Chapter

Eight

A nother day, another stadium. New fans, same old media, same tired chants. Once, he had loved walking into new ballparks, feeling the pulse of the crowd, the weight of history clinging to every stadium’s quirks. The Green Monster in Boston. The Bleacher Creatures at Yankee Stadium. The ivy-covered walls of Wrigley. The crisp ocean air at Oracle Park. And now?

Kansas City. The ballpark with the giant waterfall.

The next stop on his humiliating tour of trying to prove he wasn’t washed up.

Jason tightened his grip on the bat as the pitching machine whirred, spitting another ball his way. He swung. A weak fly ball.

“Damn it,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders as if he could force his swing to remember its old power.

The machine whirred again. He swung, barely making contact, sending a lazy grounder into the net. This used to be effortless.

"Don't you think you've been hitting long enough?" The familiar, smooth voice cut through the steady hum of the machine.

Jason gritted his teeth and swung anyway, keeping rhythm with the machine. The ball shot past, untouched.

“Strike three, I think,” Stacia observed, her voice cool, unaffected.

He scowled at the machine. Damn it.

He’d hoped for a couple of days before she showed up. A couple of days to prove—at least to himself—that he could get his swing back without her looming over him like a disappointed schoolteacher. A couple of days to pretend he didn’t want her with every breath he took.

"So, you're picking up some baseball lingo now," he said without turning around, forcing his voice into something casual. "Good for you, Stacia."

The next ball fired. He swung, making better contact this time, but it still wouldn’t have cleared an outfielder. The machine powered down.

Jason whirled around, eyes flashing. "I wasn't done."

Stacia stood just inside the batting cage, a picture of polished control in a tailored pale blue suit. The blazer hugged her body in all the right places, drawing his gaze to the teasing V of lace peeking from beneath it. White this time—not black, like that night in the hotel.

How much lace did she own?

More importantly, how fast could he get her out of it?

His groin stirred, and suddenly, he regretted the jock strap. That thin layer of plastic wasn’t going to shield him from much if she stayed in here.

She crossed her arms and blocked the button that controlled the machine. “You are for now. You’ve been at this for over two hours. Don’t you think you’ve had enough practice?”

“Not even close,” he growled. “Not until I feel the swing coming back.”

She tilted her head, considering him, and damn if that didn’t make him want to kiss her. “The swing looked good to me.”

“Thank God you’re not the hitting coach,” he shot back, reaching past her to turn the machine back on. His hand brushed against her hip, the warmth seeping through the fabric of her skirt. He clenched his jaw, willing himself not to react.

The machine whirred again. Nothing happened.

Jason’s scowl deepened. “Guess the machine’s tired too.”

Frustration flared hot inside him. He stalked out of the cage, grabbed a batting tee, and planted a ball on top. He gripped the bat, coiling his muscles, and swung—hard.

A sharp line drive. Not bad. But the twinge in his shoulder reminded him that he wasn’t the same guy from two years ago.

"That was smart," Stacia commented, leaning against the wall like she belonged in the batting cages. "Maybe you're trying too hard."

He exhaled through his nose. “Really? And what would you have me try? Deep breathing out of my freaking eyelids?”

She smirked. "That was a movie. But the breathing part isn’t a bad idea. You need to relax. Feel the ball."

His patience snapped. “Are you for real? Have you ever hit a baseball? Oh wait, you might loosen up, and that stick up your ass might fall out.” He narrowed his gaze. “Or do you need a drink to relax?”

Her wince was quick—almost imperceptible—but he saw it. Guilt punched him in the gut.

Dick move, Friar.

She dropped her bag, took the bat from his hands, and swung in a wide arc—nearly toppling in her stilettos.

He snorted. "Not like that."

Jason plucked the bat from her grip, demonstrating slow, controlled circles. She mimicked him carefully, her body moving in deliberate rhythm.

“Put the ball there.”

Jason arched a brow but obliged.

She swung. And missed. A very unladylike curse left her lips.

Jason fought a grin. He grabbed a lighter bat and held out a hand. "Shoes."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Those heels cost more than my first car. You really want to break your ankle in them?"

She glared. “You wear cleats.”

“Cleats are built for traction. Manolos are built for showing off your legs—which, by the way, is distracting as hell.”

Her lips twitched, but she toed off the shoes and handed them over. The jacket followed, revealing the full view of that lacy-edged blouse, hugging her curves in ways that should be illegal.

Jason swallowed hard and tossed her jacket onto a hook, her shoes onto the bench.

"Ready." She wiggled her butt into position, stretching that damn skirt just enough to make his groin ache.

