Going All the Way (Knights of Passion Book 1) (24 page)

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.”

“Maybe not, but wouldn’t you like to prove everyone wrong?” Cole grabbed his arm and swung him around to face him, eyebrows furrowed and eyes burning with a barely banked heat. “You and I both know your shoulder is balky and you probably don’t have too many years left. Another big injury and you’re done. But you have a chance to go out on a high note, a chance to play in the playoffs, maybe the World Series. The only thing standing in your way is this team of young, stupid players. You can turn them around.”

Jason stared at him dubiously. “I thought you wanted me to avoid your young players, to not corrupt them. Now you want me to mentor them?”

Son of a bitch. This was a turnaround he never expected. Cole Hammonds, who thought Jason was a demon seed, now wanted him to act as the wise old man on the team. So now he was no longer a corrupting influence but a positive wizened old player? Shit, was he ready for that? It was one step closer to retirement. Then again, he wasn’t that far away now either. And Stacia would be dancing a jig if he could show some, what did she call it, team fucking spirit.

Cole shrugged. “In the game, not the after-hours activities. From what I gather, they have a good handle on the partying. An encouraging word here, a guiding touch there. You never know. It could help.”

“Is this a condition of my contract?”

Cole’s eyes grew cold and stony. “Do I need to make it a condition?”

Jason shook his head. Yeah, they all thought he was in this for the contract, the short deal. But maybe, just maybe, he had a chance to be part of a team. It had been so long. He missed that. Missed the camaraderie. Missed the winning. “Nah, I’ve got you. I’ll see what I can do. But I do it my own way.”

“Fine.” Cole nodded, a smile crossing his face for the first time that Jason could ever remember. “Just don’t break any more radios, okay? And if it takes a few days to replace the one in there, I’m good with that. A little silence and soul-searching might be good for these kids.”

“Yeah right. Communing with the baseball gods? I don’t see these kids as choirboys.”

Cole clapped him on the back. “We just might be coming to some sort of agreement here, Friar.”

T
he next few
games after the radio incident were quiet. The guys avoided him, for the most part, shooting daggers at him with their eyes. At least they were trying to right the ship on the field. Going on the road and being forced into close quarters was a tinderbox waiting to explode. Bill Monroe continued to work with the players, spending more time being their friend than doing any real coaching. He made a few overtures to Jason, but Jason just walked away. He was just as isolated as before the radio incident, with no real plan of how to inspire these kids and get them to see him as a leader. Leading on the field hadn’t worked and he’d broken a perfectly fine radio all to no avail, although he enjoyed the silence.

Now, on the road, the radio was back and things were slowly returning to what passed for normal with this team. Radio blaring. Partying every night, if a bit more subdued when they lost. Things between him and the other players were unsettled, churning like the ocean after a hurricane. He wasn’t their buddy but a few of them had started to ask his opinion and advice. Hardly the mentor Hammonds had wanted him to be. How the hell was he supposed to mentor these kids? What did a mentor do?

Jason absently swirled the beer in the tall thin glass, the light glinting off the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. In the background, the recap of the game on
Sports Center
droned on and the commentators regaled the audience with I-told-you-so’s about the demise of his career and how aging stars should retire gracefully.

What the hell did they expect? A home run a night? Batting a thousand?

Whatever.

The bartender slid a hamburger under his arms. Jason swallowed the remaining beer and nodded for another. The lighting was dim and the bar almost empty. Perfect for his morose mood. He bit into the burger, enjoying the solitude. Idly he wondered what Stacia was doing that night. He missed her. After spending most of the past few weeks trying to get rid of her, now he wished she were here, not for the sex, although that was pretty fucking awesome, but for conversation. She was right. He was lonely. Surrounded by twenty-five guys and he was lonely. How pathetic was that?

She was working so hard to make him a success, position him for next year. Obviously that wasn’t working. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he had almost given up on that plan. Unless this team pulled their act together, he was going down in flames.

A small voice inside murmured that maybe it was a good thing. Maybe he could stay in Savannah, with Stacia. See where that led. He was a part of something now, and not on the field. He shook his head. He was a job to her, a job with benefits. But it would be nice to see if there really was something there. Something permanent.

A few bites later, a disruption at the bar’s entrance caught his attention. A few of the younger players on the team stumbled in, talking in loud voices, being obnoxious, well on their way to true intoxication.

Cody Patterson had not yet forgiven Jason for the radio and showing him up in front of the guys. He sauntered to the bar next to Jason and called, “Hey, bartender? Couple of pitchers of Bud and some wings, okay?”