Page 6

Chapter

Six

J ason sat in the back of the taxi, gripping the handle of his duffle bag as he stared at the towering stadium ahead. The afternoon sun reflected off the glass facade, casting long shadows over the entrance. It was a sight he had both ached for and dreaded—the door to the visitors’ clubhouse, the gateway back to the game that had defined his entire life.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the faint stiffness in his shoulder, the lingering ghost of an injury that had cost him a year of his career and nearly destroyed his future.

He was there. That’s what mattered.

But was it?

A year ago, he had limped out of a stadium just like this, his arm in a sling, his reputation in tatters, and his ears ringing with the jeers of fans who had once worshiped him. His teammates hadn’t spared him any sympathy either. The injury had been the least of his problems. What hurt more was the sense of betrayal, the quiet judgment from men who had once had his back.

And now?

No cameras. No fans lined up at the gates. No reporters clamoring for a quote.

He was back, but no one gave a damn.

“Hey, buddy. You getting out or what?” The cabbie’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I got places to be, man.”

Jason exhaled sharply, peeling a few bills from his wallet. “Yeah. Keep the change.”

After slinging his duffle over his shoulder and dragging his suitcase out, he squared his shoulders and strode toward the guarded entrance. Never let them see you sweat. No matter what.

The security guard barely glanced at him before nodding. “Friar, right? Been expecting you.”

At least somebody was.

Jason stepped into the tunnel leading toward the clubhouse, the familiar scent of stale sweat, pine tar, leather, and menthol ointment hitting him all at once. It was the smell of home.

Then the music hit—heavy bass, sharp lyrics, the kind of rap that pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat. It was as much a part of the locker room as the smell of glove oil.

As soon as he pushed open the door, the chatter stopped.

Like a gunshot silencing a crowded room.

The music cut off, leaving only the faint hum of the ventilation system.

Twenty-four players—some still lacing up cleats, others stretching, a few taping their wrists—turned to stare.

None of them smiled.

Jason had expected hostility, but damn, the air was thick with it. Not outright hate, not yet. But suspicion? Distrust? Yeah, they had those in spades.

“Friar! My office, now.”

The voice bellowed from the back of the room, snapping the tension like a whip. Players resumed their routines, but the side glances lingered.

Jason walked the length of the locker room, his spikes clicking against the tile floor.

Inside the manager’s office, three men were waiting.

Jason had known Sam Monteleone would be here, but it still felt like a gut punch. The last time they’d shared a dugout, Sam had been the bench coach—and one of the loudest voices condemning Jason when the scandal broke.

Sam leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking every bit the hard-ass veteran. His salt-and-pepper hair had thinned, his face a little more lined, but the scowl was the same.

“Take a seat.”

Jason dropped his duffle by the door and sat.

“So they actually signed you,” Sam muttered, shaking his head. “Damn shame.”

Jason smiled, all teeth, no warmth. “Nice to see you too, Sam.”

Monteleone pushed back from the desk and stood, rounding on Jason like he was about to start throwing batting practice heat.

“This is a fine mess they handed me,” he snapped. “First, I get a team full of rookies who can’t find their own asses with both hands, and now I’ve got you—a washed-up, arrogant piece of shit with a reputation worse than a minor league bus station.”

Jason didn’t flinch. He had heard worse, felt worse.

Sam jabbed a finger in his chest. “Listen to me, Friar. I don’t like you, and I don’t trust you. Stay away from my young guys. I don’t need your bullshit infecting this clubhouse.”

Jason leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out. “Nice pep talk, Coach. Feels like old times.”

Sam’s lip curled. “You were cleared, huh?”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “That’s right.”

The older man snorted. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

Jason exhaled slowly, biting back the urge to tell Sam exactly where to shove his bullshit accusations.

Instead, he stood and slung his duffle over his shoulder. “If we’re done with the history lesson, I’ve got BP in thirty minutes.”

“Artie’s got your locker. Try not to make a mess of it.”

Jason strode out without another word, but the heat simmered under his skin. The rumors would never go away. Fine. Let them doubt him. Let them hate him. Because the second he started raking at the plate, none of it would matter.

A few hours later, Jason stepped into the batter’s box, his grip firm around the bat.

