Winning Streak

by Alice Ward

  I curled tighter against him, unable to believe I’d come so close to losing him like that. I’d left, thinking he was drunk and then walked around for hours. He could have been dead because I was out feeling sorry for myself.

  Agent Mason wasn’t finished. “Eliana, right now, there is a high probability your mother set the fire that burned your apartment building. She was muttering things about revenge, and insurance money so she could escape. We’ll be stepping into that investigation, and if we do find evidence of her guilt, she’ll be facing felony arson charges on top of everything else.”

  I hadn’t thought I could feel any more surprised, but I did. The only thing keeping me from exploding was Kane’s strong arms around me.

  “And Eliana, we think she might have been responsible for the fire that killed your grandparents. There was more talk of insurance and getting rid of responsibility. We still have a lot of work to do to make those charges stick, but I wanted you to hear it from me that it’s a good possibility. We’ll also be re-opening the case of your father’s death.”

  I just lay there, Kane stroking my hair as I absorbed all that I’d learned.

  Agent Mason patted my hand and shook Kane’s. Agent Grinstead did the same. I had the presence of mind to thank them, then they were gone.

  “I’m so sorry,” Zoe said and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m going to leave the two of you alone. Do you want me to take Target back to my place?”

  I thought of my furry hero, who would be much happier in a home than a car. “Please. And give him a big bone. And a bath. He loves those.” Zoe nodded and headed toward the door. “And give him a kiss. Tell him he’s a good boy.”

  “Yes, Mama.” She was halfway out the door when she stopped and came back, digging in her jeans pocket. She pulled out Nana’s ring. “Thought you might like this back.”

  Kane took it from her and kissed my cheek. “You’d be right.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Kane

  I had a dream.

  It was a damn big one. A dream so big that only a handful of men ever got to achieve it.

  There were a million youngsters who picked up a bat and glove and ran out on a field for the first time each year. Those little guys were missing teeth and hammering away at the tee. Then those kids got older. Some lost interest. Some got cut from teams — a few didn’t care, the rest had their hearts broken. By high school, those Little League numbers had dwindled down to nearly nothing. Then they dwindled down even more. Only half a percent of high school seniors would ever be drafted to an MLB team.

  Fewer than that would ever wear a World Series ring.

  I was one of them.

  Me.

  I had stood on first base and tagged out the winning run. I still couldn’t believe it.

  It was something. Actually, it was a repeat of something.

  Ninth inning.

  Two outs.

  Runner on second.

  We were up by one.

  My girl was in the stands.

  Just like the game when I’d damn near broke my leg.

  There was a big difference though. This time we were playing game seven of the World Series.

  The batter stepped up to the plate. Calvin wound up for the pitch.

  Crack!

  Damn thing came at me, knee level, like it was fired from a gun. But… I caught it.

  Me.

  Kane Bartholomew Steele.

  I caught the last out, and the entire world went crazy.

  I never thought anything could ever surpass that feeling, that sense of achievement and teamwork. The glory.

  And then the music began to play…

  And I saw her.

  Eliana.

  And I realized another type of dream was in the midst of coming true.

  White dress, frothy veil not quite thick enough to hide the freckles I loved so much. She was walking toward me on the arm of my grandmother in the silk and lace dress that looked like it was created just for her, a bouquet of blush pink and white roses, dahlias, and peonies in her hands. Her grandmother’s favorite.

  It was a slow walk, but it didn’t matter because it gave me more time to just look at her. To feel every cell in my body attempt to explode from pure happiness.

  Our wedding was perfect. My parents, my sisters, and our friends — my team — surrounded us. Zoe was the only bridesmaid, and Target sat at her feet, our rings tied to his collar.

  When Nana tucked Eliana’s hand into mine and kissed my cheek, I knew real glory. Real achievement. Real teamwork. Real love.

  Before the preacher uttered a word, I pulled Eliana closer. Her eyes widened in surprise at this breach in procedure. The wedding planner was probably having a heart attack at the back of the church.

  “Marry me.”

  She laughed and looked down at her dress. “I think that’s what I’m doing.”

  I was serious.

  After I was released from the hospital, our lives had been nothing but a tornado driving us toward today. The Beasts rebounded from our losses and went on another winning streak, just enough to land us in the playoffs as a wildcard. We’d fought through every game, refusing to give up. And by my side was Eliana, my good luck charm. And Target, the good dog who rarely left our sides.

  I wasn’t the only one who was busy. Eliana became the voice of revenge porn and was invited to a number of major news channels for interviews. There were even talks about doing a documentary to raise awareness and increase the laws protecting the victims.

  I was so proud of her. Proud of the me I was with her. And even though all of this started off as a lark, I never wanted it to end.

  “Marry me,” I repeated and pushed the veil over her head so she could see me and I could see her. See how much I meant this. “Forever marry me, Eliana. Have my babies and let’s grow old and gray together. I love you. And I want to be your husband, and I want you to be my—”

  She placed her fingers on my lips, smiling gently. The strong one this time. “Shhh… you had me at forever.”

  My face exploded into a grin as all my dreams came true. “Is that a yes?”

  She bit her bottom lip, her blue eyes shining. “Will she, won’t she?”

  The preacher leaned forward. “Should I come back later?”

  We both laughed, and I could hear the rumble of laughter all around us. Our friends. Our family. And a woof.

  “Don’t you go anywhere,” Eliana fake demanded and turned to face him, “you’ve got a forever marriage to perform.”

  The preacher winked. “Yes, ma’am.”

  And in the space of a few moments, a different kind of winning streak was born.

  THE END

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  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Thank you for reading Winning Streak. I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, may I ask you to please write a review HERE? It would mean the world to me. Reviews are very important and allow me to keep writing the books that you love to read!

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  Alice Ward

  Rookie Mistake

  THE BEASTS OF BASEBALL

  BOOK 1

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  This is the first sexy STANDALONE novel in Bestselling Author Alice Ward's brand new sports romance series, The Beasts of Baseball.

  I thought I'd achieved everything I ever wanted. Then I lost her...

  Standing on the pitcher’s mound for a professional baseball team has been my dream since I was a small boy. Now I’m here, pitching for the newest team in the league — the New York Beasts — with the woman I’ve loved since high school by my side.

  Calvin and Whitney forever! Wow, we made it.

  But there’s a downside to instant fame and fortune, a trap that unleashes self-control and morals. A gilded cage that separates us from the real world. This is the big city, the major leagues — the big time. And temptation is around every corner. People change. We changed. Neither for the better. I don't even recognize us anymore.

  Calvin and Whitney forever? I used to think so, but the beasts that had been hibernating in both of us have taken control, and now I’m not so sure. The dream has become a nightmare. Can we wake and find our way back to each other?

  NOTE: The Beasts of Baseball series follows the sexy exploits of the players on the baseball team The Beasts, and the women they love. Each book can be read as a standalone. Prepare for a raw, emotionally charged HEA with No Cliffhanger.

  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 one of our new starting pitchers.”

  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 w
ind 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. I shook my head 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.