by Megan Ryder
Stacia’s cell phone rang and she jumped. She rubbed her eyes, trying desperately to rub the grit out of them after reviewing Jason Friar’s extensive, and colorful, history for the past, she glanced at her watch, five hours. He was right about one thing; the fans had loved him, despite everything, until he got injured last year. Then all his bad karma came home to roost.
She glanced at the caller ID. About time he called her back. She pressed the answer button. “Hey, Michael. Glad you finally returned my call.”
“Hey, Stace. How does it look?” He spoke breezily, ignoring her sarcasm.
She sat back in her chair and swiveled around to face the back wall and the picture of the team. “He’s a freakin’ train wreck, that’s what he is. A complete disaster. And he has no interest in changing.”
“None of them ever do. And that’s not what we do. We’re not shrinks. We just polish them to make them look nice to the public. A little polish over the rotten core. Who they are and what they do doesn’t matter as long as they don’t get caught.” Irritation laced his tone. He didn’t even bother to hide it. “You know this. So, what’s the problem?”
She twirled a strand of her hair in her finger. What was the problem? She barely knew Jason and couldn’t believe she actually cared about what happened to him. Maybe it was something deeper, something she’d sensed on the campaign with Glazier. That vague sense of discomfort, of knowing that what she was doing wasn’t quite right. That feeling had been growing steadily for the past year or so. Of course, working with dirty, scum-sucking politicians didn’t help her feeling of helping the world.
“Stacia? Are you there?” Impatience rang through his tone, and irritation made his words sharper.
“What? Yes, I’m here, Michael. I guess I’m just feeling a little burnt out.”
Yes, she was tired. Tired of whitewashing dirty politicians. Tired of making bad people look good. Tired of dressing the ugly of the world into pretty little packages. But what else could she do?
“Don’t quit on me now, Kendall! Remember, you need this job.”
A few nights ago, the warning tone in his voice would have sent a chill down her spine. Instead, she only felt tired, a bone deep exhaustion exposed by her recent campaign and the resulting failure. Maybe she should have taken the implied vacation and used the time to examine her life. What would she find? A lonely, sad woman who conned the public into believing the lies and polish she placed on a pile of crap all in the name of a job. Was that what she wanted out of her life?
What about my needs, a tiny voice inside spoke, poking at her consciousness. What about what I wanted, needed, felt?
Then her own words came back to haunt her, the ones she had tossed at Jason earlier that day.
Stop whining. Grow up. Take responsibility for your actions.
Yes, it was time she took her own advice. After this job, maybe it would be time to reconsider.
She sighed. “I’m not quitting, Michael.”
“Fine. Look, I took you on without any experience and you’ve handled yourself pretty well. Your biggest attraction for me is your connections and your ability to work with politicians, but if you can’t get the job done, with a slam dunk like Glazier, then we’re going to have issues and I may need to rethink this relationship. Got it?” Barely skipping a beat, he continued. “Talk to me about Friar. What’s the plan?”
Ignoring the chill of the threat, she whirled back in her chair to the laptop and began debriefing him about the problems and her proposed solution. But the little voice didn’t go away, reminding her of something she had lost a long time ago.
Her conscience.
Chapter Six
Jason sat in the back of the taxi and took a deep breath. The stadium loomed high, casting a deep shadow in the afternoon sunlight. He stared at the door to the visitors’ clubhouse. It was the day he had waited for, and dreaded, since the last time he had walked out of a stadium similar to this one. He had limped then, his arm in a sling, his body bruised, his soul battered by the jeers of the fans as well as the condemnation of his teammates and coaching staff.
Now he was returning to the sport that had been his whole life, his reason for being, the sport that had kicked his ass to the curb one year prior. After imagining this day for over a year, watching countless games, the playoffs and series, and then opening day, all from his couch, it seemed rather anticlimactic. No one was waiting for him, no adoring crowds, groupies, cheering fans. Not even the media, those damn vultures, looking to expose him however they could.
