Going All the Way (Knights of Passion Book 1) Page 9

  Realization dawned.

  She grabbed the phone and clicked it on. “Father.”

  “Where have you been? I had to call you twice.”

  His thoroughly put-out tone made her cringe; the familiar urge to apologize welled up in her and the words were out before she could catch them. “I’m sorry. I was sleeping.”

  It was after eleven at night, but her father never cared. He expected everyone to be available at his convenience, never mind their own lives.

  He grunted, clearly not happy or pacified in the least. “I hear you have a new client. I told you I would find you a place.”

  She grabbed the remote and turned down the volume before settling back against the pillows. “I thought it was best to step away from politics for a while.”

  “So, you went to sports? Anastasia, I raised you for something higher, better than…than something so bourgeois, so blue collar.”

  She smothered a laugh. “And politics is cleaner? Please.”

  “It may not be cleaner, but it’s noble. Making our country a better place to live.” His high and mighty tone lent a preachy quality to the same old speech she’d heard for most of her twenty-eight years. She was so tired of the bullshit.

  But it never mattered. She never mattered. Only the job. Always the job. And she was sick of it.

  “Agree to disagree. What do you want? It’s late and I have a lot of work to catch up on.”

  “So, you were sleeping? Hmmm. Anyway, I want to discuss this latest job. I don’t feel it’s the right position for you.”

  “For me or for you? Are you afraid I’ll be tarnished by working with an athlete and, by default, you’ll be tarnished?”

  “I’ve made it very clear how I feel about athletes and the drugs they abuse. I’m the head of the Senate committee on steroid use, for God’s sake. Having my daughter work with one of them, well, it negates my entire position, makes me a laughingstock of the Senate and weakens me.”

  Her mind flashed to her father and his study, from where he was probably calling her. He undoubtedly was still wearing a suit from the day or a tuxedo if he’d had an event to attend that evening. His attire would be immaculate. His posture stiff and unbending, much like his values and opinions. Everything in its place, neat and tidy, all according to plan. His gaze would be sharp, cutting deep into flesh and bone with just a glance, clear through to your heart.

  There was nothing weak about Senator Kendall.

  “Well, just tell everyone that I’m your big disappointment. It won’t be far from the truth.” If he felt this way about her working with Jason, imagine what he would say if he found out she had slept with him? A rebellious part of her wanted to tell him, to see if she would finally get a reaction from him, more than duty.

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Anastasia. I’ve contacted your boss about an alternative, more acceptable form of employment.”

  Before she could fully absorb his words, action on the television caught her attention. “Oh, hell no. No. No. No. No!” she chanted, her voice rising with each word. She grabbed the remote and turned up the volume, dropping her phone in the process. Her father demanded her response, but she was fixated on the screen, on the image of Jason Friar pinning a reporter to a locker and obviously threatening him.

  “Oh, nonononono,” she moaned again, despair punching her in the gut. What the hell was he thinking? He’d promised! Did he have a death wish or something? Or was he just another man who didn’t give a damn about his impacts on other people, on her?

  She grabbed the phone. “I have to go. And Don’t. Call. Michael!” She clicked it off without waiting for a response, cutting off the sputtering at the other end. She would pay for cutting off her father but right now, she had bigger things to worry about. Mainly, Jason Friar’s meltdown in Detroit, as the lovely sportscasters on ESPN were calling it.

  I’m going to kill him.

  *

  “This is how you fix his image?”

  Cole slammed a newspaper down on the desk, pushing aside other papers and rocking the coffee cup.

  Stacia lunged, catching the cup before it toppled over, but a portion of the coffee spilled out and burned her hand. She sucked the base of the thumb, trying to ease the stinging, then she looked up at the red face of Cole Hammonds. She dried her hand and picked up the sports section.

  Jason Friar Back to His Old Ways?

  Crap. Jason was sitting in a hotel bar and some very young thing was clinging to him like his baseball jersey. God, she hoped the girl was of age.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  She studied the picture more closely. “He doesn’t seem like he’s enjoying it. Maybe he was pushing her away.”

