Beasts of Baseball, #1
by Alice
Ward
Publication
date: October 1st 2016
Genres:
Adult, Romance, Sports
BLURB
Who knew major league baseball
could be so ruthless?
Calvin Malone loved pitching for
his small-town minor league baseball team, almost as much as he loved his high
school girlfriend Whitney Harris. His dream was a simple one; make it to the
majors, marry Whitney and have a family of his own. He had prepared for the
hard work, the strain on his body and even the publicity, but he wasn’t
prepared for the partying, the women and the backstabbing career and life
destroying politics that surrounded the major league team that drafted him. He
soon realized that what started as a dream was more of a nightmare.
Would he survive, would Whitney
and her love?
Rookie Mistake is
the first sexy installment in Alice Ward’s brand new sports romance series, The Beasts of Baseball. But
don’t worry, this book has an emotionally charged HEA you won’t soon forget,
and no cliffhanger.
Buy Link: Amazon
Chapter One
Calvin
I’d dreamed of this day, for how long I couldn’t even remember. I knew
I was a boy, maybe seven, watching the New York Yankees play against… who was
it? I couldn’t recall, but I remembered the excitement that soared through my
grandfather’s living room that afternoon.
My pops, grandfather, and I were all rooting them on. The way my pops
screamed at the TV, you would have thought he was right there in the action, hoping
to get their attention as he yelled for them to run! When they won, he
grabbed me by the waist and lifted me high in the air.
“You’re a man now, my boy!” he shouted, then gave me a sip of his
beer. It was bitter and almost made me sick to swallow, but I did, because I
was a man. After that day, I knew I would one day be a man like the ones
wearing the blue striped uniforms. I was going to be a major league baseball
player. I was certain of it.
Right now, I felt more like a pussy because my damn hands trembled as
I took my first steps towards the pitching mound of the gleaming new stadium,
sweat streaming down my face in rivers.
That was okay. Rookie nerves. That was me — a rookie. For the newest
and most badass team in the Majors.
I made it!
“Welcome to the New York Beasts,” a man with a sun-crinkled face and
large potbelly greeted me. “I’m Coach Griffin.” I extended my hand, hoping that
it wasn’t covered in sweat from my anxiety and greeted my new coach. “I’ve
heard great things about you.”
“Thank you, sir, it’s a pleasure to be here,” I said, trying to keep
the awe from my voice.
Last year, I’d been thrilled to find myself in the minors straight out
of college and had worked my ass off to deserve a spot on a team. Then, out of
nowhere, I got the call that I’d be a replacement pitcher for the Beasts. One
of their starters was in an accident that ended his career, and they wanted me
to replace him.
Me.
And now I was standing on the mound where I would pitch for New York’s
newest team. It wasn’t the Yankees, but I knew my pops would be proud
nonetheless.
“Let’s introduce you to your team,” Coach Griffin suggested with a pat
on my back and a nod towards the dugout and the locker room beyond.
“Listen up, fellas!” Coach Griffin yelled into the chaotic locker room
that was larger than most people’s entire home. The main portion was a gigantic
oval featuring six-feet wide lockers surrounding the perimeter. Each locker
boasted a massaging leather chair and recessed television and sound system with
personal headphones to keep the noise to a minimum. There were doors leading to
bathrooms, a state-of-the-art weight room, as well as areas for physical
therapy and recovery. The clubhouse also featured a high-tech theater with
enough seating for the entire team to review post-game analysis. I’d never seen
anything like it.
The men didn’t seem to notice or pay attention, so Coach pulled out
his whistle and gave it a long, hard blow. “I want you to meet your new
starting pitcher.”
The men calmed, and the room became eerily quiet as their eyes fell
upon me. They all began walking toward the central meeting area. I looked
around, somewhat intimidated to meet the group directly in the eye, but with so
many in various stages of undress, looking down put me in a very uncomfortable
position as well.
“This is Calvin Malone,” Coach announced, again patting me on the
back.
There was a round of handshakes and head nods, then the men went back
to their lockers, getting ready for practice. Coach led me to the locker with Calvin
Malone engraved at the top, pointing out the stacks of practice gear and
cleats. My days of washing my own uniform were over.
