Page 7

Chapter

Seven

S tacia jolted awake, her heart hammering against her ribs, sweat cooling on her skin. Her breath came in shallow gasps, the lingering remnants of the dream clawing at her mind. Papers scattered across the floor, a binder teetering on the edge of the bed before crashing down beside them. She lunged, catching her laptop just before it slid off the mattress, her fingers gripping the cool metal like a lifeline.

Her pulse still pounded in her ears when her phone vibrated on the nightstand, its ringtone blaring Hail to the Chief—the custom sound she’d set for her father.

She exhaled sharply. Of course.

She swiped to answer. “Father.”

“Where have you been? I had to call you twice.”

The put-out tone, the heavy weight of his displeasure, was like a vice tightening around her chest. The familiar urge to apologize surfaced, automatic, ingrained from years of conditioning. “I’m sorry. I was sleeping.”

It was after eleven at night. But that never mattered to Senator Kendall. Time zones, sleep schedules, personal boundaries—none of it applied to anyone but him.

A grunt on the other end. Clearly, her excuse wasn’t pacifying enough. “I hear you have a new client. I told you I would find you a place.”

She clenched her jaw and leaned back against the pillows, flicking the volume down on the television. “I have a place.”

“Athletes, Anastasia?” His voice curled around her name like a slap. “I raised you for something higher, something better than… sports.” His disgust was palpable, as if the very idea of her working outside his political world was beneath him.

She smothered a bitter laugh. “And politics is cleaner?”

“It may not be cleaner, but it is noble.” His voice took on that high-and-mighty tone, the same one she’d heard a thousand times at campaign stops, press conferences, fundraising galas. “We serve. We make this country a better place.”

We?

He had never seen her as part of his world, not really. She was an accessory to his image, a well-trained pawn on his political chessboard. And she was sick of it.

She rubbed her temples, exhaustion pressing in. “Let’s agree to disagree. What do you want? It’s late, and I have work to do.”

A pause. “So you were sleeping? Hmmm.” The doubt dripped from his voice. “Regardless, I want to discuss this latest job of yours. It’s not appropriate.”

“For me or for you?” she countered. “Are you afraid I’ll be tarnished by working with an athlete? That it’ll somehow rub off on you?”

His sigh was heavy, laced with disappointment. “You know my stance on this, Anastasia. I was the head of the Senate committee on steroid use, for God’s sake. My daughter working with one of them makes me a hypocrite, a laughingstock in the Senate. It weakens me.”

She could picture him now, standing in his home office, probably still in a pressed suit, even at this hour. Everything about him was controlled—his stance, his posture, his perfectly curated world. No clutter, no mess, nothing out of place. He didn’t just demand order—he embodied it.

Everything was always according to plan.

Her plan had never mattered.

She swallowed past the tight knot in her throat. “Then tell everyone I’m your big disappointment.” The words slipped out, bitter and sharp. “It wouldn’t be far from the truth.”

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words. A part of her wanted to push further, to tell him the truth—that she hadn’t just taken a job working with Jason Friar, she had slept with him. Just to see if it would shake him, crack his carefully constructed image of her.

But she knew better. He wouldn’t care about her. He’d only care about optics.

“Don’t be melodramatic,” he finally said, his tone clipped. “I’ve already spoken with your boss about an alternative, more acceptable position.”

Her fingers curled into the blanket. “You what?”

Before she could fully process the betrayal, movement on the television screen caught her eye. “Oh, hell no.”

Her father’s voice faded to static in her ear. She fumbled for the remote, turning the volume up, dropping her phone in the process.

The screen burned with breaking news.

Jason Friar. Pinned against a locker. His hands fisted in a reporter’s shirt. Stan Garvin’s smug face.

The ESPN banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen: "Jason Friar’s Meltdown in Detroit—Live Footage."

“Oh, no, no, no, no!” She scrambled to grab the phone, her heart slamming against her ribs.

“What the hell was he thinking?”

He’d promised her.

Did he have a death wish? Or was he just like every other man she’d ever dealt with—reckless, selfish, and completely oblivious to the fallout he left in his wake?

Her father’s voice crackled through the line. “Anastasia? What is happening?”

“I have to go,” she snapped. “And don’t call Michael!”

She ended the call before he could sputter a response.

She would pay for that later, no doubt. But right now, Jason Friar was about to pay for it first.

