by Alice Ward
Other passengers who had obviously been waiting for their turn to board looked at me with resentment. I wasn’t prepared to come across so pompous and just wanted to board. “I’ll go ahead and board now. Thank you, Thomas.” I shot the sour blonde a fake smile.
She took my ticket and motioned for me to pass. I held the stub in my hand and walked down the long tube that was supposed to resemble a hallway. I felt my nerves rattle as I took each step. I hated flying, especially alone. What was I doing?
“Right this way, ma’am.” A perky brunette with a bob hairstyle greeted me at the entrance of the plane. I followed her as she guided me to the left, a section I’d never seen before. It was magnificent, better than I ever imagined. The seats were slick black leather and were equipped with massage options and had the ability to stretch out into a bed. I was in my own cubicle-like area, no other passenger to sit next to and listen to stories about their family, or their illness, or God forbid, their cats.
“Can I get you a drink?” the woman asked.
“A mimosa?” I asked, uncertain if that was an option.
She smiled and nodded before disappearing. On her return, a tall glass topped with an orange slice was quickly handed to me. Yes, I could get used to this.
The flight was amazing, even taking off and landing seemed easier in first class. I wasn’t sure if it was the feeling of being packed in like sardines in a flying can that usually stressed me out, but this was easy and made me want to travel more. I was ready to see the world.
The first class passengers were allowed to exit the plane first, giving the coach passengers their first glimpse of the pretentious asses that enjoyed hot towels, fruity drinks, and enough space to stretch out during the flight. I felt bad as I walked past the couple with two small children, both of which were puffy eyed from crying and out of their seats begging to be let off the plane. “I’m hungry!” one screamed, while the other sucked vigorously on his thumb with tears still wet on his face. No, I didn’t feel bad for them, at least not as badly as I felt for the ones around them who endured that endless chaos.
I ducked into the nearest restroom and rinsed my hands under the water. Even in first class, I still felt clammy from being on the metal deathtrap. My face looked refreshed, a slight glow shining on my skin from the excitement, or fear. Either way, it suited me well.
The crowds of people pushed me through the airport towards the luggage claim. The conveyor belt started, and suitcases rolled towards the waiting crowd. The woman who had the two children on my flight smiled as she leaned in and grabbed a torn suitcase that looked like it came from Goodwill. Her two kids were climbing on the belt, trying their best to take a turn on what must have looked like a fun ride. I watched as the dad effortlessly pulled each one down and showed no expression on his face as he repeated the procedure each time they climbed back up.
Finally, my suitcases appeared. I grabbed them and walked towards the front of the airport. A woman with thick rimmed cat eye glasses and short black hair stood holding a sign with my name. I walked towards her. “Hi, I’m Claire Walker.”
She extended her hand and smiled. Her hair style and glasses made her look older from afar, but now up close she couldn’t have been more than twenty-five; no older than me. Her tone was perky and her demeanor bubbly as she shook my hand. “I’m Gretchen, the production assistant for the show. Welcome.”
It took no time for her to take one of my bags and start walking towards the exit. “These are your only bags?” she asked without stopping to hear my answer.
“Yes,” I said as I almost ran to keep up with her.
“I’ll be taking you directly to the hotel. From there, you’ll be checked in where you can settle in your room, freshen up if you wish, and then promptly return to the lobby where you’ll be introduced to the other contestants and be briefed on the show.” Her lips moved as quickly as her feet.
“That sounds great. Anything I should know beforehand?”
She stopped at the sidewalk, let a tall man with gray hair take the bag from her hand, then motioned for him to take the one I’d been lugging around as well. Her glasses pushed down from her eyes to her nose, and she looked me up and down. “Like what, dear?”
I had no response. I didn’t know what. That was basically what I was asking, wasn’t it?
“Anyway, everything you need to know will be clear at the briefing,” she said.
Gretchen climbed into the back seat as the driver held the door open and then looked to me as if I were holding her up. “You coming, dear?”
Dear? I didn’t like that. She was the same age as me, maybe younger. The dear seemed to be condescending.
I climbed into the back of the black Lincoln and looked ahead as the driver pulled away from the airport.
Gretchen shuffled through papers and ignored the fact that I was sitting right next to her, eagerly waiting for information on the show, on the procedures, on anything really. It was obvious she wasn’t into small talk, and she was too busy to worry herself with my concerns, so I slouched down into the leather seat and stared out the window as we drove through the large city.
“We’re here,” she announced.
I opened my eyes, not realizing I’d fallen asleep and hoped I hadn’t snored, or drooled. I wiped my mouth. It was dry, thank God.
Gretchen was already out of the car and the driver had my suitcases pulled from the trunk as I stood for the first time on Austin’s soil. Well, maybe not soil. It was a beautiful cobblestone drive, but soil sounded so much more poetic and soothed my frazzled nerves.
The bellhop took my bags and rolled them on a gold metal cart inside the hotel. The lobby was impressive with its marble columns and large white plush sofas and dark wood furniture. Gretchen was already at the check-in desk and filling out paperwork for my room. “She needs your identification,” she said quickly and returned to the forms.
