm as she approached the receptionist, a woman with sharp cheekbones and a professional ponytail who barely looked up from her screen.

“I’m Stacia Kendall. I have a meeting with Miranda Callahan.”

The receptionist’s fingers flew across the keyboard before she finally glanced up, her expression neutral. “Ms. Callahan is expecting you. Conference room two, down the hall, second door on the left.”

Stacia nodded her thanks and walked briskly down the hallway, taking in the framed black-and-white photos of baseball legends, their moments of triumph frozen in time.

She had barely taken a seat in the glass-walled conference room when the door swung open.

Miranda Callahan strode in like she owned the place—because, in a way, she did. Tall, polished, and exuding an effortless authority, she was the type of woman who commanded a room without raising her voice. She wore a navy blazer over a fitted cream blouse, her tailored slacks perfectly pressed. Her blonde hair was pinned back in a way that said she meant business, not to be decorative.

“Stacia,” Miranda said, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Stacia stood, extending her hand. Miranda grasped it firmly, none of the limp, fake enthusiasm Stacia had grown used to in politics.

“You asked for me,” Stacia said, leveling her with a steady gaze. “That was unexpected.”

Miranda leaned against the table, arms crossed. “I like to keep people on their toes.”

“You always did.” Stacia smiled. “So, are you finally running the show?”

Miranda’s lips twitched in amusement. “Not if my father has anything to say about it. He’d rather marry me off to a man who can run the team for me.”

Stacia arched a brow. “Charming.”

“Isn’t it?” Miranda exhaled, then gestured to a chair. “Sit. Let’s talk business.”

Stacia settled in, placing her bag neatly beside her. “I assume this is about a player.”

Miranda nodded. “You assume correctly. He’s a PR nightmare waiting to happen, and my father just handed him a contract.”

“Then why hire him?”

“Because we need a first baseman, and he’s the best option on the market. But my father also loves chaos, and he hates my father-in-law. Signing Jason pisses off Senator Kendall, so, naturally, he’s thrilled.”

Stacia let out a slow breath. Jason? The name had to be a coincidence. It couldn’t be her Jason from last night. No, this was about her father. The man managed to interfere in her life even when he wasn’t in the room.

Miranda watched her carefully. “I take it you two aren’t on the best of terms.”

Stacia gave a short, humorless laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Miranda didn’t push, which Stacia appreciated. Instead, she flipped open a leather-bound folder and scanned the contents. “You know what we need, but let me spell it out anyway. Jason has to stay clean—no scandals, no fights, no drunken mistakes caught on camera. If he so much as breathes wrong, the media will bury him, and this team can’t afford another PR disaster after Eduardo’s suspension.”

Miranda slid the folder across the table. Stacia opened it, scanning quickly.

Then froze.

Her breath caught, her fingers tightening around the edge of the folder.

The name staring back at her sent a shockwave through her system.

Jason. Friar.

The room suddenly felt too warm, the air too thick.

Miranda tilted her head. “I take it you’ve heard of him?”

Stacia’s pulse pounded in her ears.

“Yeah,” she murmured, barely keeping her voice steady.

“I’ve met him.”

Miranda’s eyebrow arched coolly. “You’ve met him?”

Stacia swallowed hard and stuffed her panic deep inside that little box where all her emotions went and slammed the lid shut. She met Miranda’s curious gaze evenly. “Yes, we have. But it won’t be a problem. What do you need?”

Miranda nodded. “Excellent. I think if anyone can make him presentable, it’s you. The man needs a leash, and you have experience handling difficult men.”

Stacia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Glazier wasn’t difficult. He was an idiot.”

“And Jason?”

She hesitated, remembering last night—the way he touched her, the way he looked at her like she was something instead of just another stepping stone in his life.

“Jason is… unpredictable.”

Miranda watched her closely, then tilted her head. “How did you meet him?”

Stacia hesitated for half a second before shrugging. “Not in any official capacity.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across Miranda’s face. “Ah. That explains why he suggested you by name.”

Her pulse stuttered. “He what?”

Miranda leaned back, her smirk fully in place now. “You didn’t think it was my idea to hire you, did you?”

Stacia exhaled, pressing her fingers against the table. “So, let me get this straight. Jason Friar—blacklisted, scandal-ridden, and possibly the most frustratingly arrogant man in baseball—suggested me as his PR babysitter?”

“Not in those words, but yes.”

Heat flushed her skin. “You’re joking.”

Miranda shook her head. “I’m really not. And my father agreed because it pisses off yours. So congratulations, Stacia. You’re officially part of the Georgia Knights.”

Stacia sat back, folding her arms. This was not how she expected this meeting to go.

“Tell me something, Miranda,” she said, voice measured. “Do you want me here? Or am I just another pawn in your father’s game?”

Miranda’s smirk faded, replaced by something steadier.

“I do want you here. You’re damn good at your job, and I don’t have time for screw-ups. I also know what it’s like to have a father who sees you as a chess piece instead of a person.”

Something shifted between them—an understanding that went beyond contracts and PR.

Stacia nodded once. “Then I’m in.”

Miranda extended her hand again, this time sealing the deal. “Welcome to the team.”