  “Please.” Hammonds snorted. “No one would push her away. Not even me.” He slammed the door and sat in the chair facing her desk. “Is this too hard for you, Stacia? Is Jason Friar too difficult to manage?”

  She froze, icy tendrils of fear spreading from her heart. “You asked me to work with him four days ago. What did you expect? A choirboy singing Alleluia in the church choir?”

  “I expect results. Not this.” He pointed to the picture again. “After the fiasco with the media announcing his signing, I was willing to cut you both some slack. He was a star and not used to being baited. Sports are very different than politics. Is this job too big, too different for you to handle?”

  Stacia tried not to let his words sting and she sat stone-faced, hoping he couldn’t see how much he hurt her.

  “But you need to get serious. This is business, big business.”

  “I have plans—”

  “I don’t care about your plans. I only care about action. Now, hustle your little butt out to Detroit and fix this mess.” He heaved out of the chair and turned for the door.

  “I think they’re leaving Detroit today and going to Kansas City. I can meet the team there on Tuesday,” she said quietly, thankful she was seated because there was no way her legs would hold her.

  He paused and scowled at her, eyebrow raised. “Really? Humpf. Well, hustle out there and impress upon him the terms of his contract, got it?” He slammed the door on his way out.

  She clenched her hands into fists, and bit her lower lip, concentrating on breathing. In and out. In, then out. In. Out. Once her heart had finally stopped racing and her hands weren’t shaking anymore, she picked up the phone and dialed the extension for Maggie, Miranda’s assistant.

  “Can you make me travel arrangements to Kansas City?”

  Chapter Eight

  Another day, another stadium. New fans, same old media, same old chants. He used to love going to new stadiums. They all had their own charms. The Green Monster in Boston. Yankee Stadium Bleacher Creatures. The friendly confines of Wrigley Field with its ivy-covered brick outfield wall. The water next to the Giants’ ballpark. And the waterfall in Kansas City, his next venue to fail in.

  The whirring of the pitching machine warned him of the pitched ball. He swung and launched it into the net. Would have been a fly ball out, nowhere near deep enough for a home run. The machine whirred again. He swung the bat and hit a grounder into the net.

  “Damn it.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve been hitting long enough?” A soft voice behind the fencing masked the sound of the machine, but he swung anyway, in rhythm with the machine. He missed. “Strike three, I think.”

  He grimaced at the machine. Didn’t take her long to get here. He had hoped for a couple of days before he had to face her. A couple of days to show he didn’t need her guidance. A couple of days to get his swing back. A couple of days to prove to himself that he didn’t want her with every breath he took.

  “So, you’re picking up some baseball lingo now. Good for you, Stacia,” he replied without turning around. He swung and launched the next ball into the net. Another fly ball out. Damn it. The machine powered down and he whirled around. “I wasn’t done.”

  Stacia emerged from behind the fence into the batting cage. Her pale blue bu
siness suit hugged her curves, the v of the blazer displaying a tantalizing bit of lace arrowing down into the cleavage where he had spent many hours just a week ago. Another color of lace, not black like that night. How much lace did she have? He wanted to get to know each and every piece of it, on and off of her. He followed the lace down to her skirt, fitting snugly around the smooth round derriere and stopping just short of her knees. There was nothing special about the suit, nothing sexual, yet his cock stirred and he regretted wearing the cup for batting practice. He shifted slightly adjusting the plastic into a tolerable position, but if she stayed, he couldn’t expect to remain comfortable for much longer.

  She stepped in front of the button controlling the machine. “You are for now. You’ve been at this for over two hours. Don’t you think you’ve had enough practice?”

  “Not even close,” he growled. “Not until I feel the swing coming back.”

  She tilted her head and studied him for a long moment. “The swing looked good to me.”

  “Thank God you’re not the hitting coach.” He reached around her, brushing her hip, and punched the button and waited for the ball. The whirring started, but nothing came out.

