Rookie Mistake: A Sports Romance Novel (The Beasts of Baseball Book 1) (28 page)

Ace hit a home run so loud, people a mile away could’ve probably heard that crack. Of course being the showman that he is, he danced, ran backwards, and played it up for the crowd while we all waited for him to make his way around the bases and back to home.

By the fourth inning, we were up 5-2. Todd Morris took his position at the plate, staring me down. I didn’t mind; I knew Whitney wasn’t interested in him anymore. He was just another man for me to strike out.

I smiled up at Whitney, who was waving and cheering me on. I had a plan for Morris, knowing his weakness was to lose track of a slow ball. I found my seams and let it go. It looked like a fastball out of my hand. I watched it spin, then drop and lose speed.

Morris swung.

Strike one!

His eyes were locked onto mine, and I winked at him, laughing when his frown grew even deeper. It was like he wasn’t even trying to watch the ball, which was alright by me. I threw another pitch, similar, but slowing much earlier before reaching him.

Strike two!

He looked like a volcano about to explode as I wound up for the next throw. I tried again, this time returning to the first pitch.

Strike three!

Bye bye, you bastard.

He just stood there, glaring at me, a wild look in his eyes. For a moment, I wondered if he was going to rush me, and hoped he would. My fist on his jaw would feel pretty good right now.

The ump finally made him go sit his ass down, his walk of shame even greater as our fans booed him off the field.

I was pumped when the next man took the plate. A few more pitches, and I was headed for the dugout. Ace high fived me. I fist bumped him back. Damn, it felt good to not have so much tension between us.

My luck wasn’t just on the mound that day. I knocked the shit out of the first pitch thrown at me, a slow roller with a twist similar to mine.
Sorry pal, nice try though.
It was almost out of the park, but fell a couple inches short way back in left field. My hit brought two more players home, then I stole third, dusting myself off after barely sliding in under the throw. I never made it off third, but that was okay. It was a good inning, and I had contributed my share.

The game became a battle, but I held my own and my team backed me up. By the end of the seventh, my arm was struggling, but I was giving it everything I had when Morris stepped back to the plate.

Morris stared me down again, but this time, his eyes dropped to my hand. Finally, he was ready to play.
A little late in the last game when you’re down by six.

My fingers rolled from seam to seam, trying to decide if I wanted to use the same pitch or mix it up. I nodded at the catcher when he signaled where my pitch would land and rolled my fingers to their position.

I threw and watched him swing, then pound his bat on the plate. I turned so he wouldn’t see my smile.

I threw again, and Morris’ face grew even redder when he came up empty once more.

Nodding at my catcher, I wound up for the third pitch. As soon as it left my hand, I knew I’d screwed up. Morris swung and connected, the ball barreling back at me like a lightning bolt flashing from the sky. I twisted and stuck out my glove. When the ball hit my palm through the leather, it felt like a battering ram barreling through my arm. The ball popped out of my glove, the impact sending it straight up in the air.

Without thinking, I dove, my mind on only one thing — catching that damn ball. When my glove closed around it, it was the greatest feeling in the world. But then I hit the ground, and it felt like something ripped in my shoulder. My
left
shoulder. The air gushed out of me when my chest hit the ground.

Rolling to my back, I held my glove up, and the crowd went wild as I tried to assess my shoulder and get some air flowing back into my lungs. The roar died, then turned into a collective gasp when I didn’t get up.

This wasn’t good.

Not good at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

e

Whitney

D
amn traffic!

Back home in Indiana, it was unusual to have more than three cars stopped at a traffic light, and if there were more than that, everybody complained about the “traffic.”

I’d never seen so many cars in my entire life as there are on this little peninsula. Why did they even call it an island, I wondered, when it clearly wasn’t? And why did they think they needed to fill every speck of it up with concrete? Damn thing should sink at this rate.

I checked the time and cursed under my breath. “Can we go any faster?” I asked the driver.

“Sure, let me pull the propeller out of my trunk, and I’ll fly you away to your favorite destination.”

I narrowed my eyes at the back of his head. New Yorkers were also more sarcastic than the farmers back home. I sat back in my seat in a huff.

