The Rookie and The Rockstar Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  More Books by Jiffy Kate

  About the Authors

  The Rookie and The Rockstar

  Copyright © 2019 by Jiffy Kate.

  Jiffy Kate Books, LLC

  www.jiffykate.com

  Cover design and Formatting by Juliana Cabrera, Jersey Girl Design

  Edited by Nichole Strauss, Insight Editing

  Proofread by Karin Enders

  Cover Photo by www.wanderaguiar.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to retailer and purchase.

  Living your life in the public eye is a greater burden than most people can imagine

  - Justin Trudeau

  Chapter 1

  Bo

  Pressure.

  Typically, I love the feeling of being under pressure. I thrive on it, in fact. The tightness in my muscles and the tingling deep in my core, along with my heightened senses, help me stay focused. When my head is in the game—which let’s face it, that’s about ninety-nine percent of the time—I’m unstoppable. A force to be reckoned with. That’s the reputation I’ve upheld since I started playing Little League baseball as a kid and it’s what got me to where I am now, in Spring Training for the New Orleans Revelers.

  The pressure I’m feeling tonight, though, is for a different reason. I knew it was coming, that it was part of the deal, part of being a professional baseball player, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  “Just go and have fun. Shake some hands, sign some autographs, and you’ll be fine. And don’t forget to fucking smile once or twice.”

  That was the advice given to me from the team manager, Buddy Malone—Skip—last night when I tried to back out of the fancy-schmancy fundraiser I’m already late for. He informed me, under no circumstances, am I to miss this party—sorry, gala—because everyone wants to meet me, the big-shot rookie who will change the course of this team and, God willing, get us a championship ring.

  See? Pressure.

  The problem is, this added stress is useless to me right now. It’s not going to add power to my swing or fire to my throw, like it would in a game. Instead, it’s going to make me look nervous and jumpy and I’ll probably end up being a dick to some big-wig. It’s why I don’t want to deal with this publicity bullshit—the only part of the deal that makes me want to run back to the minors.

  I just want to play ball and win games, but I also want to make it to the major leagues.

  Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I sigh. It’s now or never, Bo. No use hanging in the hotel bathroom all night like a fucking pussy. It’s go time—make or break.

  As I step back and straighten my tux, I’m tempted, once again, to take Skip up on his threat to make me do suicides all day tomorrow when I get back to Florida. What stops me is the fact that it wouldn’t be just my ass being punished, it would be the whole team’s ass. He made sure everyone knew if I bailed tonight, we’d all pay for it. It’s one thing for me to pay the price but I refuse to be the reason my teammates suffer...and subsequently hate me.

  I may be an upcoming superstar but I’m no showboat.

  Running my fingers between my shirt collar and neck, trying to create a little space to breathe, I shake the nerves out of my shoulders. This is my first publicity event for the New Orleans Revelers, and I know it’s a test, so I can’t blow it.

  Before leaving the bathroom, I stop and do the one thing that I know will center me and calm my nerves, something that always makes me feel like I’m in control: I get in my batting stance.

  Feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, I hold one fist on top of the other like I’m holding my bat. I tap my imaginary bat across home plate one time in front of me, then again toward where the pitcher would be. I end my ritual with the sign of the cross over my heart before holding the bat up and over my right shoulder. Deep breath in, deep breath out, and...swing.

  The bathroom attendant, who’s now holding the door for me, stops me on my way out. “Hey, man, that was awesome. I’ve been watching you since you played for Eastern State. Can’t wait to see what you do for the Revelers.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, forcing my first smile. People who aren’t privy to how all of this works assume it’s a done deal—me making it to the big league—but the fact of the matter is there are still two weeks left in Spring Training and I could be sent back down at any moment.

  Taking another deep breath, I make my way down the long corridor to the ballroom and turn on what charm I can muster.

  Everyone I meet seems to share the view of the bathroom attendant, most of them telling me how happy they are that I signed with the Revelers and how fun it will be to watch me play.

  I sigh in relief as I see a few familiar faces, most of them seasoned players from the team and some of the staff. The owner of the Revelers, Pete Whitney, gives my shoulder a solid squeeze as he begins to introduce me to one old man in a tux after another. Each face fades into oblivion the second we move onto someone else, but I try to keep up the act of the superstar they expect me to be.

  What started out as an ego boost quickly takes a turn for the worse. I had no idea what it felt like to be someone else’s property on public display. I’m pretty sure I’ve been poked, prodded, pushed, and pulled more times than all the physicals I’ve endured in my life.

