by Megan Ryder
*
Nothing much was said on the drive to his condo. Stacia clung to the side handle as unobtrusively as possible but never said a word. Jason cast her a few sidelong glares, taking in the death grip and the subtle passenger side invisible brake, but she met his gaze, daring him to speak.
A short while later, they pulled into his condo. Stacia scrambled out of the car, gathering her briefcase, purse and laptop, hoping he wouldn’t close the door on her face. Instead, he was waiting at the door, holding it open for her. He closed it behind her and stomped upstairs. She walked into the kitchen and laid her things on the table then started to make dinner. A few minutes later, she heard him stomp down the stairs.
“What the hell? Stacia, get in here.”
She winced at the anger in his tone. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come back to his condo today. Not after her afternoon adventure. She wiped her hands on a towel and stepped into the living room from the kitchen/dining room. “Is there a problem?”
“You bet your sweet little ass there is. What the hell happened to my furniture?”
She glanced around the now-furnished room and the dearth of boxes. She smiled. “Isn’t this more comfortable? A couch instead of a lawn chair, chairs, lights and no boxes. I unpacked for you since you said you had no time.”
He glared at her, fists planted on his hips, body rigid and tense. “I told you to stop mothering me. I was fine with my chair and boxes. I’m barely here, and won’t be staying for long. And how did you get in?”
She shrugged. “It’s the team’s condo. I asked for a key. You don’t like it?” She held her breath, waiting for the explosion.
He growled low in his throat and stalked across the room to the couch. He flopped down and grabbed the remote, flipping on the television.
Stacia frowned. “Thank you, Stacia, for taking time out of your busy schedule and unpacking for me. Dinner smells great.”
He flipped the channels, turning up the volume on ESPN, drowning out her voice. She snorted, but the sizzling from the steak drew her attention back to the kitchen. She flipped the steak with more force than necessary, splattering herself with burning grease. She cried out and wiped her hand.
Within seconds, Jason had come in the room, grabbed her hand and ran it under cold water, rubbing it lightly to clean it off. His gentle touch sent fluttering deep into her stomach and lower still. “Are you okay?” His low voice rumbled, all traces of anger gone.
She nodded, blinking back the tears but failing.
“Sit down. I’ll finish this.” He guided her to a chair, grabbed some ice and wrapped it in a wet towel. He squatted in front of her and tenderly picked up her hand and placed the ice wrap on it. He gently rubbed her arms soothingly until her tears stopped. Then he went back to the small kitchen and adjusted the temperature on the steak then popped the vegetables into the microwave.
She watched him move about the kitchen, clearly well-accustomed to cooking, despite his earlier words. “I thought you didn’t cook?”
“I like to eat. Have to cook to eat.”
“Did your mom teach you how to cook?”
A subtle pause, so quick she barely noticed, then he resumed his actions. “Mom was too busy to cook. She worked two jobs to feed us and she was just out of high school. Most times, it was barely enough.”
“Did you cook for her?” Another layer in the Jason Friar onion. What else would she find? Her heart melted a little more. What woman didn’t like a man who could cook and took care of his mom?
“Sometimes, when I got older. She’d come home so tired. She tried to be a good mom, she just didn’t have the time.” His voice was gruff, as if rusty and tired.
“What about your father?”
“Bailed when she was still pregnant.” His tone closed the book on that line of dialogue.
“Have you ever thought about looking him up?”
He paused, a cold look in his eyes, face as hard as granite. “He found me when I signed my first contract. He wanted what was due him as my father. He was barely more than a gene donor, an accident of birth. And he wanted a reward? For bailing on me and my mom, never supporting us—financially or emotionally—then expecting us to give him money? I made sure he would never bother either of us again.” Bitterness tinged the words, remembered pain flowing through, giving her more layers.
“Not very forgiving.” She tried to keep any tone of judgment out of her voice, afraid he would react negatively and she wanted to keep the peace.
“He didn’t deserve it.”
“Sounds like they were both young when you came along.”
He stopped, the spatula in his hand, and banked anger in his eyes. “Yes, they were. Young and stupid. But they handled it differently. Mom accepted her responsibilities while he bailed. He deserved nothing because he gave nothing more than sperm, which I’m sure he was free with his whole life.”
“What did you do?”
“My agent helped me find a lawyer to make sure my father could never come sniffing around me or my mom again. I gave him nothing. I owe him nothing.”
She let the silence grow between them, seeing an image of the boy he had been and it brought tears to her eyes, though sympathy would be unwelcome. She was also seeing a better version of the man he had become and the wounds he held deep inside, wounds he might never acknowledge. What other scars was Jason hiding and was she ready to hear them?
She was under no illusions about this man. He was not the same Jason Friar she had met a few weeks ago. Or maybe she was the one who had changed. Jason had changed and she’d like to think she had something to do with that, bringing out a different side to him. He wasn’t like her other clients, rotten and needing a face lift to the media. How could she go back to that world after experiencing the satisfaction from helping Jason succeed?
How could she leave this man who was becoming so much more than a client?
He slid a plate in front of her, a portion of the steak on it, a generous helping of vegetables and a baked potato. She smiled. “Not bad, Friar.”