“You’re gonna do fine, Calvin. Just keep your chin up, your nose
clean, and your eye on the ball, kid,” Coach Griffin said with encouragement.
“Practice starts in twenty minutes!” I watched as he exited the locker room.
“So, you’re the new star pitcher?” a voice sounded from behind me. I
turned, instantly recognizing Ace Newman, star shortstop and power hitter. His
leathered skin didn’t take away from his rugged good looks, and the small
goatee that dangled from his chin as he chomped on his gum only seemed to add
to his powerful presence.
“Yep, I’m Calvin Malone,” I introduced myself, extending my hand to
shake his.
“I got that, kid,” he said as he glanced down at my hand that now was
left awkwardly extended between us. “Where’d ya come from?”
“Indiana,” I replied, yanking my hand back and shoving my fists into
my pockets.
“No shit, that’s written all over your corn-fed face,” he said,
half-laughing as he spoke. “I meant what team?”
“Well, I graduated from the Red Hawks last year and was all set to
play triple A for the Beasts, but got the call to come here before I even
played my first game.”
“Whooweeee, so you’re practically a college drafted starting pitcher,
you must have one helluva arm on ya.” Sarcasm oozed from Ace’s lips as easily
as his drawl. He leaned over, spit his gum into the trash can by my feet and
then grinned. “Stick with me, kid. I’ll show ya the ropes around here.”
I was psyched that Ace Newman was a fellow Beast. A notorious player,
he had a short fuse and loud temper. He spent plenty of time screaming in the
umpires’ face, throwing bats against the fence, and even threatening other
players. He was a wild card, but one of the best players in the league. I knew
very little about the owner, Rhett Hamilton, and had yet to meet him, but if he
had the money to score Ace Newman, and the balls to try and control him, then
he must be a pretty powerful player himself.
The whistle sounded from outside the locker room door, and Coach poked
his head inside just long enough to yell, “Let’s go!”
“Good to have you on the team,” Marty Peters said as he walked by. He
was a first baseman from Atlanta. Not the most impressive player, but there
were rumors of a bad breakup that led to his falling stats last season.
“Thank you, glad to be here,” I replied and then followed the rest of
the team — my team — onto the field.
It was surreal walking back to the mound, this time with players I’d
watched for years. Ace picked up a bat and headed to home plate. “Show me what
you got, kid,” he shouted.
My palms were sweating as I picked up the ball next to my feet, then
stretched out my arm and shoulder, loosening up the tight muscles. I continued
to stretch as I waited for the catcher to suit up. Ace pounded his bat into the
dirt, kicked a clearing for his feet and pushed dust over the plate as he
waited for me to wind up my pitch.
“You ready, hot stuff?” he yelled.
I nodded. “Ready.”
Shit.
Was I ready?
This was Ace Newman, one of my favorite players. A fucking idol in my
books. My skin began to crawl and my forehead beaded with sweat. I watched as
he crowded the plate, a move that I knew was meant to taunt me. I glared past
the sun to the catcher who was offering up a variety of pitches. My head shook
at each one until he suggested the four-seam fastball. I found my opening over
the plate and wound up before sending the ball out of my hand.
“What the fuck?” Ace screamed and tossed his bat on the ground. The
ball had barely missed him, his hips tucking back just in time.
“You’re crowding the plate, Ace,” Marty yelled from first base. “Not a
smart move with a south paw.”
“He better learn how to handle it,” Ace countered and switched to the
left side of the plate. One of the best switch hitters in the league trying to
mess with my head. “That is, if he wants to play with the big boys.”
Ace picked up the bat he’d thrown on the ground and repositioned
himself back over the plate. It was obvious he wasn’t going to take it easy on
me, and even more evident that he didn’t believe I belonged on the same field
with him. I clenched the ball in my hand, sweat dripping onto the cowhide as I
stared into Ace Newman’s eyes.
The catcher went through his signals for pitches once again, and with
each one, I shook my head until he motioned a knuckleball. I nodded and
positioned my fingers around the ball. I wound up and let loose. I watched as
it flew straight towards my target. The ball found the opening over the plate,
and he took his swing. And missed.
“Lucky throw,” he snorted before taking his position back at the
plate, this time not crowding it, leaving me plenty of room for my strike zone.