He groaned. “For the love of—Stacia, stop that.”

She glanced over her shoulder, lips curving. “Problem, Friar?”

Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing.

Jason stepped behind her, his chest almost—but not quite—pressing into her back. He guided her stance, his hands skimming the curve of her hips before settling over hers on the bat.

His fingers brushed the side of her breast. Her breath hitched. There it is.

“Now,” he murmured, voice lower, rougher. “Swing through the ball.”

The ball sailed off the tee.

She squealed. “I hit it!”

Jason grinned. “Yup. Try again.”

She set her stance, tossing him a look through her lashes. “You’re not going to help me?”

Suspicion flared. She wanted him close. Like a moth to a flame, he stepped in behind her again, lining up their bodies.

She swung. Crack. Line drive. She turned in excitement—right into his arms. Their breath mingled. Lips inches apart.

“I don’t want the machine,” she whispered.

He kissed her. A slow, deep, consuming kiss that he knew was a mistake the second it started—but damn if he cared. His tongue probed her lips, licking gently but not delving inside until she responded. He then pulled her closer, his hands slipping down to cup her firm buttocks, lifting and molding her into his body, her thighs cradling his cupped cock.

She twined her arms around his neck, tangling her hands in his hair, tugging him down firmly.

Despite the roaring of blood in his ears, he heard a sound deep in the tunnel. Voices of players coming for their own batting practice since it was raining and they couldn’t take BP on the field. He broke the kiss and stared into her green eyes, caught the confusion mirrored there. “You might want to get dressed. Players are coming for BP.”

She patted her hair back to some semblance of order. He handed her the jacket and shoes and she quickly dressed. She was just settling when a few players and the hitting coach stepped into the small cage area.

Jason leaned against the far wall, faking a casual pose that he was far from feeling.

Stacia tossed her hair and settled a stern gaze on him. “We still need to discuss your actions the other night.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “What?” Recognition dawned. “Hey, he started it. Was I supposed to sit there and take it? And if you had wanted to discuss that, we didn’t need the little batting lesson.”

Judging by her perfectly shaped raised brow, she didn’t believe him. “You’re clearly busy so we’ll talk later tonight, back at the hotel. But we will talk. Please keep your temper. Avoid reporters for now.” She grabbed her bag and tossed it over her shoulder. “And remember, relax. Your swing will be much looser and you might actually get something out of the infield.”

The players hooted and jeered at Jason, who only smiled and inclined his head slightly. Round one Stacia Kendall.

She might be dangerous but she wasn’t unaffected as she’d like him to think. Jason watched her go, adjusting his cup, cursing softly.

They were far from over.

That night, he went four-for-four.

J ason slipped out of the locker room as soon as he could, avoiding the press, the cameras, and the overeager rookies who celebrated losses like they were victories. He should have been out drinking with the team, basking in the glory of a four-for-four night against one of the best lefties in the game. But instead, here he was—grounded.

Like a damn kid.

Not that he had anyone to celebrate with, anyway. The locker room was filled with twenty-somethings still getting their feet wet in the majors, and he had no desire to learn their names when half of them would be gone by next season. That was the way baseball worked. No attachments. No expectations. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.

He strode into the hotel lobby, pausing outside the bar and grill. The last time he’d been in there, things had gone south fast. His gaze swept the room, ears tuning in to the high-pitched laughter of a group of women near the back.

Bad idea.

But then again, since when had he ever been good at avoiding bad ideas?

He walked in, claiming a stool at the bar, and ordered a burger and a beer. Hell, he wasn’t technically breaking the rules. A man had to eat. And, whether she admitted it or not, he was waiting for her.

Stacia.

She’d disappeared after the game, and the absence burned more than it should have. After everything that had happened in the batting cage, he’d been sure she’d be waiting for him in the tunnel, ready with some smug, "I-told-you-so" look after his monster night at the plate.

But no. She’d ghosted him

The bartender slid his meal in front of him, and Jason sighed, picking up a fry. The least she could have done was have dinner with him after getting him all worked up.

The door opened, and instinct had him scanning the newcomers. A couple of reporters trailed in, looking for dirt to dish. Jason turned back to his food, determined to ignore them.

And then?—

"Oh my God! I can’t believe it! Jason Friar!"

He groaned internally. Not tonight. Not another one. Had he really been that much of a manwhore in his days?

The woman coming at him was barely out of her twenties, all glitter and cheap perfume, dressed like she belonged in a nightclub—not a hotel bar.

Before she could latch onto him, a warm hand curled around his arm.

“Honey, do you want to introduce us?”