  Over here, Mr. Bennett ...look this way, Bo...just ten more pictures and then you can sign these fifty fucking shirts…

  And, don’t get me started on the manhandling. Women I don’t even know, but assume are here with their husbands or significant others, refuse to keep their hands off me. Many guys I know would be eating this shit up, loving the attention, but that’s not who I am.

  I know, I know. I sound like an asshole complaining about shit like this, but this isn’t what I signed up for. Like I said, I just want to play ball, not be paraded around and whored out for everyone’s amusement.

  Glancing at my watch, I see it’s close to ten o’clock, which means I’m almost home free. The first part of the gala and the only part I had to be here for was the dinner and socializing time. Once the entertainment of the night takes the stage, I’m hauling ass out of here and going straight to the hotel.

  While everyone around me is wrapped up in their own conv
ersations, I stand up, push my chair in, and turn to find the exit when I promptly run into Buddy Malone.

  “Bo, my boy! You’re not leaving already, are you?”

  “I—uh, I was thinking about it, yes, sir. There’s still a lot of Spring Training left to go.” I want to add how bad I want one of those twenty-five spots on the roster, but he already knows that. “I was just planning on heading back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep, unless you have something else you need me to do.”

  Am I a kiss ass? Sure. But this is my career riding on the line and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to secure my future. I think I’ve made that clear by being here tonight.

  He laughs and slaps the back of my shoulder. “No, son, you’re free to leave. I just wish you knew how to relax,” he says thoughtfully. “Don’t get me wrong, I greatly appreciate your talent and dedication to the game but you’re too young to be so serious all the time. This is the prime of your life. Enjoy it while you can.”

  Nodding my head, “Yes, sir. I’ll do that,” I reply with a tight-lipped smile, but it’s an empty promise because I can guarantee his definition of enjoying it and mine are completely different. I know most professional athletes need to blow off steam and get their kicks outside of their sport, but that’s not me. I relieve stress by hitting the batting cages. I zone out by spending time in the weight room. When I want to relax, I watch game film.

  The house lights begin to dim and I use the opportunity to head for the door, stopping briefly to say goodbye to a few players and staff members I see on my way out, until I hear the opening notes of a familiar song. Turning back around, I see long legs in leather pants strut across the stage.

  Lola Carradine.

  I guess it wouldn’t kill me to stay a little while longer.

  Chapter 2

  Charlotte

  Whoever said it’s easier to sing in front of a small crowd instead of an arena full of people was full of shit. Actually, I’m not sure that anyone ever said that, but if they did, I’d like the record to show they’re full of shit.

  Because as I stand here, staring out into this pond of people, the spotlight making me sweat under my leather pants, I inwardly cringe at their seeming disinterest.

  When I’m performing for tens of thousands of people, it’s honestly one of the few times I feel comfortable in my own skin. It’s me and some of my closest friends in a dark room belting out our favorite songs. There’s no judging, no negativity, just singing and dancing and fun.

  This—standing in front of a few hundred people, feeling like I’m being judged on everything from my haircut to tonight’s choice in combat boots—is not fun.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to be doing my part to help raise money for a worthy cause, even if I’m technically being forced to do so by my manager. But I’d much rather do it somewhere else, in a more authentic way. A ballroom full of rich, stuffy people who probably have never even downloaded one of my songs makes for a difficult crowd.

  I’m trying, though, I really am.

  “Looking good out there tonight,” I call out from the mic, waiting for the transition to the next song. The other thing that sucks about tonight is that I’m not playing with my regular band—Flight of Feelings. All of them couldn’t make it on such short notice, so Terry, my manager, hooked me up with this house band. They’re not terrible, but we’re definitely not winning any best performance awards.

  Most people probably can’t even tell, wouldn’t notice the difference, but I do.

  Music is my life.

  It’s in my blood.

  It’s what I wake up every morning to do and what I go to bed every night thinking about.

  At least the crowd gives me a small pity woo.

  My cheeks hurt from the smile I’ve plastered on for the last thirty minutes, but I can keep it up for just a while longer. I’m used to putting on a good face—smiling for the camera, appealing to the masses. It’s what I do.

  When I’m up here, I’m Lola Carradine, rockstar and all-around badass.

  And tonight, I’m singing and dancing my heart out for this crowd, hoping they’ll loosen up and open their pockets and pocketbooks for the local children’s hospital, and all I’m getting in return are a few toe taps and shoulder sways. I mean, come on, this is New Orleans. I grew up not far from here; I know besides being generous and giving, they know how to party, so what the hell is up with this crowd?

  Putting in a little extra kick when the current song comes to a crescendo, I at least get a few whistles. According to the sweat now trickling down my back, I’m putting on the performance of my life.

  But that’s every performance.

  Go big or go home, right?

  There’s no sense doing anything half-assed.