The pitcher wound up. Fastball.

Jason’s body remembered before his brain did. The familiar shift of weight, the coiled tension in his core, the powerful swing?—

CRACK!

The bat met the ball with a sweet, satisfying explosion of sound. The ball sailed into deep left-center and dropped for a single.

Jason barely watched it go. He was already jogging to first, feeling the heat of the eyes watching him from the dugout.

Yeah. He still had it.

The first baseman, Tom “Pigpen” Pignante, smirked as Jason took his lead.

“They let you back in, huh? Guess they’ll take anyone now.”

Jason’s lips curled. “Still chewing that garbage?” He flicked a glance at the wad of tobacco bulging in Pigpen’s cheek.

Pigpen spit a brown stream into the dirt, just missing Jason’s cleats. “Better than ratting out my own teammates.”

Jason’s body went tight.

“Must burn you up that I’m here and you’re still a bottom-feeder,” he said coolly.

Pigpen’s eyes darkened. “Bastard.”

Jason stepped in, just close enough to let Pigpen feel his presence. “Careful, Pigpen. You’re looking a little jumpy.”

The first base ump clapped a hand between them. “Break it up.”

Jason let out a slow breath and stepped back, rolling his shoulders loose. But the anger was there, coiled under his skin. It wasn’t enough to be back. He had to prove he belonged.

Because until he did, they would never let him forget.

T he rest of the game passed as uneventfully as his first at-bat. At least he hadn’t booted anything at first base, though his bat had been about as useful as a toothpick. The Knights still lost, six to one.

No one seemed to care.

They funneled through the tunnel to the locker room, laughing, shoving, and jostling like they had just clinched a division title instead of being trounced. Jason expected the usual low murmurs of frustration, the tight jaws, the flickering glances at the floor—something to show they gave a damn.

Instead, the moment they hit the clubhouse, chaos erupted.

Players crowded around the food table, shoveling in pasta and grilled chicken like it was a feast. Towels snapped through the air, the slap of fabric against bare skin met with laughter and swearing. Someone cranked up a speaker, blaring a rap beat loud enough to rattle the lockers.

Jason stood in the doorway, batting gloves tight in his grip.

What the hell had happened to baseball?

Back in the day—hell, just a year ago—a loss like this would’ve had a clubhouse locked down in frustration. Sure, you didn’t drown in it, but you felt it. You owned it. The rookies acted like this was just another day at the office, like there was nothing left to fight for.

“Stupid, aren’t they?”

The accented voice at his shoulder made him turn.

Juan Ramirez, the Knights’ closer, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the circus unfold. His uniform was still damp with sweat, but the look on his face was dry with disdain.

“They’re young,” Ramirez continued, shaking his head. “Stupid. Happy to be here, happy to collect a paycheck, happy to live down to expectations.” His lip curled slightly. “They know the league thinks we’re garbage, so they act like it doesn’t matter. Welcome to the club, Friar.”

He clapped Jason on the shoulder and walked into the fray.

Jason stood there a beat longer, taking in the scene, the ridiculous ease with which these kids accepted mediocrity.

Then he saw them.

The vultures.

A tight knot of reporters circled his locker, their cameras and mics poised, waiting to pounce. He was already the scapegoat for this loss, already the storyline for the evening recap. He hadn’t hit beyond his single, hadn’t done a damn thing worth celebrating. That meant blood was in the water.

Jason clenched his jaw, squared his shoulders, and stalked into the lion’s den.

The moment the media spotted him, the onslaught began.

Flashbulbs exploded, cameras clicked, and microphones jammed toward his face.

Then came his voice.

The gravelly, whiskey-and-smoke rasp Jason had prayed never to hear again.

“How’s the shoulder, Friar? Didn’t look too good out there.”

Jason barely turned before the full sight of Stan Garvin—baseball’s resident tabloid parasite—hit him like a fastball to the ribs.

Same rumpled suit, same nicotine-stained fingers wrapped around a leather-bound notepad, same damn unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. His nose was red, his face bloated, his smirk lazy and taunting. The bastard smelled like stale beer and cheap aftershave.

Jason’s stomach clenched.