Jason blinked as Stacia stepped between him and the groupie, her smile sweet, her eyes deadly. She turned to the woman, extending a perfectly manicured hand.

“I’m Stacia, Jason’s girlfriend. And you are?”

The groupie faltered, confusion clouding her features before she mumbled something unintelligible and backed away. Stacia kept smiling, a razor-sharp edge to her expression that left zero room for doubt.

The reporters at the bar subtly adjusted their angles, watching the whole scene unfold.

Jason just stared.

Stacia slid onto the stool beside him, grabbed his beer, and took a casual sip. Then, leaning in, she pressed her lips lightly to his—just enough for the vultures to get their shot.

“Play along,” she murmured against his lips. “I’m saving your ass.”

He smirked. “Damn, woman. You’re better than kryptonite. I’m keeping you around.”

The realization slammed into him, hard and fast—like a fastball to the ribs. The idea of keeping her around felt good. Felt right.

Why the hell hadn’t he thought of it before?

Stacia stole a fry from his plate and signaled the bartender for a beer of her own.

He growled. “You’re eating my food. Get your own.”

“Girlfriends always eat their boyfriend’s food. You want this to look convincing, right?”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “So, you believe me now?”

Her gaze flicked toward the reporters before she shrugged. “After that little incident? Yeah. Management will believe me too. So no worries about your contract.”

“Right,” he drawled, watching her carefully. “And the reporters?”

She gave a lazy wave in their direction. “Maybe they’ll finally get off your back.”

Suspicion clawed at him. “How many times have you pulled the girlfriend card to save a client?”

A shadow passed over her face. “Too many.”

Jason clenched his jaw. He didn’t like that answer. Not one damn bit. “How about being in my bed?”

Stacia didn’t even flinch. “I haven’t been in your bed.”

He arched a brow. “I distinctly remember otherwise.”

She smirked. “Hotel bed. Before you were my client. Doesn’t count.”

“And tonight?” He leaned in, just enough to let her feel the heat of his body. “We are dating now, aren’t we?”

“If I choose to sleep with you, it’ll be because I want to.”

Jason’s smirk deepened. “It’ll look odd if my girlfriend is on the road with me and not sleeping with me.”

She flicked her gaze over him, lips curving slightly. “You’re so sure I’ll cave?”

“I don’t make bets I can’t win.”

Her tongue darted out to lick the salt from her lips, and his stomach tightened. She stole another fry. He smacked her hand. “Order your own. These are mine.”

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Do I need my strength?”

Jason’s blood heated. Damn right, you do.

Before he could answer, a few of the reporters got up, leaving just one behind—Stan Garvin, the biggest pain in Jason’s ass. Stan eyed him like he was waiting for Jason to screw up, a smug smirk on his face. His good mood soured instantly, the food that had been so delicious, now tasting like sawdust in his mouth.

"Come on," he muttered. "Let’s get out of here."

He started to stand, but Stacia placed a hand on his arm. She turned, giving the reporter a thoughtful glance. “Hang on. I need to use the ladies’ room.” Then, she slipped off her stool and disappeared toward the bathrooms.

Jason sipped his beer, eyes narrowed. What the hell was she plotting now? A few minutes later, she returned, looking smug.

He eyed her suspiciously. “What did you do?”

She jerked her chin toward the mirror behind the bar. “Watch.”

Jason turned, his reflection blending with the scene behind him—where the groupie from earlier was now sliding into Stan Garvin’s booth. Garvin turned bright red. Jason bit back a laugh as the woman snuggled up to the reporter, who looked about five seconds from bolting.

Finally, she shrugged and walked away, leaving Garvin fuming.

Jason turned back to Stacia, shaking his head. “You’re evil.”

She took a slow sip of her beer. “I prefer strategic.” Stacia swirled back around next to him, took a large swallow of beer, then slid off the stool. “Be right back. Keep watching.”

She slid into the booth across from Stan, his face turning even redder within a minute or so of her presence. Jason gave up all pretense of not watching and turned to face the drama in the booth.

Yeah. He was definitely keeping her around.

S tacia slid into the booth across from Stan with a practiced ease, her movements smooth, unhurried, deliberate. She offered him a polite smile, the kind that masked sharp edges. “Hey, Stan. How’s the wife? I hear your son is looking at colleges on the West Coast. Maybe a scholarship?”

The older reporter squinted at her, his weathered face folding into deep creases of suspicion. “Who are you?” His voice held a gruff wariness. “How do you know about me?”

She tilted her head, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him uncomfortable. “Doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that I just witnessed something interesting.” She let her smile turn just a shade sharper. “Nice girl, Stan. What would your wife think?”

