Going All the Way (Knights of Passion Book 1) (32 page)

She rounded the last table and froze before entering the small alcove where Michael was sitting. He stood, a warning look on his face. It was the other person sitting there that commanded her attention. Her father unfolded the napkin on his lap and thanked the waiter for the drink. The one highball allowed for a business dinner. He followed Michael’s gaze and scowled at her.

She forced her legs to move, forced her lungs to breathe, and tried to force down the flight response, the panic clamoring at her to flee back to the safety of her condo. She was a Kendall. Kendalls never showed fear. Only this time, the thought failed her. She was afraid. Terrified of what she would do next.

She closed the small gap to the table and held out her hand to her boss, proud that it wasn’t shaking. “Michael. I thought it was just us.”

He held out the chair for her and sat after she did. “Your father asked to be part of this conversation.”

And you didn’t have the balls to say no
, she mentally finished the sentence for him. Not that she ever did either. Only with Jason as support. She buried the stab of pain at his name and took a sip of the water. “Hello, Father. I’m sorry to disrupt your busy schedule for me.”

He frowned at her snippy tone. “I’ve been dealing with cleaning up your mess all week. You could at least show a little gratitude.”

She bared her teeth in a brittle facsimile of a smile. “Of course. Thank you so much for your assistance.”

His frown deepened. “I don’t appreciate your tone. I saved your job and reputation.”

“Do you now believe me about your favorite son, Glazier? That he’s the reason his campaign failed, not me?” She didn’t know why the question was so important to her, but she held her breath, waiting for his response.

“I don’t think…” Michael started to speak, a note of panic in his voice, but Senator Kendall waved a hand, gaze intent on her.

“That’s neither here nor there. What does it matter?”

“It matters to me.” Her tone made him pause, his brow furrowing in true confusion.

“Suffice it to say, he’s not the man I thought he was. I’ve withdrawn my endorsement. I doubt he has a chance of being elected. Ever. Are you happy now?”

She nodded, a shallow dig of her head. The victory was hollow, empty, meaningless. “Thank you.” She smoothed the napkin on her lap and signaled the waiter. “I’ll have unsweetened ice tea, please, and the Cobb salad.”

Michael heaved a sigh of relief. “Now, let’s get down to business. Your time with the Knights is over. You fulfilled the contract better than they expected. They’re raving about you.”

Her father muttered something under his breath and Stacia leaned closer to him. “Did you say something?”

He shook his head, then appeared to think better of it. “You did a good job with him. Even I believed the choirboy act.”

“It wasn’t an act. You and the rest of the media treated him abominably. Yes, maybe he wasn’t a saint, but he wasn’t the villain you painted him to be.”

“His character was never the point. He put himself in a position to be judged that way. You of all people know how important appearances are.”

“Maybe I don’t care about appearances.”

Her father stared at her, his drink frozen halfway to his mouth. “What did you say?”

Realization dawned in her, the knowledge unfurling like a flower deep inside, thawing her. She smiled, a genuine smile for the first time in what felt like months. “I don’t care about appearances and I’m tired of whitewashing people, lying to the public about how wonderful a person is. I’m tired of feeling dirty, of the lies, of deceit. Just once, I want a job I can be proud of. Well, another job.”

The two men exchanged a glance, then Michael cleared his throat. “Politics is probably not the best job for you then, which fits in with our plans.”

“Your plans?” She glanced between the two men, feeling a slow burn of anger at the two men deciding her life for her. Again. She folded her hands, struggling to control her temper. “What about me? My plans?”

“Do you have any plans?” her father asked, in an arch tone. “I think you’ve thrown away your chances at politics anyway. I can only help you so far until you apologize.”

“No plans,” she admitted. “And I don’t believe I have anything to apologize for.”

“Then what does it matter, to hear our plans?” her father asked.

“I don’t like someone deciding my life for me. You’ve done enough of that.”

He grunted but said nothing. Michael sighed. “Stacia, why don’t you wait until we share our thoughts before making up your mind?”

“Does it involve politics?” she asked.

“No, it’s fund raising for a non-profit.” Michael held up a hand to stave off Stacia’s instant comment. “It’s not in your usual sphere, but it might be just the change you’ve been asking for.”

She nodded slowly. It was something new. Something to use to bury the pain until it was no longer fresh. “Send me the details and I’ll consider it.”

Her father grunted next to her. “You’re lucky to have this opportunity. You could join my campaign.”

“Never in a million years. I’m done with politics.”

Never again would she compromise her principles. She was done cleaning up rotten images, putting sweet faces on nasty people. She was done with it all.

J
ason hunched in
the chair, the room plunged in darkness, the shades drawn to block out the sun. It was all very melodramatic, like a bad movie, but he didn’t care. The phone blinked with several messages he didn’t have the heart to listen to. He didn’t even know how the Knights were doing in the playoffs after winning the game. Several of the players and staff had stopped by, even Cole Hammonds and Miranda Callahan, but he ignored the knocking.

Scott, his agent, was the latest visitor. He even made it past the front door, mainly because he had a key for some reason. He tried to explain Jason’s options—color commentaries, play-by-play reporting, even coaching. But he wasn’t ready to hear any other options. There was only one thing he wanted, the one thing he couldn’t have.

Stacia.

His thoughts had turned to her more and more over the past several days and he replayed their last encounter incessantly in his mind. He had pushed her away, hurt her, but he always expected her to come back. She always did. Maybe he had fucked up for the last time.