I nodded towards the catcher as my index and middle finger positioned
over the seam for my famous forkball. I threw it hard, and Ace swung just as it
dropped diagonally, violently, and without warning. I just got my second
strike.
“Not bad, kid,” Ace yelled out, tossing the bat aside.
“If you’re all done playing, let’s get warmed up,” the coach said
sarcastically before shooting me a smile of admiration.
It was obvious that Ace was testing me, hoping that I would fail, but
I hadn’t. Something told me it wouldn’t be that easy to get on Ace Newman’s
good side.
Coach blew his whistle and told us to run the bases. Ace was fast,
faster than the others, but I was a close second. He picked up the pace as he
looked over his shoulder. His expression displayed the irritation of me being
so close behind. Ace was used to being the center of attention, the big man on
campus, so to speak. I’d read plenty about his temper and knew he didn’t play
well with others, on or off the field, but something about him intrigued me.
Coach Griffin, although seemingly nice when we first met was a drill
sergeant on the field. He had us doing calisthenics and agility training for
over an hour, then batting practice before another hour of hard exercise. I was
exhausted when he blew that final whistle. “Alright, go clean up,” he yelled.
The locker room smelled of sweat and cologne. Since I hadn’t pitched
other than the few tosses to Ace, I skipped icing and post-practice rehab to
head straight for the bank of showers in the back.
“Impressive,” Ace said, sliding in beside me to the free shower.
I had to admit, I had an “oh shit” moment so big I thought my damn
head would explode when I thought my hero was admiring my dick, ass, or both.
My mind raced, trying to decide how to handle it. When he added, “Hell of a
good arm,” I stuck my face under the water to wash away the panic.
“Thanks, you certainly weren’t taking it easy on me out there,” I said
and tossed a glob of shampoo on my grimy hair.
“Would you want it any other way?” he asked in that cocky way of
speaking I was quickly getting to know.
I said nothing, just rinsed the suds from my hair and turned to look
at him. He smiled his famous asshole grin. “C’mon kid, you’re gonna get it a
lot worse than that out there soon enough.”
I knew that was true. This wasn’t college anymore, or even the minors.
This was the majors, and some of the players I would be up against had decades
of experience.
What did I have?
Ace shut his water off and quickly wrapped his towel back around his
waist. He wasn’t much older than me, maybe six years, but he looked to be every
bit in as good shape as me.
As I was getting dressed, I heard Ace asking Marty out for drinks.
They didn’t exactly strike me as a pair that would hang out.
“Come with us,” Marty said, looking my way.
“Can’t tonight,” I admitted. “My girl is finally coming into town,
supposed to be here in a few hours.”
“Don’t be a pussy!” Ace chimed in with a smirk. He held his towel in
his right hand, twirling it until it made a tight point at the end. Snap! I
dodged, but he whipped it perfectly, the end bringing up a three-inch welt on
the cheek of my ass.
“What the fuck was that for?” I yelled, forcing myself not to rub it.
Damn it. Thought I was finally out of high school.
“For being a pussy,” Ace replied with another smirk. “It’s just one
drink, rookie. You’ll be home in time to please your mommy.”
Pulling on my boxer-briefs and a t-shirt, I considered the request,
knowing these men would be watching my back and needing them to want to.
A good arm helped, but I needed them to pick up anything that hit a bat. Plus,
it was one drink. On my first day of professional practice, I could use it.
Celebrate being here.
“One drink,” I said sternly, pulling on jeans and sticking my feet
into shoes. “And don’t do that shit again.”
Ace laughed as if my orders meant nothing to him. I finished dressing
and walked out of the locker room, partly hoping they left without me, and I
could just go home.
“You’re riding with me, hot shot,” Ace insisted. He was leaning up
against a black Porsche that looked like it had just been waxed. It was
beautiful and expensive.
Wow, I was really in the big leagues now.
Marty left with Frank Lewis, the centerfielder from the same Atlanta
team where he’d been poached. “So, who is this owner anyway?” I asked Ace as I
climbed into the passenger seat of his car.
“He’s a real heavy hitter, lots of money, need for power, and a damn
good player,” Ace responded.
“Player?” I asked, thinking about all the players I’d ever heard of.