He shrugged. “You started it. I only finished it.”
The smells wafted up and her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since lunch. They both dug in, eating in comfortable silence. They were just about done when Jason spoke.
“The house looks nice.” He grunted.
Warmth spread throughout her body, and she smothered a smile. “You’re welcome.”
“You shouldn’t have done it. I won’t be here that long.”
And he ruined the moment. “Isn’t it nice to have a place to sit at night instead of staring at boxes? Now you can even find your clothes.”
He paused, a mouthful of food midway between his mouth and plate. “You went through my clothes?”
“Yes, and we need to talk about your wardrobe. One color. Black. Seriously. Have you seen the rainbow?”
“I don’t want to wear fruity colors. I’m not a vegetable.”
“Yes, yes, you’re a deep, dark baseball player. Serious. Intense. Sexy. A splash of color can add so much.”
He dropped his fork with a clatter. “No more, Stacia. Stop changing me into someone I’m not. Maybe I’m not that guy, did you ever think about that?”
“I’m not changing you. Just trying to enhance you and your image. I want people to see the real you, the one I see. Someone open to people, more accessible.” She just wanted people to love him like she did, see the real Jason. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so lonely.
“Maybe I don’t want to be open to people, accessible. What the hell does that even mean?”
“It’s simple. When you wear colors other than black, you look more fun and people want to talk to you. When you wear all black, you look like your best friend just died.”
“I don’t have a best friend,” he grumbled.
She stared at him for a long moment, then the words slipped out before she could call them back. “Well, that’s just pathetic.”
He stared
back, looking stunned. Then he laughed, a loud booming sound with a hint of rust falling off. “It is, isn’t it?” Then he quickly sobered. “It is, isn’t it?” he repeated.
Sensing the conversation headed down a deep and depressing path, she changed the subject. “How is the team doing?”
Judging by the anger darkening his face, that was not the best choices of topics either. The television echoed Jason’s reaction as the sportscaster began a story on the Georgia Knights.
What’s going on with the Georgia Knights? Is this young team overcome by the pressures of big league ball, can’t handle the stretch?
What did they expect? They brought in Jason Friar, a washed-up has-been who has no idea how to pull a team together.
Jason stood and walked into the living room, staring at the television. Stacia followed him, listening to the sportscasters debate the team.
I disagree, Bill. Friar has held up his end of the bargain. His on-base percentage is the highest on the team. His average is close to 400. And he’s been hitting the home runs. What more can you ask?
This is a young team. Maybe they need more than numbers to help them win.
Jason flicked off the set, eyes shuttered. He sagged onto the couch, head falling back on the cushion, a deep sigh forced out from his lips. Stacia sat on the couch next to him, a hand resting on his thigh.
“The announcer is right. You’ve done everything the team asked of you.”
“But it’s not working. We’re losing. You’ve seen our record since I’ve joined the team. Four and twelve. With a record like that, we can’t hope to win the division or even the wild card.” He leaned forward and ran his fingers through his hair, then sat there head in his hands. “It’s like these kids don’t care.”
“Do you really believe that? Do you really believe they want to lose? Maybe they need a wakeup call. Someone to shake them out of their funk.”
He laughed. “Funk? These kids are happy to be in the majors. They’re partying every night, loud music in the locker room, more money than they know what to spend it on. They think they’re in fucking paradise.”
“Maybe they need a reminder of why they’re in the major leagues.” Just like you do, she added as she cleared the table.
*
Stacia’s words echoed through his head all night and the next day, through the pregame and the game, where the team committed three errors, and a loss of focus in the ninth, they ended up losing the game. Their closer, Juan Ramirez, was clearly frustrated with the team. He threw his mitt into the dugout and refused to pump fists or even accept condolences from the players.
Jason waited for the guys to file out of the dugout before he walked over to Ramirez. “Tough break, man.”
“We had it. We had the game. What the hell’s going on with Patterson? He didn’t even try to catch that ball, and he had plenty of time from the mound. He can’t pitch lately, can’t catch, can’t hit. He’s dragging the team down.” A thumping of rap music blared from the locker room, shaking the floor. “And the loud fucking music, like an earthquake. They need to be woken up, man. You know I can’t do it. Pitchers and players don’t mix. Players police players.”
“What do you want me to do about it? They think I’m a joke.”
Ramirez stared at him. “Then make them see you differently.”
Jason filed into the locker room. Players were talking bullshit with the reporters, pounding back food and beer, laughing and joking with each other, the music thumping in the room. The ringleader of the younger guys, Cody Patterson, newest phenom and golden boy of the pitching staff, was the team clown, dancing obscenely to the music. He generated lots of laughs. Too bad his play on the field was a joke too.
A couple of reporters looked at Jason then quickly glanced away sensing his mood or maybe they too were uncomfortable with the frat house atmosphere. He grabbed his things and walked to the showers, seeing the manager in his office, door closed, shutting out what he could of the noise. No help from that quarter.