I pulled my driver’s license from my wallet and handed it to the woman behind the counter. “Here’s your key, ma’am,” the woman said with a strong southern accent.
Ma’am. I wasn’t sure I liked that any better than dear.
I took the key and felt my stomach ache with anxiety. Gretchen’s bubbly but to-the-point personality quickly pulled me out of my attack and brought me to a place of order.
“Your room is on the fifth floor. There’s a vending machine right outside your door, and you have exactly thirty minutes before you’re to meet back here,” Gretchen ordered as she pointed to the large sectional sofa in the corner of the lobby.
My room was equipped with a large king-sized bed, marble countertops in the bathroom, and a view of the city’s skyline. It was breathtakingly beautiful.
After wasting several minutes scoping the place out, I realized I’d better get myself freshened up and back down to the lobby. I pressed my clothes with my hands and ran a brush through my hair before exiting the hotel room I’d been assigned. A large man with a bald head was bent over at the vending machine outside my door. His pants were falling down to show the crack of his ass, and as he stood to apologize for being in my way, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was one of the contestants.
I smiled graciously and moved towards the elevator where a hand reached out and slapped the side to keep it from closing. “Thank you,” I said without seeing who I was thanking just yet.
“Not a problem,” a voice replied. A familiar voice.
I turned towards the stranger who sounded so familiar, and my heart fluttered in my chest. I knew I must be staring, and there was no doubt that my mouth was hanging open at the sight of one of my favorite chefs.
“I’m Aiden Maxim, nice to meet you,” he said with a charming smile.
I wanted to scream. Jump up and down. Fangirl him for hours on end. “Yes, I know who you are,” I admitted, proud that my voice sounded clear and professional.
He smiled, and his eyes roved down my body. They felt like snakes slithering against my skin as I pressed myself hard against the el
evator wall. He had been a regular on my favorite cooking show for a couple years at least, and his bad boy persona was what kept many women tuning in when he was a guest. Now, here he was, in the flesh — tattooed and muscle-bound flesh — introducing himself to me, like I wouldn’t know who he was. Aiden Maxim. Wow!
“But yet, I don’t have any idea who you are,” he said with a crooked smile that did interesting things to my lower belly.
His eyes were still on me, smothering me, caressing me, causing me to become more and more anxious.
“I’m Claire,” I said, my voice becoming shakier the longer I was in his presence.
My palms were sweating as I rubbed them together in front of me. “Are you part of the show?” I asked, figuring he may be a host or a guest chef.
“Yes, one of the contestants,” he said proudly.
“C-contestants?” I stuttered, my shakiness now replaced with pure fear in my voice.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
“I thought this was an amateur cooking competition?” I asked, hoping I had misunderstood him.
“They decided to switch things up and add some professionals, semi-professionals, and amateurs together,” he said. “Better ratings, ya know.”
Yeah, better ratings, my ass. This would be a televised slaughter. And great, I get to be a part of it all!
The elevator door opened, and Aiden motioned for me to exit first. A gentleman was underneath that onslaught of tattoos and wolfish grin. Nice.
Even though it was a few minutes early, people were already gathering near the large sectional sofa that Gretchen had designated as the meeting spot in one of the private conference rooms. Some of the faces were familiar, some not. My stomach flopped as I moved towards the group, wondering if I should just run back to my room and call Lauren and Asher to send me another first class ticket home. I enjoyed that part of the trip. The rest of this production I’d gotten myself into, I wasn’t so sure would be as enjoyable.
Gretchen appeared with a clipboard and wasted no time getting right to it. She went around the room to each contestant and read a short bio. I was relieved when I realized that there were more amateurs than professionals, but some of the names that were read off gave me chills. This was the real deal. No more playing in the kitchen, it was time to get to work.
“We’ll have you each create an intro for the show. Just be yourself and tell us a little about why you’re here, what you do for a living, why you love cooking, why you want to win, whatever comes to mind.”
Panic set in at the thought of being pushed in front of the camera so suddenly. As each person took their turn, I realized they were all as nervous as I was, or at least many of them were.
“Aiden Maxim,” Gretchen called out.
Aiden had been behind me, something I wasn’t aware of until he placed his hand on my hip as he passed by. He winked, smiled in that sexy crooked smile of his and whispered, “Wish me luck, sweetheart.”
Even his swagger was cool. He stepped up to his spot and looked completely at ease in front of the four cameras aimed at his face. He spoke without any sign of pressure or nervousness. I listened, soaking up every last word — how he used to help his grandma in the kitchen, how he’d dedicated his life to feeding the poor, and how he planned on opening his own culinary school for underprivileged children with the winnings from this show.
Adrenaline rushed through my veins as I watched him make love to the camera. “That was perfect,” Gretchen said with a smile. It was obvious as her eyes lingered on his chest that she found him attractive. How could anyone not find Aiden Maxim attractive? He was hot, a bad boy with a big heart, and he could cook.
My name was called, and my fingers went numb. My throat felt tight, and my heart raced. Oh God, I don’t know if I can do this!
TO BE CONTINUED...
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ROOKIE MISTAKE
ALICE WARD
BOOK DESCRIPTION
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?
CHAPTER ONE
e
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, somewh
at 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.