The bartender gave her a sour look and slid the remote across the bar. “Do it yourself.”
“Great service.”
He flipped her the bird and grinned, softening the blow. He slid two more drinks in front of her and Sophie.
“So, what are you going to do?”
Stacia shrugged. “No idea.” Away from the magnetic pull of the dark stranger, the brief stirring of life, of heat, dissipated and the numbness returned, blocking the paralyzing fear that had been her first reaction once the primary results had been announced. “I’ll talk to Michael tomorrow. Maybe he has something else for me.” She turned from the bar, trying to find the man she had spied when she had first walked in. “Meanwhile, I need a diversion.”
“A diversion?” Sophie gaped at her. “You just got fired. Several more drinks might be in order, I think.”
Stacia shrugged. “I would have thought you would be happy for me. You’ve been telling me I need to get out more, loosen up. I’m ready to loosen up. Now, to find the right guy.” She scanned the bar, seeking, then finding. The crowd parted, revealing a dim back booth and the man, sitting alone, partially hidden by the shadows. The same man who started awakening her long-dormant desires.
The half not hidden showed promise; mainly he didn’t appear to have a beer gut; he’d dressed in something other than a stained t-shirt or designer suits, and was under forty years old. She wasn’t looking for suave businessman or out-of-work alcoholic. This man may just be right for her, for this moment in time. A brief fling to help her forget the pain of the day. A brief lapse in the control she had to maintain over her life. A brief chance to be herself, for once.
Now, how to play this angle.
*
“That’s my onlyoffer?” Jason Friar slumped in the back booth of a local, no-name bar, cell phone pressed to his ear. Thank God they were on the phone. Maybe his agent wouldn’t catch the stink of desperation as he hoped for some news—a position with a major league baseball team, any team.
He really should be careful what he asked for.
“The Georgia Knights? The cellar-dweller team filled with minor league hopefuls and major league has-beens?” Disbelief and disappointment warred deep in his chest.
“I’m sorry, Jason. I’ve been calling around both leagues. It’s mid-season. No one needs a first baseman.” Regret tinged his agent’s voice. Scott Thomas continued, “The Knights are in first place this year. They have a real shot at the league championship.”
Jason sipped the twelve-year-old, single malt scotch to create distance from the words stabbing his soul. If only the whiskey could dull the pain of his trashed career. “Is there anyone else? Anyone at all?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. If Scott hadn’t sighed, Jason would have thought they had been disconnected. “I’m going to lay it on the line. Two years ago, teams would have been lined up for you. A Gold Glove. A batting championship. You had it all. Since then, your shoulder injury severely limits your worth. A first baseman post rotator-cuff surgery is a risky option. Most players retire or are never the same. You know this.”
“Yeah, but it’s fine now. Healed and strong. I took the time off. Did the rehab. Even the doctor said it’s solid.” He sipped his scotch, wishing he could ignore his reality, the one he had spent too many months diving into drink to avoid. “That’s not the only thing, is it?”
“Karma’s a bitch. I told you years of partying and rumors scare teams off now. Especially after the Senate hearings on steroids.”
Jason slammed his fist on the table, almost knocking over the glass and shaking popcorn out of the bowl on the table, the familiar bolt of anger still stinging after a year. The people in the booth next to him gave him an alarmed look. He inhaled deeply and exhaled as a former lover, a yoga instructor had taught him.
Slightly calmer, his voice was lower when he finally spoke. “I never took steroids. No one could prove it. That damned Senator Kendall and his witch hunt, all for his own publicity.”
“That certainly didn’t help. Teams are gun shy. They don’t want an injured player with bad press.”
“No one wantsme.” He let the bitterness strangling him lace the words.
“No.” Scott paused, clearly unsure how to proceed. “The Knights need an experienced player and a first baseman. It’s not a great contract, but it’s a start. No matter what happens, if you keep your private life clean, bat in the 300s, and field your position, you’ll be in a better place for next season. Maybe even back on top.”
Scott’s voice took on a note of pleading, as if saying it over and over would make it real. Based on the past year, nothing could change his reality.
“The contract is insulting. I’m worth far more than a lousy million. It’s a contract given to journeyman utility players, not a proven major leaguer.”
“Do you really have a choice?” Scott’s words bit deep, reminding Jason of the mess he’d made of his life. “You’re lucky to be offered anything at all.”
“Damn it. You know I don’t. My money’s gone, stolen by that weasel of an accountant. I have my pride, Scott.” A pride he would have to choke down if he wanted back into the game he loved. Or watch his career head to the showers like a worn out has-been, with no fanfare, no celebratory victory runs, no applause. Just a long, slow, solitary march down the tunnel into forced retirement and to a walk-on role at old-timers’ day. If he was lucky. At this point, being a greeter at Walmart was more likely.
“You can’t afford pride,” his agent quietly reminded him.
Pride dictated that he reject the offer. Practicality warred with pride, telling him that playing the sport he loved was more important and accepting the offer was his only choice, especially if he wanted to have a roof over his head and food on the table. But the insults and comments he was sure to hear from players and commentators would be worse than a bad hop right to the crotch.
He took a deep swallow of his scotch and let good judgment control his words for the first time in his life. “Get the details, and set up the meeting. I’ll be there.”