She grabbed her laptop, opened her email, and fired off a rapid series of messages to the Knights’ PR team. There was no salvaging the story yet, but she could start the damage control process before the morning headlines ran wild.

She yanked her jacket off the chair and stormed toward the door, mentally sorting through options.

She was going to kill him.

But first, she had to talk to Knights management. That was going to be fun.

T he slap of the newspaper hitting her desk sent a ripple of tension through Stacia’s body, the sudden movement rocking her coffee cup dangerously close to the edge. She lunged instinctively, catching it just before it tipped over completely, but not before a wave of hot liquid sloshed over the rim, scalding the base of her thumb.

She sucked in a sharp breath, shoving her hand against her mouth to cool the sting.

Across from her, Cole Hammonds glared, his face flushed red with barely contained fury.

“This is how you fix his image?”

His voice lashed out like a whip, each syllable sharp, clipped, and edged with frustration.

Stacia exhaled slowly, forcing herself to remain composed as she dabbed at the spilled coffee with a napkin. Then she lifted the paper and read the headline that had already begun to circulate across every major sports network.

Jason Friar - Back to his Old Ways?

Her stomach twisted as her eyes zeroed in on the photo beneath it.

Jason, sitting at the bar of some dimly lit hotel lounge, a too-young woman draped over him, her fingers clinging to his shirt, her glossy lips near his ear.

She felt a rush of irritation—directed at Jason, at the media, at Cole, and at herself for the spike of something too close to jealousy creeping up her spine.

God, she hoped the girl was legal.

“Well?” Cole demanded, his chair groaning as he dropped into it.

Stacia studied Jason’s expression in the photo, the stiff line of his shoulders, the tight set of his mouth. There was no amusement in his eyes, no ease in his posture. If anything, he looked... trapped.

She tapped the image with her fingernail. “He doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it. Maybe he was pushing her away.”

“Please.” Cole snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “No one would push her away. Not even me.”

The insinuation made Stacia’s stomach roll, but she kept her face impassive.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before fixing her with a pointed stare. “Is this too hard for you, Stacia? Is Jason Friar too difficult to manage?”

Her spine went rigid, and for a fraction of a second, cold fear pricked at her insides.

She had spent years building a reputation as one of the best—practically flawless in the business of cleaning up messes. And now, four days into this job, Cole was already questioning her ability to handle it?

She met his gaze squarely. “You asked me to work with him four days ago,” she said evenly, ignoring the simmering frustration beneath her skin. “What did you expect? A choirboy singing Alleluia in the church choir?”

Cole’s nostrils flared, and for a split second, she thought she saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, but it was gone before she could be sure.

“I expect results. Not this.” He jabbed a finger at the paper, his expression twisting with frustration. “After the fiasco at his signing, I was willing to cut you both some slack. He was a star once, and I get that he’s not used to being baited. But sports aren’t politics. It’s a different game, and you need to be able to control the narrative before it controls you.”

His words landed like well-placed jabs, precise and brutal, puncturing what little patience she had left.

“I have plans?—”

“I don’t care about your plans.” He waved a dismissive hand, cutting her off. “I care about action. So hustle your little ass to Detroit and fix this.”

The scrape of his chair against the floor was jarring, the movement abrupt as he pushed to his feet.

Stacia clenched her jaw, gripping the edge of her desk to steady herself.

“I think they’re leaving Detroit today and heading to Kansas City,” she said carefully, measuring her tone. “I can meet the team there on Tuesday.”

Cole paused mid-step, scowling. His gaze narrowed, assessing her, testing her. Then he gave a grunt of approval.

“Humpf. Fine. Get out there and remind Friar about the terms of his contract,” he said, his voice like gravel. “And fix this.”

With that, he stalked toward the door, slamming it shut behind him.

The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the remnants of Cole’s barely leashed temper and her own seething frustration.

Stacia curled her fingers into fists, nails digging into her palms as she sucked in a deep breath. In and out. In. Out. Her pulse pounded against her temples, her nerves buzzing with lingering tension.

Hammonds thought she couldn’t handle it. The words sat like acid in her stomach.

Her father had doubted her. Her boss had thrown her under the bus. And now Cole Hammonds was eyeing her like she was a rookie on her first big assignment, waiting for her to fail.

No. Not happening. Not today.

She straightened her spine, smoothed a hand over her blouse, and reached for the phone.

“Maggie? Can you book me a flight to Kansas City?”