The air around them shifted. The table between them became an island of tension, cut off from the noise of the bar. Even the surrounding conversations seemed to dim, leaving only the distant murmur of a television filling the void.

Stan's face darkened. “What the…?” He blustered, his body stiffening, eyes darting toward the exit as if escape were an option.

“Don’t bother denying it.” Stacia pulled out her phone, turning the screen toward him with a flick of her wrist. The damning image—him, leaning in too close, his hand just brushing the younger woman’s waist—glowed in the dim light. “Your wife wouldn’t like seeing that. I wonder what she’d say.”

Stan lunged, but she yanked the phone back before he could snatch it, slipping it securely into her pocket. Her heart thudded with the familiar thrill of control.

“Nothing happened,” he ground out, his face ruddy with anger. “I don’t even know that girl.”

She arched a brow. “True. But I could flash that picture around and say all sorts of things, even blatant lies. People love a scandal. I think I could get plenty of folks to believe me, don’t you?”

His expression twisted, torn between fury and apprehension. “Is this about Friar and that girl?”

“No,” she said smoothly. “It’s about the relentless smear campaign you and your buddies have been running—the girls, the slurs, the outright fabrications. You take an incident, twist it into something salacious, and push it until the public eats it up.”

His eyes narrowed, the muscle in his jaw jumping. “And you’re so sweet and innocent in all of this, right? The image consultant trying to turn him into a choirboy? Like you’re not lying to the public.”

She let out a quiet laugh, unruffled. “I’m doing my job. Jason has done his. He’s keeping his nose clean. Meanwhile, vultures like you are out here setting him up for failure just to fill a few columns. How is that ethical?”

Stan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Lady, it’s the way things are.”

“Really?” She leaned back, crossing her arms, completely unaffected by his posturing. She’d faced harder men than him and walked away with their secrets in her pocket. “Why does it have to be that way?”

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “It just is.”

“Well,” she said, “let’s change it, shall we?”

His gaze snapped back to hers, wary. She pressed her advantage. “I delete the picture. In exchange, you start being more fair.” This was where she thrived—the art of negotiation. Political journalists were tougher, more ruthless. Sports guys like Stan? They liked to think they were untouchable, but they had egos. And egos were easy to manipulate.

Stan’s expression twisted. “We have to come up with something if he refuses to talk. The fans expect news.”

She leaned in, her voice a whisper of temptation. “What if I give you access to him? An exclusive?”

Stan barked a laugh. “No one wants an exclusive with a has-been.”

“Do you believe he’s a has-been?” She watched the flicker of doubt in his eyes. “I don’t think so. And when he nails it this season, when every reporter wants a piece of him, you’ll already have your in.”

Stan hesitated. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the table. “And if he sucks the rest of the season? He’s worthless to me.”

Stacia gave a slow, knowing smile. “Do you really think he’ll suck?”

The emotions played across his face—anger, consideration, resignation. Gotcha. She pressed forward. “Here’s the deal. I get rid of the pictures. You get your exclusive. And you stop fanning the flames against him.”

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s blackmail.”

“Whatever works.” She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. This was the part she loved—the power, the thrill of bending people to her will. It was intoxicating.

Stan studied her, his gaze sharp. “You’re a piece of work. How can I trust you?”

“I give you my word.”

His lips twisted in distaste. “Are you sleeping with him?”

“That’s none of your business,” she said smoothly. “But no, I am not.” A technicality, really. It wasn’t happening yet. But it would. And she had no qualms about that. Under the table, she crossed her fingers like a child, amused by the absurdity of it.

Stan didn’t believe her, but he wanted the exclusive enough to ignore his instincts. “How do I know he’ll cooperate?”

She smiled, all confidence. “That’s my job.” She extended a hand. “Deal?”

After a long beat, he shook it. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Stacia slid out of the booth, her heels clicking against the floor as she strode toward the bar. Jason was exactly where she’d left him, nursing a drink, brooding, his gaze hooded. She slid onto the stool beside him, leaning in just close enough to invade his space.

“You’re giving Stan exclusive rights to your season.” She watched his reaction carefully. “If you don’t want to talk to any reporters, you make sure you talk to him.”

His head snapped toward her, eyes flashing. “Have you lost your mind? He’s been the biggest asshole riding my tail.”

She reached for her purse, slinging it over her shoulder. “He’s on our side now. You’re welcome.” Then, before he could argue, she leaned in and pressed a quick, possessive kiss to his lips, savoring the moment of his stunned silence.

She pulled back, flashing a cheeky smile. “See you upstairs, baby.”

Then, without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and sauntered out of the bar, leaving Jason—and everyone else—watching her go.