Jason let the hot water pour down on him, washing away the stench of losing, but the steady thump of the rap music pummeled him, ratcheting up his tension with every thump of the bass. His blood pounded the beat in his head, a dull steady pounding reminding him of losses, stupidity, and the futility of the situation. With barely one month left in the season, other teams were scenting blood and making their move on the league-leading Georgia Knights—and the Knights were not responding. He was finally on the upswing personally; his on-base percentage was high. He was hitting home runs again and his fielding was solid—when Cody could get the ball on target. In the past, he usually stepped up his game and the team responded. But with this team, nothing worked.
Stacia’s words pounded into him in time with the music. Maybe they need a reminder of why they’re in the major leagues?
Finally, frustration got the better of him—the strike outs, the fly outs, the missed RBIs. He turned off the water, wrapped a towel around his waist and stormed out of the locker room.
When he entered the locker area, Bill Monroe was joking with Cody. A coach should know better. And, as a hitting coach, he had no business messing with a pitcher, even if the pitcher had to hit every five days in his game. Instead, Monroe was sinking his hooks into another young star, dragging him and the team down all in an effort to have his own success. No way would he let Monroe corrupt another young kid. No way would anyone else be used. Not on his watch.
Ramirez saw him, accurately read the gleam in his eyes, and a wary look passed over his face. “Hey man, it’s not worth it. They’re young and stupid.”
“And they’re pissing away any chance they have for the playoffs.” Jason spied a bat leaning negligently against the wall. He grabbed it then smashed the boom box.
The rap music instantly cut off, a deafening silence choking the air. He swung the bat a few more times, making sure the radio was dead and unrecoverable, the plastics and electronics making satisfying cracking sounds. He smiled grimly, satisfied at the destruction.
The players turned and stared at him, a mixture of anger, annoyance and confusion in their expressions. Patterson stepped forward, belligerence etched on his flushed face. “What the hell, man?”
“Is losing fun? Do you like to lose? Because I fucking hate it. There’s no trophies for participation. No almost-won rings. No parades for losers. There’s only one ring and that’s when you win it all. And when you lose, you’re not getting that ring.”
“We’re just blowing off steam,” Cody replied sullenly.
The coaches stepped out of the manager’s office, but no one said anything, just stared at him. Bill Monroe took a step forward, mouth open. Jason pointed the bat at him, warning him to back off.
Jason snorted. “You’re pissing away the season. Just a few weeks ago, you were in first place and on a steady pace to get to the playoffs. Right now, you’ve blown off enough steam to drop to second in the division and in the wild card. At this rate, you’ll be back in the cellar in no time. Maybe you like to be there. Maybe you can’t handle the pressure of the playoffs.”
“What do you care, old man?” The kid swaggered up to Jason, full of piss and vinegar and his own ego. He glanced around at the rest of the team, but no one met his gaze. “You just got here and you’ll be gone as soon as the season ends. It’s our team, not yours. We can do what we want.”
“That’s pathetic.” Jason tossed the bat aside and met Cody toe to toe. “It’s your team and you don’t care if you win or lose? Why the fuck should I bust my ass out there? Why should any of us? Let’s just phone it in, like you’ve been doing, Patterson, lolling the ball to first, dogging it down the line, not even attempting to catch a ball hit right to you.”
“Not all of us had the luxury of half the season off. Most of have been humping it here all season while you’ve been on your ass watching the games.” He stretched his arms out and struck a pose.
“Yeah, if you don’t have the endurance, get the hell out of the
game. Let someone else have a shot since you clearly don’t give a shit. You have real talent, all of you do.” He paused, making eye contact with the cadre of young guys, willing them to meet his stare. “But you’re fucking up. If you don’t want to win, go home. There are plenty of kids in the minors who would kill for one day in your shoes.” Jason stormed to his locker and began to dress.
Silence slowly fell away to the low murmur of voices. No one challenged him or even looked his way. They all dressed in relative quiet and, one by one, or in small groups, left the locker room.
*
Jason walked out of the locker room and down the hall to the exit ramp. Leaning against the wall was Cole Hammonds. Shit. He had just blasted the team’s golden boy and Hammonds’ favorite player. Losing always left a sour taste in his mouth, but the bullshit he just doled out made him tired, exhausted. And here was the general manager, probably ready to kick his ass for daring to ream out the kid. Another reminder of his short leash, or his tenuous position on the team, was something he didn’t need.
“I’ll pay for the damn radio,” he growled.
Cole fell into step next to him walking up the ramp. “The hell you will. They needed that wake-up call. All of them.”
Jason glanced sideways at the GM but said nothing.
“They don’t know how to lose,” Hammonds said, in a mild tone.
“Hell, they barely know how to win,” Jason replied.
“That’s what Callahan wanted you to teach them.”
Jason rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Shit, you saw what they think of me. A washed-up old-timer who doesn’t belong.”
“Is that what you think?” For the first time, Cole sounded willing to work with Jason, interested in his opinion.
“Does it matter?”
Cole shrugged. “Well, I’d think it would be a matter of pride. Besides, you won’t get a decent contract anywhere if the team goes into free fall, which happens to coincide with your arrival. You’ll be blamed.”
“Won’t be the first time I’m blamed for something I didn’t do. I’m sure it won’t be the last.”