  “Guess the machine is tired too.”

  Jason snarled at the machine then at the balls scattered around the batting cage. He stalked outside the cage and grabbed a tee. He placed it at the plate and perched a ball on it and swung – hard. It went straight – line drive out. His shoulder twinged, reminding him of the surgery less than a year before.

  “Well, that was smart,” she commented, rested against the wall, ignorant of her suit and the possible grime she was picking up. “Maybe you’re trying too hard.”

  He leaned on the bat and scowled at her. “Really? And what would you have me try? Deep breathing out of my freaking eyelids?”

  “Don’t be silly. That was a movie. I seriously doubt anyone can breathe out of their eyelids. But the deep breathing is a good idea, like meditation. It’ll help you relax and feel the ball.”

  “Are you for real? Have you ever hit a baseball? Oh wait, you might loosen up and that stick up your ass might fall out. Or do you need a drink to relax?” She winced as his words hit home and he turned away, guilt gnawing at him for taking out his frustration on her. She didn’t deserve it but maybe, if he pissed her off enough, she’d leave without bitching about his interview the other night.

  She narrowed her eyes, anger finally snapping in them. She tossed her bag on the other side of the wall and glided over to him. She took the bat and hefted it, swinging it around, probably like she’d seen the players do in the on-deck circle, stumbling in her heels as the weight of the bat threw her off balance.

  He snorted. “Not like that.” He grabbed the bat from her hands and showed her circles to warm up her arms and open her back.

  She followed his movements carefully, precisely. “Put the ball there.”

  He obliged and stepped back. She swung and promptly missed, wobbling on her heels. He grabbed the bat and stalked to the line of bats propped against the wall. Tossing his bat and finding a lighter one, he walked back and handed it to her. Then he held out his hand. “Shoes.”

  She stared at him. “These are eight hundred dollar Manolo Blahniks. I am not going to just hand them over.”

  “You will if you don’t want to break your pretty little ankle perched on them.”

  “You wear cleats.”

  “No comparison. Cleats are less than an inch and made for digging in.”

  “So are these.”

  “Not here. If you want to bat, take off the shoes. I don’t need you crying lawsuit when you break your neck or something else.”

  She huffed. “Fine.” She all but tossed them at him and took the bat, swinging like he had shown her. She paused and slipped off the suit jacket, handing it to him, revealing a fitted white blouse, edged in the lace he’d seen peeking out. The blouse wasn’t sheer, but it sure left little to the imagination. She started swinging the bat again, pulling the blouse against her firm breasts, the skirt running tight against her behind. Jason stared and before he could drool, he tossed the coat on the hook near the entrance to the batting cage and the shoes on the ground and gathered his composure.

  “Ready.” She set her stance and wiggled her butt a little, stretching that blue skirt almost to its breaking point. His groin tightened in response and he shifted his own stance, subtly adjusting the cup’s positioning.

  She swung, and promptly missed again. This time she swore softly and glared at him, huffing a lock of her auburn hair out of the way. “What am I doing wrong? It looked so easy when you did it.”

  “You’re the hitting coach. Relax and feel it.” He mocked her words, enjoying finally getting the upper hand.

  Her eyes narrowed, not appreciating his joke.

  “Fine.” He pushed away from the wall and came up behind her. He was going to so regret this. He put his hands on her hips and held them still. “Keep these straight toward the plate. Don’t turn toward the pitcher until you swing. And for God’s sake, no wiggling.” He gripped her tighter as she wiggled her butt into his crotch. Thank God he had his jock on to shield him, but the heat almost melted the plastic. “Okay, hands up, bat steady. Keep your eye on the ball.” He positioned her arms, his hands skimming the sides of her breasts. The slight catch in her breath told him she was as affected as he was. “Now, swing through the ball.” He guided her hands through the motion and to the ball. It sailed off of the tee.

  She squealed. “I hit it!”

  He stepped back and grinned, his gut twisting at the joy on her face. Wondering what else he could do to see that happiness again. “Yup. Try again.” He put another ball on the tee and moved away.