The quiet opening then closing of the front door interrupted his sulking. Without looking up or turning around, he said, “Get out, Scott. I don’t need any more bullshit today.”

“Well, you need something.” Stacia spoke from behind him, acid in her tone. “Sitting on your ass on a perfectly wonderful day feeling sorry for yourself. Poor Jason.” She stalked across the room and opened the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, blinding him, her determined steps clicking on the hardwood floor, each step stabbing him. “I understand how you feel but there’s a whole world out there waiting for you.”

And he had wanted her to come back? Not like this. Declarations of love and peace and sympathy were what he wanted, not nagging and harassment. “You have no idea how I feel. Baseball is everything. I have nothing else.”

“Boohoo. Seriously, Jason. You have so much to offer and so many more years left. Are you going to sit here in this dark room until the day you die or that chair grows into your ass?” He jerked his head up and stared at her, bewildered. “That can happen. I saw it on TV. Anyway, the Knights are playing the final round of the Division Series tonight and they want you there, kind of a morale boost and a nice gesture to the fans. You’re going.”

Slowly, he stood. “I think you forgot something. I fired you.”

She smiled. “I’m not doing this as your image consultant but as your own personal ass-kicker. And you couldn’t fire me since I never worked for you.”

He turned away. “No thanks.”

She grabbed his good arm and dragged him toward the stairs. “Not an option. Come on. Get dressed.” She sniffed. “And you might want to shower too. Need help with your arm?”

He glared at her and stalked up the stairs. What the hell was he doing? Going to the game to get pity? He started to turn around and refuse, but Stacia was right behind him.

“Move it,” she ordered, pushing him up the stairs.

This wasn’t what he had in mind when he wondered where she was. But maybe she cared. She had cared enough to come back today, after all he had done. A glimmer of hope unfurled inside, the chance that he could fix what he had done wrong. Was it possible? Was there hope for them yet?

*

Jason paused in
the darkened tunnel as the crowd roared. The team was on the field and didn’t know he was there yet, in case he chickened out. He stood between Seamus Callahan, Miranda and Cole Hammonds, listening to the national anthem and the announcing of the teams. Finally, it was his moment. He took a deep breath and felt a warm hand on his back, rubbing gently, then a hard push.

He stepped out of the tunnel, into the dugout then onto the steps to the field. There was a momentary pause when the cameras caught sight of him and everyone realized he was there. Then the crowd got louder and his teammates crowded him, mindful of his shoulder and arm but all welcoming, with back slaps and head rubs. He laughed a little and broke away when he heard the commentator announce his name.

He took the ball from the umpire and walked to the mound, waving to the crowd. His heart pounded in his chest and tears pricked his eyes. He had no idea the fans cared about him, that anyone cared. He gestured with his bad arm, and made a motion to let them know he was fine. He kicked the dirt a little, getting set for the first pitch. He saw Alex, the catcher, move in a little closer and he waved him back. If he was going to do this, he would go all the way.

He set and threw the ball with his left hand. Amazingly enough, it made it all the way to the catcher without a bounce. Not quite a strike but close enough. The team mobbed him again and he walked off the field to the cheers of a crowd of people who didn’t even know he existed two months ago and had booed him when he first arrived. Go figure. They loved him now.

Maybe there was hope.

He bounded down the dugout and into the tunnel where Cole and Miranda waited. He glanced around quickly, excited to thank Stacia, but she was nowhere to be found.

“She left. She thought it best,” Miranda said.

Cole put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on up to the owner’s box for the game. We have a lot to talk about.”

Jason struggled against the tide of people swarming him away, looking for a Stacia in the crowds. Where had she gone? This was as much her moment as his. She had made him, and he needed her. How could she have left?

*

He stared at
the paper in his hand, Cole Hammonds’ words echoing in his head. A contract for next season. The crowd sounded in the background, cheering the team on in the playoff game, but the game, the crowd, the season, faded for him, crystallized into this one moment. Everything he had thought he wanted, he held in his hand. A playing contract for next season, no restrictions. Why did he feel so hollow?

“I may not be able to play. In fact, the doctor says I’ll never play again. So why the contract?”

“You’re a member of the Knights family,” Seamus said. “No matter what happened, you now belong to us. There’s a surgeon on the West Coast who has been doing miraculous things with shoulders. We’ve already set up an appointment with him for you next week, when the team is on the coast for the next playoff game. Get a second opinion, see what he says.”

He snorted, a sound of mirth but no real humor behind it. Dare he hope? Could he have his career back?

“You may never play a base again,” Cole said. “The surgery may allow you to be a designated hitter and occasional field player, but you and I both know, shoulder injuries are only a matter of time. As a designated hitter, you can continue working with these kids, developing them and mentoring them. A player-coach.” He studied him, sharp eyes assessing, weighing, judging.

Jason sat back in the seat in the owner’s box, watching the team,
his
team, winning in the Division Series. The team was a tighter unit, knew how to win, because of his influence. He knew that, he’d made that happen. And he had had more satisfaction from that knowledge than any win or home run or play he’d ever made on the field. His influence was in the locker room. He could be a designated hitter, aging gracefully like so many other stars. He could extend his career, but always knowing it was a half of a career at best, a ghost of what he had always wanted. Now, his eyes had opened. He didn’t need to play the sport he loved to be his identity. He had other options. The Knights, and Stacia, had shown him other ways.