Garvin had been the first reporter to call for his head when the steroid rumors broke. The one who’d twisted every off-field mistake, every late-night party, every thrown helmet into a character assassination. It had been a full year since their last run-in, and yet, the same sneer was waiting for him.

Garvin stepped closer, voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial. “You sure you’re off the juice? You looked soft at the plate.”

Jason’s fingers curled into a fist.

But Garvin wasn’t finished.

“Maybe,” he continued, tilting his head, voice full of venom-laced amusement, “you should’ve stayed on the ’roids.”

The blood roared in Jason’s ears.

Next thing he knew, his hands were fisting Garvin’s cheap-ass suit, slamming the man back into the metal lockers. A cacophony of sound erupted—falling toiletries, scattering gear, reporters shouting over one another as their cameras flashed like a strobe light.

Jason barely noticed.

He was nose-to-nose with Garvin, rage surging through his veins, his body tense with the effort not to snap.

“You son of a bitch,” Jason growled, his voice raw with the force of his restraint.

Garvin’s smirk only deepened.

Then—the bastard puckered up and blew him a kiss.

“Thanks for my lead story, Friar,” Garvin murmured. “You never disappoint.”

Jason blinked. A wave of Oh, shit slammed into him as he registered the cameras rolling, the journalists scribbling furiously. Garvin wanted this. He’d baited Jason, planned for this exact reaction.

Juan yanked Jason backward, his grip tight against his chest. Jason staggered a step, breathing hard, watching as Garvin smoothed his wrinkled lapels and adjusted his tie.

“That’ll be perfect for the eleven o’clock news,” Garvin said with an oily grin. “Thanks again!”

Then he walked out, the slight hitch in his step the only indication Jason had gotten to him at all.

Juan let go of Jason with a small pat to the chest. “At least you didn’t use the bad shoulder,” he muttered.

Jason barely heard him. His mind was spinning. He had handed Garvin the exact ammunition he needed. And judging by the dead silence that had fallen over the locker room, everyone knew it.

Then—

“FRIAR! IN MY OFFICE. NOW!”

Sam Monteleone’s voice bellowed from the back of the room, rattling the walls.

“ALL YOU MEDIA WHORES, GET THE HELL OUT OF MY CLUBHOUSE!”

The reporters scurried like roaches under a flipped-on light.

Jason exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face before looking at Juan. “I just fucked up, didn’t I?”

Juan let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Yeah, man. You really did.”

“ A re you stupid or do you have a freakin’ death wish?”

Sam’s voice thundered through the tiny office, rattling the few framed photos on the wall. “Jesus, Friar. Not even back for one game and you’re already stirring up fireworks and making a damn circus out of things. It was so quiet around here.”

He stalked around the desk, his heavy footsteps echoing off the concrete walls before he flopped into the rolling chair. The metal frame groaned under his weight, protesting as if it, too, was tired of his bullshit.

Jason sank into the battered metal chair opposite him, scrubbing his hands down his face before resting his elbows on his knees. “I wasn’t thinking, Skip. I screwed up. Sorry.”

“Sorry ain’t gonna cut it, boy.” Sam leaned forward, jabbing a calloused finger into the desk between them. “Do you realize that asshole is probably reporting to the world right now that you’ve got ’roid rage? Not exactly the best way to convince people you’re drug-free and reformed, huh?”

Jason’s teeth clenched. “I never took steroids or any other drugs.”

Sam rolled his eyes and spat into the dented metal can beside him, the sharp ping ringing through the office like a bullet casing hitting the floor. “Whatever. Save it for the congressional hearings. I don’t care. Just don’t bring that shit in here.”

Jason exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening into fists. This was the same old story, the same damn accusation that had followed him like a plague, no matter how many tests he’d passed, no matter how many denials he’d given.

“And Callahan thinks you can be a role model?” Sam scoffed, shaking his head. “After that stunt? Not likely.” He swiveled his chair slightly, planting his elbows on his knees as he fixed Jason with a hard glare. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you? I’d expect this from one of those stupid kids out there, but not you.”

Jason stared at the scuffed linoleum floor, his jaw tight. That was the real gut punch, wasn’t it? He wasn’t some rookie who didn’t know better. He wasn’t a kid fresh out of Triple-A making his debut. He was supposed to be the veteran, the leader—the guy younger players looked up to. Instead, he was the washed-up cautionary tale.