He was on his own, for maybe the first time in his whole life and it sucked.
“Hey, buddy. You getting out or going somewhere else? I got places to be, man.” The cabbie glanced in the rear view mirror, completely ignorant and uncaring of the dilemma facing Jason in that moment.
“Yeah, it’s fine. What do I owe you?”
After taking care of the fare, Jason slung the duffle bag over his shoulder, grabbed the handle of the suitcase and strode toward the doorway with the waiting security guard. Never let them see you sweat, no matter what the circumstances.
“Jason Friar, Georgia Knights.”
The guard nodded and gestured him inside. “Been expecting you.”
Nice to know someone was waiting for him. Not exactly the reception a big star would get. But what did he expect? He was a former big star, now his status was unproven. He was lower than a minor league call-up in September. Yup, this was going to be fun.
As he walked down the hallway to the locker room, the familiar noises and scents greeted him. Stale sweat, pine tar, and ointment traveled into his nose. He took a deep breath. God, he’d missed the smells.
He pushed open the door and the sound of loud rap music slammed into him as forcefully as a hurricane wind. The dull roar of the players stopped instantly, with only the rhythmic banging of the music pounding the air. Someone switched that off, leaving a silence that was as deafening as the noise previously. Twenty-four pairs of eyes stared at him, and very few were friendly. Not outright hostile, but there wasn’t much love for him there.
“Friar? My office, now.” A bellow sounded from the back of the room. As if a switch had been turned back on, the players resumed their activities but more subdued. They watched him walk the length of the locker room to the manager’s office.
He stepped into the office and closed the door, facing the one man sitting and the two others framing him behind the desk. The manager gestured to the seat in front and Jason sat down, after dropping his duffle by the door.
“So, they really did it. They signed you.”
The raspy voice grated on Jason’s nerves, a blast from his past, and not a good one. He looked over to see an older man, fit even in his fifties, no fat on his frame, and a scowl on his face. The hair may have been a little whiter, a little thinner than the last time they had met, but Jason wasn’t the same either. Time was a bitch to everyone.
“Nice to see you too, Sam.” He nodded to the one man he’d hoped not to see again. Sam Monteleone had been the bench coach during his downfall and made it clear he thought Jason was a disgrace to the game. He had hoped time would have eased that animosity.
Wouldn’t be the first time he was wrong.
“Well, this is a fine mess they handed me.” Sam slammed his hands on the desk and stood up, striding around the desk to get in Jason’s face. “First a team of rookies who can barely catch a goddamn ball and now a washed-up druggie with a bum shoulder. I’ll admit, I was hoping for someone to guide this team, not drag ’em into the mud. Listen up, Friar. Keep your nose clean and stay clear of these young guys. They got their whole careers ahead of them. They don’t need you dragging ’em down.”
Jason leaned back and crossed an ankle over his knee. “Thanks for the support, coach. So glad you didn’t believe the bullshit from the media. I was cleared, in case you’d forgotten.”
The other man snorted. “Where there’s smoke, Friar. Just go out there and try to play. I know it’s been awhile. The lit
tle white round thing is called a ball. Hit the damn thing and catch it. Just don’t throw it away like your career.”
Jason struggled for calm and stood. “Is that all, Skip?”
“Yeah, yeah. See Artie. He’ll have your locker and gear. BP in thirty minutes.” He turned his attention to the papers on his desk.
Jason resisted the urge to slam the office door and went about getting settled. The rumors would always follow him, like a groupie desperate for one last screw. Well, this time he would not be the one getting screwed but would make sure no one could pin anything else on him.
A few hours later, life was all as it should be. Jason could almost forget the past year, the trials and the tribulations. The feel of an ash bat weighing on his shoulder, the solid crack as it made contact with the fastball the stupid young pitcher thought could get past this old has-been, the sound of cheers and groans from the crowd and the smack of the ball slapping the glove seconds before his foot hit the base.
“Out!” the ump bellowed.
