Going All the Way (Knights of Passion Book 1) (23 page)

Everyone uses you. Walk away before they can take advantage.

Jason stuffed all emotion down deep in the well and covered it. He coolly studied the other man. “You’ve changed, Monroe.”

“It’s been a long time, son. Years.” His round face broadened in a smile, but Jason could still see the calculating gleam in his eye, the money signs Monroe could never quite hide around Jason.

“That’s not what you told Hammonds. And don’t call me son.” He tossed his jacket into the locker room and grabbed a t-shirt and sweat pants. “I’m hitting the cage, warming up for the game.”

“Want some help? Your swing was a little rusty in Kansas City.”

“No thanks. I got this.”

A
fter the game
that night, another loss, Jason stormed out of the locker room, hair still damp from the rushed shower. He scowled when he saw Stacia standing by the locker room door and brushed past her with a snarl. He had no interest in rehashing the interview, the confrontation with Monroe, the game. He just wanted to be left in peace. She didn’t let that deter her and scrambled to keep up with his long strides eating the concrete, feet pounding the pavement. When they got to his SUV, she tried to take the keys.

“You’re in no condition to drive.”

He whirled on her, hands raised to ward off discussion. “I’m not drunk, just pissed. Back off.”

There was no way he was going to wait for her to get her car and she was not letting him go without her. She bolted to the other side of the vehicle and slid in, barely before he took off. He swore and slammed his foot on the brake.

“Out. I’m in no mood for little Miss Sunshine and rainbows.” He pointed to the door, not in the mood of any more analysis.

“I’m going with you.” She buckled her seat belt and locked the door. “Besides, I promised you a steak dinner, and, judging by your attitude, you need to eat.”

He blinked a few times, confusion clouding his gaze. Then his face returned to the sullen scowl. He shifted into reverse and tore out of the parking space. “You asked for it.”

*

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.

*