Going All the Way (Knights of Passion Book 1) by Megan Ryder

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 little 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