“I’ve never heard of Rhett Hamilton. Which team?”
Ace laughed and pushed his foot on the gas as we tore out of the
parking lot. A puff of smoke filled the rearview mirror, and the screeching
likely scared any animal within a thirty-mile radius.
“I didn’t say he played baseball, kid,” he said sarcastically. “He’s a
player, the kind with a different woman in his bed every night.”
That explains why he chose Ace. They shared a love for that game.
My ass cheeks tightened with every turn, my fists clenched as I held
my breath. Ace was a wild man, driving like he owned the road. It was scary.
Death defying scary. When we pulled up to the bar, I knew my face had to be
pale as a ghost.
“Clean her up while ya got her,” Ace said and tossed the keys to a
young valet. The kid scampered to get behind the wheel, thanking Ace repeatedly
as we walked towards the entrance.
I checked my phone. No messages from Whitney yet.
“What, are ya worried your momma’s gonna call?” Ace snorted.
I shoved the phone back into my front pocket and smiled, ignoring his
sarcasm, which I was quickly learning was just Ace being Ace. “My girl will be
here sometime tonight.”
He shrugged and shook his head. “There’re plenty of girls here
already.”
A large man wearing a black suit and red vest reached to open the door
as Ace and I approached the entrance to the bar. It was a swanky place, like
one I’d only seen in the movies. My jeans and tight-fitting t-shirt made me
feel out of place, especially next to Ace who wore slacks and a button down
that probably cost more than my dad’s monthly salary. I hadn’t been planning on
going anywhere that afternoon, at least not until Whitney arrived, and hadn’t
brought anything nicer.
Whitney.
My balls tightened just thinking about her. All I wanted was to take
her in my arms and make love to her, an “I made it” fuck fest to rival any
others. My testosterone levels were high, and I could tell in the last few days
I was becoming irritable. Jerking off had become a bore — all my moves were old
news. I just needed my girl, that’s all, nothing more.
“Hey, Ace!” A tall man who had to have been of Italian descent
welcomed us as we walked through the large doors. He wore a button down shirt,
similar to Ace’s but more colorful. His thick black hair was slicked back from
his face, and he sported a mustache that twirled on each end like Gomez from
the Addam’s Family. “We have your table ready.”
I was impressed at how everyone seemed to fawn over Ace. It was like
he was a local legend, a hero, or at the very least, a celebrity. A beautiful
blonde wearing a short black skirt and low-cut top took Ace’s hand, leading him
to a table up a small set of steps. I followed behind, feeling slightly
rejected as all attention focused on the shortstop. I watched as his hand slid
around her waist and over her ass. He gave her a squeeze and a none too gentle
pat as he slid into the circular booth.
“Grab us a bottle, darlin’,” he said to the woman, giving her a long
wink. She didn’t ask what kind of bottle. She just giggled and rushed off to
follow her orders. “You’ll get used to this, kid.”
Before I could even get situated in the booth, the blonde had returned
with a bottle of Jack Daniels on ice with two glasses, then surprised me by
sliding into the booth next to Ace. “Why haven’t you called me?” she whined.
Her voice was squeaky, and her pouting lips were over exaggerated as she leaned
in towards Ace.
“Oh, darlin’, you know spring training started. I’ve been a busy man,”
Ace replied, his hand sliding over her leg. I couldn’t help but watch his
movements; they were so smooth, so precise. She giggled again as his hand slid
even higher up her skirt, then disappeared. Her face went soft and her eyes
closed, her tongue sliding slowly across her top lip as she let out a long
moan.
What the fuck?
I looked around, but no one was paying attention as Ace’s hand started
to move and the girl’s moans grew louder. Ace looked at me and winked.
Holy shit. Was this seriously happening?
The waitress’ head fell back, and she gripped his arm, biting her
lower lip to stifle a cry. Ace’s hand returned to view and her eyes slowly
opened. She smiled and leaned over to give his cheek a quick kiss. She seemed
to be satisfied. At least for now.
“I’ll bring you some appetizers,” she said cheerfully and scooted out
of the booth.
Ace lifted his fingers to his nose and closed his eyes as he smiled.
“Oh, that’s sweet,” he said, drawing out the words. “You wanna know what
success smells like, kid?” He pushed his hand towards my face.
