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
“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
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