He resisted the urge to toss his helmet as he jogged back to the dugout amid jeers and cheers from the hometown crowd. His teammates avoided his gaze and only one man met his eyes – the manager, Sam. He nodded as if to say, next time, then he returned his attention to the game.
The bottom of the first and Jason was at first base. Tom Pignante reached on a long single to left. As he tossed his hitting gloves to the first base coach, he glanced at Jason.
“Monk? They let you back in this game? Guess they’ll let anyone in.”
“Pigpen.” Jason nodded and the other man’s face turned beet red.
“Bastard.” Pigpen spit a wad of tobacco in the dirt just missing Jason’s shoe. “You rolled on one of your teammates. Dirty bastard.”
“What, I was supposed to let him accuse me of dealing ’roids to the team? I may be a lot of things, but a druggie and pusher is not one of them. Did the accusation hit too close to home, Pigpen?” Anger burned low and hot, the urge to hurt the other man had him making a fist.
Pigpen saw the fist and grinned, a toothy nasty smile that made Jason want to smack him. “Bring it on, Monk.”
Jason stepped in, so close he could smell the nasty tobacco breath. “You’re disgusting, Pigpen.”
The first base ump stepped in, shoving an arm between the two men. “Break it up.”
Jason turned his attention back to the game, but the accusation still stung. Apparently, people were more concerned that he rolled on a teammate than the fact that he never did drugs.
Guess being a steroid user was preferable to a snitch.
*
The rest of the game passed as innocuously as his first at-bat. At least he didn’t make any errors. The team still lost, six to one. They streamed through the tunnel to the locker room, but not with the feeling of dejection Jason expected. When they hit the locker room, they attacked the food table and joked around, tossing towels and toiletries like it was a win.
Jason stood in the doorway. The vultures lurked around his locker waiting for their pound of flesh. He hadn’t made any errors, but he hadn’t hit anything either. He had no doubt he was the scapegoat for the loss. Yet, the young guys were joking around like nothing was wrong. What had happened in a year? Did losing not matter anymore?
“Stupid, aren’t they?”
He looked around at the soft, accented voice at his shoulder.
Juan Ramirez, the closer, stood next to him. “They’re young and stupid. Just happy to be in the big leagues and more than happy to live down to the expectations of the league that they be cellar dwellers. Welcome to the club, Friar.” He pushed past Jason and into the flashing bulbs of the cameras.
Jason steeled his spine, planted what he hoped was a smile firmly in place and stalked into the locker room. Immediately, the reporters spied him, like sharks scenting blood in the water, and they shoved their microphones into his face, flashbulbs and cameras catching his every move.
A raspy voice, damaged from years of smoking, drinking and yelling slammed into him, a voice from the past. “How’s the shoulder, Friar? Didn’t look too good out there.”
Stan Garvin stood in front of a camera, notebook in his hand, ever-present, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. His bloated face and red nose testified to his drinking and the stink of smoke clung to his clothes. He was a throw-back to the early days of reporting, a stereotype.
And he was Jason’s nemesis.
The one reporter who’d led the charge against him, keeping alive the stories of partying, bad attitudes and steroids. It had been a year. A year since their last face-to-face meeting. A year since Jason had to look him in the eye and restrain himself. A year of pain, frustration and impotence, unable to defend himself. Now the bastard was standing in front of him, a smirk on his face, daring him to react.
Stan pressed one step further, one step too far. “Maybe you should have stayed on the ’roids.”
Rage at the loss, at the comments from Pigpen, at his failures on the field burst out of him. Next thing Jason knew, he had the reporter pinned to another player’s locker. Clothes, toiletries, equipment scattered around them, falling like rocks from an avalanche. He leaned in, noses almost touching. “You son of a bitch.”
The other man just smiled and smacked a kiss at him, exhaling stale beer and cigarette breath. “Thanks for my lead story, Friar. You never disappoint.”