“I’m sorry, Skip,” Jason said quietly, forcing the words out past the lump in his throat. “No excuse. It won’t happen again.”

Sam snorted, unconvinced. “You bet your ass it won’t.” He shook his head one last time, rubbing his temples like he was seconds away from a full-blown migraine. “Now, get the hell out of here. And Friar?”

Jason paused at the door.

“Stay out of trouble for one night, please?” Sam waved him off before muttering under his breath, “One freakin’ day back. One day, and this is what we get? Jesus.”

Jason clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to slam the door on his way out. The cool air of the hallway barely cut through the heat of his frustration as he stalked past the lockers.

Called to the manager’s office like a goddamn school kid.

It was the second time that week he felt like a failure. An idiot. A child. And he hated that feeling.

Two years ago, he wouldn’t have had to defend himself. Two years ago, people would have had his back. They would have lined up to defend him, to excuse him, to brush aside his actions like they were nothing. Now? Now, he had no credit. No goodwill. No one to take his side.

He was on his own.

And God help him if Stacia ever found out.

N ice job with the new teammates, Friar. Nothing like making friends and influencing people.

Jason scowled into his beer, the bottle slick against his fingers, condensation pooling around the base as he rested it on the polished bar top. The low murmur of conversation buzzed around him, the muted clink of glassware punctuating the easy rhythm of the hotel bar. It was a familiar scene—players scattered across booths and high-tops, some nursing drinks, others huddled over plates of post-game indulgence.

The bartender slid a sizzling steak under his arms, the aroma of charred meat and melted butter momentarily distracting him from his shit day.

“Water, please. Thanks,” he muttered. He didn’t need more alcohol dulling his senses. One beer was enough. His career was already hanging by a damn thread—getting sloppy wouldn’t do him any favors.

He barely had time to lift his fork when a shrill, all-too-familiar voice sliced through the ambient noise.

“Oh. My. GOD! Jason Friar!”

The name cracked like a whip across the bar, cutting through the chatter, drawing more than a few heads.

A warning tingle ran down his spine, but it was already too late.

The whirlwind hit him at full speed, a flash of blonde hair, red lips, and expensive perfume slamming into his chest. Arms wrapped around his neck like a damn boa constrictor, and before he could so much as blink, her lips were on his, hot, wet, and persistent.

What the actual fuck?

Jason barely had time to process the ambush, let alone react. His brain scrambled through the dusty archives of his past, searching for a name, a place, something to anchor this woman in his memory.

Danielle? Debbie? Dawn?

Hell if he knew.

But that wasn’t his biggest problem.

A split-second flash of movement caught his eye—a glint of light against metal, the distinctive flash of a camera firing in rapid succession.

Jason stiffened.

Stan Garvin.

The bastard sat in a corner booth, beer in one hand, phone in the other, already smirking like he’d hit the tabloid jackpot. A few other members of the traveling press corps were with him, their interest piqued as they leaned in, no doubt already drafting tomorrow’s headline.

Jason wrenched himself away from the woman—Dani? Dana?—gripping her arms to push her back. “Whoa. Easy there.”

She pouted, her glossy lips plumped in indignation. “What? It’s been years, Jason. Don’t tell me you don’t remember me.”

His stomach sank. Of course, that’s exactly what I don’t fucking remember.

But he didn’t get a chance to answer, because the damage was already done.

Stan was grinning like a goddamn shark.

Jason could already see the headline now: Jason Friar Up to Old Tricks—Baseball’s Bad Boy Can’t Stay Out of Trouble.

Goddamn vultures.

His grip tightened ever so slightly before he released the woman’s arms, exhaling sharply. “Listen—uh…” He floundered for a name, came up blank, and moved on. “It’s not a good time.”

She pouted harder, batting her lashes. “Oh, come on, baby. We used to have so much fun.”

Jesus Christ.

Jason ran a hand down his face, jaw tightening. He could already feel Stacia’s fury from miles away, the ice in her hazel eyes, the way her mouth would flatten into that unforgiving line.

She was going to kill him.

And for some insane reason, he cared.

When the hell had that happened?