  She glanced over at him, pouting slightly. “You’re not going to help me?”

  Now he was suspicious. What game was she playing? Like a moth to a flame, he came around behind her and positioned her, trying to avoid touching her, but she wiggled and slid against him. He jumped like a scalded cat and said, “Swing.”

  She swung and hit a line drive. She laughed and turned, right into his arms. She tilted her head, her lips a few inches from him, her body molding to him, the heat scorching him.

  “Not bad. But you’re not ready for a real pitcher. Not even the machine.”

  “I don’t want the machine.”

  Before he could stop himself, he lowered his head and kissed her, a light teasing touch, a fleeting brush of the lips, before he settled in for a longer, deeper embrace. His tongue probed her lips, licking gently but not delving inside until she responded. He then pulled her closer, his hands slipping down to cup her firm buttocks, lifting and molding her into his body, her thighs cradling his cupped cock.

  She twined her arms around his neck, tangling her hands in his hair, tugging him down firmly.

  Despite the roaring of blood in his ears, he heard a sound deep in the tunnel. Voices of players coming for their own batting practice since it was raining and they couldn’t take BP on the field. He broke the kiss and stared into her green eyes, caught the confusion mirrored there. “You might want to get dressed. Players are coming for BP.”

  She patted her hair back to some semblance of order. He handed her the jacket and shoes and she quickly dressed. She was just settling when a few players and the hitting coach stepped into the small cage area.

  Jason leaned against the far wall, faking a casual pose that he was far from feeling.

  Stacia tossed her hair and settled a stern gaze on him. “We still need to discuss your actions the other night.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “What?” Recognition dawned. “Hey, he started it. Was I supposed to sit there and take it? And if you had wanted to discuss that, we didn’t need the little batting lesson.”

  Judging by her perfectly shaped raised brow, she didn’t believe him. “You’re clearly busy so we’ll talk later tonight, back at the hotel. But we will talk. Please keep your temper. Avoid reporters for now.” She gra
bbed her bag and tossed it over her shoulder. “And remember, relax. Your swing will be much looser and you might actually get something out of the infield.”

  The players hooted and jeered at Jason, who only smiled and inclined his head slightly.

  Round one Stacia Kendall.

  But somehow, he’d won too. He’d never felt so relaxed before a game, not in the past several seasons at least. He was looking forward to the next time they’d met. She wasn’t unaffected as she’d like him to think. He adjusted the cup. Neither was he. They weren’t over by a long shot.

  Jason went four for four that night with a home run.

  *

  Jason slipped out of the locker room as soon as he could, avoiding the press of the media and his teammates, needing some quality time alone with a beer and a burger. He should have been celebrating, out with his buddies. Four for four in only his third game back against a pretty tough leftie. Not bad for an old-timer, a has-been, a wash-out.

  Instead, he was grounded, headed back to his hotel room like a recalcitrant child. Of course, even if he wasn’t grounded, who would he celebrate with? The twenty-somethings in the locker room who celebrated losses as well as victories? He didn’t even know most of their names yet and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Who knows where any of them would be tomorrow, or the next day?

  Every ballplayer learned to live with trades, releases, faces coming and going. Since it was halfway through the season and the trade deadline had just passed, it was unlikely that many of these guys were going anywhere. So, why didn’t he want to bond with them?

  As he walked into the lobby of the hotel, he paused outside the bar and grill. Echoes of the events a few nights previous and the high-pitched laughter of women inside almost caused him to head for the elevators instead. He didn’t need any more trouble. He had enough with a curvy redhead who thought she could advise him on hitting a baseball.

  But that perverse side of him, the rebel, refused to be banished. How much trouble could he get into, having a beer? Besides, he expected Stacia to show up anytime, especially since she hadn’t after the game. He strode into the bar, not letting anyone tell him how to live his life. Seating himself at the bar, he ordered a beer and a burger, and munched on popcorn while he waited and stewed.