  Finally, it’s time for my last song and I’ve saved the best for last.

  It’s a mash-up of the song that started my career and the one that reignited it and it’s always a crowd-pleaser. Thank the holiest of holies, it’s working here tonight.

  The energy I’ve been waiting to get back in return for all I’m putting out is finally being given back to me. People are singing loudly, most of them now on their feet as opposed to occupying their seats.

  It’s as if everyone was waiting for the one and only song of mine they know and now that it’s here, they can enjoy the show. A less confident person would let that sting, but I shrug it off, thankful they’re at least finally showing some interest.

  When the song ends, the crowd goes wild, demanding an encore.

  I smile, my first genuine one of the night, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand and then using it as a shield against the lights.

  “Thank you so much,” I call out.

  I wish I had something to give them, but I was given strict instructions—a five-song set, minimal crowd interaction. Get in, get out. Don’t make a scene.

  So, I give them one final wave, blowing a kiss as I exit stage left, heading straight for my dressing room.

  Always leave them wanting more, right?

  Normally, in my rider, I have provisions in my dressing room—bottled water, Swedish Fish, Doritos. Basic sustenance. But since this is for charity, I waived all of that bullshit. I didn’t partake in the fancy dinner and I’m starving, so I quickly change out of my platform boots into more reasonable ones, grab my duffle bag and head out.

  Once I get to the valet parking area, where Frank, my driver, dropped me off, I look around for the familiar car. There are several black, shiny sedans, but none of them with Frank behind the wheel.

  Shit.

  Terry and I didn’t discuss an exit strategy this morning when we were going over the logistics of tonight. He probably wasn’t anticipating me bolting out of the hotel as soon as my set was over and didn’t feel the need to have a plan.

  I take out my cell phone and quickly dial his number.

  “Lola,” Terry says, obvious satisfaction in his voice. “Great show.”

  “Hey, do you know where Frank went? I’m ready to leave.”

  “Where are you?” Terry asks. “I told Frank to meet you in front of the hotel.”

  “Why the front?” I ask, trying not to get pissy, but the front of the hotel means cameras and people. “That kinda ruins my plan for sneaking out unseen.”

  “That’s because you’re supposed to be seen. In fact, I have various people set up in the area specifically to see you. Bonus points if you’ve found someone hot to leave with you. A nice photo op would be the cherry on top of an already successful evening.”

  No, no, no, no.

  “I’m done being your puppet for the evening,” I say, sounding more like a petulant child than a twenty-nine-year-old adult, but I can’t help it. I’m over it. “I’ll find my own way home, thanks.” I end the call, not waiting for his reply, before tossing my phone back into my bag and letting out a frustrated sigh.

  It’s really not a big deal to get myself a cab, that’s not the problem. The problem is Terry and the
way he’s always orchestrating my life. I should probably fire him but he’s been my manager for most of my career and the idea of letting someone new into my life is terrifying.

  “You, uh, need a ride?”

  Smirking, I roll my eyes, getting ready to ream out the douchebag who obviously thinks he’s going to get lucky and so assuming, thinking I’d go anywhere with him. But before I can say anything, I practically swallow my tongue.

  The guy offering is hot as hell—tall, classically handsome yet rugged enough to not come off as a pretty boy. And for fuck’s sake, he can fill out a tux. Those broad shoulders become even more pronounced as he crosses his arms over his chest and turns toward an approaching car. When he clears his throat and begins to fidget, it makes me think his offer was an impulsive one and he’s probably wishing he could take it back right about now.

  “Uh,” I begin, buying myself some time, because if he’s really offering, I might take him up on it. Did I mention he’s wearing that suit like he was poured into it? It’s literally molded to his perfect body and now I’m imagining peeling him out of it.

  If he’s wearing a tux right now, it most likely means he was at the gala I just left, right?

  So, he’s probably a stand-up guy, right?

  And I haven’t ridden anyone in a while.

  The fact that I’m trying to reason with myself about hooking up with some guy who just offered me a ride makes me question my self-worth and value. I might be a rockstar, but I don’t typically do rockstar things, contrary to popular belief.

  When he turns to fully face me, the first thing I notice is the slight blush on his cheeks and I’m immediately endeared to him. It’s obvious he’s caught off-guard by his offer. Maybe just as much as I am by the idea of accepting it. “I’m sorry for asking that,” he says, shaking his head and fighting back a smile. “I’m sure you don’t need a ride. I just saw you waiting and it seemed like you might not have one…” He drifts off and bites down on his full bottom lip, which makes all my girly bits tingle.

  To be clear, I’m the embarrassing one; he’s the super sweet and thoughtful gentleman. I’m the one with my mind in the fucking gutter.