“No, thanks,” I replied, pulling away quickly.
He laughed and poured us both a drink.
“I see you’re getting the royal treatment,” Marty said as he and Frank
slid into the booth with us.
“Only the best for the best,” Ace boasted, motioning for the young
blonde to return to the table. “We’re gonna need a few more glasses. sweetie.”
“You have an incredible arm,” Marty said as he gave my back a few hard
thumps. “Not bad at the plate either.”
“Thanks,” I replied and tossed back half of my drink. Most pitchers
couldn’t bat for shit, but I could hold my own, which I knew made me an even
bigger asset.
The blonde showed back up with two more glasses and a basket of
chicken wings. She smiled at Ace as he ran his hand up her thigh.
“Aw, man, don’t shit where you eat,” Frank said, finally speaking.
Ace grinned and turned to watch the young blonde’s ass as she walked
away. He picked up the bottle, poured Marty and Frank a drink before topping
off mine and his. He held the glass up high.
“Here’s to the Beast’s first kickass season.”
We clinked glasses, and I tossed my drink back. All of it this time.
Author Info
Alice Ward is the bestselling author of dozens of hot and steamy
contemporary romances. She’s an amazingly prolific writer, releasing a new book
almost every single month. Her books are widely read, especially by women and
any other lovers of the romance genre. My Stepbrother, My Lover, was her first
smash hit.
Alice lives in Miami with her hunky husband. The beach is her all
time favorite place to relax with her laptop and write.
She might or might not have a thing for Gerard Butler (it’s the
accent).
To find out what Alice is up to currently, visit authoraliceward.com.
Author Links:
Twitter / Pinterest / Instagram
Q&A WITH ALICE WARD
What motivated you to start writing?
I was a shy kid so lived out many of my fantasies through the
stories I read. In time, I decided that I wanted to write some of my own. What
a blessing it is that there are readers who want to read them!
What kept you going throughout the writing process?
Nothing keeps me going. I mean, I don’t need anything to keep me
going. I absolutely love writing and look forward to it every day.
Who is your most meaningful character and why?
This is a tough question. It’s like asking me to choose between my
babies. But if I’m forced to answer… I think all the characters in my first
book, Reckless, were my most meaningful. That story… those characters…
helped show me that I might actually be able to do this. Tell stories that
other people want to read. So it will forever hold a special place in my heart.
What experiences from your past do you find yourself drawing upon
repeatedly for inspiration in your work?
I think
this is, for me, the opposite. I was a shy kid so a big part of why I started
to write was so I could have the adventures in my own head that I thought other
people were having in real life. So, I guess I might be writing about the
things I might want to do and then I just let my imagination take off from
there.
Since you are a storyteller, please tell one good lie about
yourself.
Well, my mother brought me up to never lie so I guess I’ll have to
tell you now that all my books are based on my own life. Before I settled down
and got married, I had one hell of time!
What do you think makes a good story?
The characters – if I don’t care about them as I write them, then
the reader won’t either. And, if the reader doesn’t care about them, having the
best story in the world won’t save the book to make it an enjoyable read.
Do you ever experience writer’s block and if so, how do you
overcome it?
If any other writers are reading this – please don’t hate me! I
have so many overflowing ideas that my biggest problem is having enough time to
write them all. So, no – I don’t experience writer’s block. At least, not yet.
Hope I haven’t just jinxed myself!
What was the scariest moment of your life?
Hitting “Publish” for the first book I ever uploaded to Amazon.
What a deliciously terrifying time that was! All my hopes and dreams went into
that moment and I had no idea how it would all turn out. That book is called Reckless
and I haven’t looked back since. I count my blessings every day.
What would we find under your bed?
Isn’t that where the monsters lurk? Oh wait, I’m a romance writer
not a horror writer! Under my bed… probably a couple of dust bunnies and a
paperback or three.
What hobbies do you actively pursue?
Reading… I tend to have a one-track mind. But I also enjoy
scrapbooking. I have one dedicated to potential hot male characters and go to
it when I need some inspiration.
If it was mandatory for everyone to read three books, what books
would you suggest?
Any three books. It doesn’t matter what they are. Just read.
Discover the joy of losing yourself in a good story.
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