I just didn’t want to be late. I didn’t want to miss a moment of Calvin’s pitching. I didn’t want to miss anything, not anymore. We’d been given a second chance, and I wanted to take advantage of each moment.

Finally, I could see the stadium, but traffic was even worse there. Everyone on the east coast must be coming to the big game. “You can let me out here,” I said and thrust Cal’s credit card to the man.

He ran the card and gave me the receipt. Eighty-four dollars! I looked again. And twenty-seven cents. I snarled at the amount and pushed the door open, glad I’d worn low-heeled sandals.

Ten minutes later, sweat was streaming down my temples and down my spine, dripping into the crack of my ass. Reason number one hundred and sixty-four to hate New York. The humidity. How did people stand it out here?

I took a deep breath. I was being bitchy again, I could feel it oozing out of my pores. I exhaled and reminded myself of the most important reason for me to start loving it here — Calvin. I would start looking for other things to love here too. I laughed and looked down at my eight hundred dollar sandals. Things that wouldn’t bankrupt Calvin in the process.

“Whitney!”

I’d just stepped into the parking area surrounding the stadium, ready to hike across the acres of concrete when my name was called again. I whirled around to see Holly, driving a car I didn’t recognize, but it made me drool the moment I saw it. A BMW. My dream car. And the top was down, my friend sitting behind the wheel, grinning like a fool.

“Hop in!”

“Nice car,” I said, running my hand over the leather seat as I shut the door.

If it was at all possible, her grin got bigger. “I know. I love it. Ace bought it so I’d have something to drive when I’m in town.”

My jaw dropped. “Are things getting more serious between the two of you?”

She rolled her eyes before she slipped on a pair of sunglasses and pulled away from the sidewalk to drive me the few hundred yards to the VIP parking area. “We have fun, and that’s that. It’s how we both want it. No strings. No emotional attachment.” She gave me a wink. “Just lots of sex.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes. “I’m just afraid he’s going to hurt you, or at the very least give you some raging STD.”

She raised her fist in the air and sang, “Trojan man!” at the top of her lungs. I burst out laughing, wishing I was as carefree as my friend. In her words, she “Gave up giving two shits a long time ago,” even though, deep in her heart, I knew that wasn’t true.

Holly had it rough growing up, the daughter of a mean alcoholic who turned meaner after her mother died. She spent her childhood cleaning up puke and staying quiet. In high school, she got mad — ragingly pissed — at the hand life had dealt her and went through an emo period that I thought would end with her suicide.

But she was tougher and smarter than that.

She found an outlet for her anger in the form of an oven and learned, all by herself, to bake. So when she was mad… she baked. Sad… she baked. Happy… she baked then too. She taught herself to create these amazing confections, and her icing became real works of art. A neighbor asked her to bake her daughter’s birthday cake, and soon, everyone wanted one. She paid for college that way. When she had a whisk in her hand, it was as if nothing her father — or anyone — said could take her happiness away.

“Don’t you have feelings for him at all?” I finally asked her, still trying to figure their relationship, or non-relationship, out.

She lifted a shoulder and tapped her thumbs on the steering wheel as she waited for the entry gate to open. “Sure, I guess. I like him and…” she laughed at my wrinkled nose. “What?”

“I just don’t see how you can like a womanizer. He’s drunk half the time, and after your father…” I trailed off, knowing I’d just stepped over the line.

She didn’t seem offended. “That’s because you see only the surface Ace, the man he wants you to see. Nobody in his life has tried to dig any deeper, tried to understand what pushes him to act like he doesn’t give a damn.”

I tried to see her point. “You mean there’s actually something deeper to him? Are you sure it isn’t just tequila pumping through his veins?”

She ignored my sarcasm and pulled into a parking spot. “Yeah, I think so. It’s carefully hidden away, but I know it’s there.”

“Have you asked him about it?”

She scoffed. “No. I don’t know him well enough for that. I mean, I’ve known him for a couple months now, but we haven’t actually spent that much time together since I’m bouncing back and forth between here and home.”

I suddenly felt like the worst friend in the world.

“I’m sorry.”

She pushed a button to make the rag top come up and glanced at me. “For what?”