Shock slammed into Jason, the words having more impact than Juan pulling him off the reporter. He staggered back a few steps, only then registering the video camera capturing every second of the altercation.
Shit. What had he just done?
Stan stepped out of the locker and fixed his shabby clothes. “That will be perfect for the eleven o’clock news. Thanks again!” He sauntered out of the locker room, and Jason was gratified to see a slight limp in the other man’s gait.
Juan released him with a pat on the chest. “You okay, man? At least you didn’t use your bad shoulder.”
“Friar! In my office. NOW!” Sam Monteleone’s voice bellowed from the back of the room, the roar echoing off cement walls and slamming into Jason. “All you media whores, get the hell out of my clubhouse.”
*
“Are you stupid or have a freakin’ death wish? Jesus, Friar. Not even back one game and you’re causing fireworks and a circus. Things were so quiet around here.” Sam stalked around the desk and flopped into the rolling chair, which threatened to collapse under the abuse. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Jason slumped in the metal chair, head in his hands. “I wasn’t, Skip. Sorry.”
“Sorry ain’t gonna cut it, boy. Do you know that asshole is probably reporting to the world that you have ’roid rage? Not the way to prove to people you’re drug-free and reformed.”
“I never took steroids or any other drugs.”
“Whatever. Save it for the congressional hearings. I don’t care. As long as you don’t bring it in here.” He shook his head and spit into a can, the sound ringing through the small office. “And Callahan thinks you can be a role model? With that stunt? Not likely.” Finally, he swiveled in the chair and leaned across the desk, glaring at Jason. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you? I’d expect this from one of those stupid kids out there but not you.”
Good question. Jason wished he had the answer. The rage had boiled over so quickly, so immediate. He thought he had had it under control, like always. But one nasty comment and he blew like a kid. Was this how the rest of his season was going to go, anger, frustration? Was it worth it?
“I’m sorry, Skip. No excuse. It won’t happen again.”
“You bet your ass it won’t. Now, get the hell out of here. And Friar? Stay out of trouble for one night, please?” Sam turned away, muttering under his breath. “One freakin’ day back. One day and this is what we get? Jeezus.”
Jason stepped out of the small office and restrained the urge to slam the door. Called to the manager’s office like a kid in school. It wa
s the second time that week that he felt like a failure, an idiot, a child. And he hated that feeling. It was just another sign of how far he had fallen. Two years ago, everyone would have rushed to his aid, excusing him, defending him, not assuming Jason was to blame. Now, he had no credit, no one to take his side.
God help him if Stacia ever found out.
*
Nice job with his new teammates. Nothing like making friends and influencing people. His thoughts were morose as he sipped a beer in the hotel bar. The bartender slid a steak under his arms.
“Water, please. Thanks.” He didn’t need any more alcohol dulling his senses. One beer was enough.
“Oh, my God! Jason Friar! It’s been years.” A shrill, female voice echoed through the bar.
A niggling recognition danced at the fringes of his brain. He slowly turned around just in time to catch the woman who threw herself at him, kissing him passionately.
Holy shit. Danielle. Or Debbie. Or Sue. What was her name?
Shit, that’s the last thing he should be worried about. He should be getting her away, not trying to remember her name. A flash caught his eye. Goddamn vultures. His old buddy, Stan, sat in a corner booth with members of the traveling press corps.
Stacia was going to kill him. Since when did he care?
Chapter Seven
Stacia sat on a dais in front of the capitol building as her father stepped up and put his hand on a Bible, his words garbled and disjointed. She tried to stand, but her feet were planted on the ground, butt firmly in the chair, as she watched the disaster unfold. At the end, he turned and glowered at her, his finger pointing at her.
“It’s all your fault.”
She jerked awake, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across her body. A binder crashed to the floor, papers scattering around her. She lunged for her laptop before it slid also. She struggled to catch her breath, trying to figure out her weird dream. Her cell phone buzzed, Hail to the Chief, the theme for the President of the United States, which was her father’s ringtone.