I covered her hand with mine. “For being such a shitty friend these past few months. I’ve been bitchy and selfish, whining about my problems and not even asking about you.”

She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Now, you’re just being silly. You were dealing with serious stuff. The loss of your first and only love. Trying to spread your wings and see what else the world had to offer. Boinking new guys while dealing with Calvin turning into Hugh Heffner. Ouch…” she laughed when I punched her in the arm. “I get it. That’s heavy, life-altering stuff. I’m good. I’m having fun with someone I know isn’t interested in settling down, so I don’t have that ‘will we or won’t we’ pressure. As fucked up as it probably looks on the outside, it works for me right now.”

“And you really are having fun?” I asked her. “Seriously?”

Her smile was wide. “Yes. Ace is a blast and in bed…” she rolled her eyes heavenwards and exhaled a long, drawn out breath. “But he’s really sweet too, and he
loves
my cupcakes.”

I laughed and batted my eyelashes at her. “Which cupcakes are you speaking of?”

She elbowed me, then opened her door. “All of them, of course.”

We linked arms and walked into the stadium, the past few stressful months fading away as I laughed with my best friend. I told her about going house hunting and furniture shopping, how I wanted to create a real home with Cal.

“How about I stay a few extra days while the guys are on the road, and I’ll go with you?”

I squeezed her tighter to me. “That sounds perfect.”

When we got to our seats, the Beasts were just taking the field, and I got to watch #10 run to the mound. God, his ass looked good in those pants. He looked up, and our eyes met, a big grin spreading on his face. I blew him a kiss, and he winked at me as Holly went on and on about picking out paint colors.

All was right in the world.

The game began, and I couldn’t have been more proud of my man as he blew through batters like a tornado through a house of cards. I cheered and yelled, practicing my whistle. I was damned and determined to learn how to whistle someday.

Whenever Calvin had a bad moment, I noticed him looking at me, as if I was his source of salvation. I’d just smile bigger and give him a thumbs up, or blow another kiss. It felt good knowing I was doing something to lift his spirits.

When Todd Morris took the plate, the atmosphere in the stadium seemed to change. The look on Calvin’s face definitely did, and I groaned. I still felt terrible about breaking Todd’s heart, but I’d warned him in the beginning that I wasn’t emotionally available.

“Do you miss him?” Holly asked, pointing at Todd.

I yanked her finger back, giving her a
what the hell are you doing
look.

She laughed. “He sure was pissed when you left with Calvin.”

I blew out a breath. “I know. I hate that I hurt him.”

She just gave my hand a squeeze.

I looked back at the field, watched Cal wind up and throw. Strike one. I stood up and cheered, then sat down when Todd looked back at me, hurt in his eyes.

Another wind-up and Todd swung, missing by a mile. The crowd roared all around me.

“One more, Calvin!” I breathed, trying to whistle again, but ended up spitting all over my hands.

Wind up. Pitch. Strike three! But Todd didn’t move away from the plate. I held my breath, wondering if he was going to go after Cal. Long moments passed at the two men just glared at each other.

When the fans began to boo, Todd turned and looked up at me. I swallowed hard and squeezed Holly’s fingers.

Her elbow jabbed into my arm. “Well, if things don’t work out with Calvin, I’m sure he’ll take you back.”

I elbowed her back. “Oh, shut up.”

Determined to shake off the odd encounter, I cheered the Beasts on. When it was Todd’s turn at bat again, an odd shiver ran up my spine, and I found myself holding my breath, clutching onto Holly’s hand.

“What’s wrong?” she whisper-yelled, gripping my hand back.

I laughed and let her go. “Nothing. I’m just being silly.”

Calvin nodded to the catcher, then wound up. Todd swung and missed. The crowd roared its approval. Another wind-up. Another perfect pitch. Another strike, and I began to relax. Calvin had this.

My hands ended up in a prayer position, my fingers in front of my lips when Cal let go of that third ball.

Crack!

Before I even had a chance to gasp, the ball went flying straight back at Calvin, who turned and stuck out his glove in what must have been some automatic response. The sound of the ball hitting his palm through the leather caused the crowd to groan in sympathy pain then cry out when the ball rebounded straight up in the air.