The Rookie and The Rockstar Page 5

  “Seriously, though, Charlotte, enjoy taking your time with this guy. You never know, it might actually be worth it this time.”

  As she walks toward the stairs, she yells over her shoulder, “I’ll be running some errands later and I’ll bring home some celebratory grub!”

  “What are we celebrating?” I ask, confused.

  “You finishing these new songs and being one step closer to your new hit album!”

  Her words and thoughtfulness give me an extra jolt of excitement and I smile to myself.

  Maybe Casey isn’t so annoying after all.

  I end up spending a good four hours in the studio and, even though I desperately need a break, I feel like a new person. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this creative and allowed my true vision for a song to be put down on paper and then recorded. I have a reputation in the music business—a few of them, if I’m being completely honest—for writing and performing strong, female-driven songs but what I’ve accomplished today is, by far, my most honest work. It’s fearless and powerful while remaining catchy and fun.

  Except for one song.

  Eyes of a Stranger is a ballad and written through a mirror’s reflection. Mine, to be exact. In a way, it’s a love letter to myself but the lyrics, at times, are harsh and deeply personal. It’s still a work in progress and I’m not sure it’ll ever make the cut, but it feels cathartic to shed some light on some of my demons.

  After I shower and eat a late lunch, I decide to tackle some of the business items on my to-do list. Up first is calling my manager, Terry, and giving him an update on my studio work. Normally, I dread calling him but not today. I’m excited to tell him about the progress I’ve made. Hopefully this means I’m back on track and able to make the late summer release we had planned.

  The first few minutes of our talk goes well. Terry is very happy to hear about the new songs and seems really interested in what I’ve created today. But, then, things go south.

  “You’ve been invited to a movie premiere next week in L.A.,” he says matter-of-factly. “I already have a designer set up for you. They’ll meet you at the hotel. You’ll be attending with Cody DiMarco, one of the stars of the film. It’s just what you need.”

  What I need? How in the hell does he think he knows what I need? I hate when he makes plans for me without ever asking or taking into consideration what’s best for me.

  Also, I don’t need my manager setting me up on dates, especially ones I have no interest in.

  “I’m assuming your silence means you’re not happy with this news,” he continues. “Let me remind you, we’re still trying to rebuild your career and—how shall I put it—revamp your public persona. Mr. DiMarco has managed to keep his image perfectly clean over the years and being seen with him would greatly improve yours.”

  Cody DiMarco jumped onto the music scene with his teenaged boy band years ago and has had a fairly successful transition into the movie business, kind of the reverse of my own career. Terry is right in that Cody’s reputation is great and the public love him but what he doesn’t seem aware of is that Cody pays a shit-ton of money to keep his image the way it is.

  “Terry, the only reason Cody has the rep he does is because he keeps his dealer on staff. Literally. He also keeps his little harem of barely legal women well-paid and stoned. So, no, I will not play your little game and go to the premiere with this douchebag or any other douchebag you try to set me up with.”

  “Lola, doing charity events can only get you so far. Pictures last forever, you know—once on the internet, always on the internet—which means you still have a lot of work to do to get back in the public’s good graces. I’ll give you some time to think about it. Call me back tomorrow with a different attitude and a better answer.”

  He hangs up and it takes every ounce of strength in me not to throw my phone against the wall and smash it to bits.

  This. This is what I hate about my career. Playing games, being fake, and selling my soul all to sell more albums and concert tickets.

  Yes, I made a mistake a few months ago. In fact, I’ve made quite a few over the span of my career but, so what? Everyone messes up at some point in their life. The difference is all my mistakes make the covers of every trashy tabloid and every gossip website. I’ve apologized multiple times and I’ve done everything Terry and my PR team have made me do, but it never seems to be good enough.

  But, no more. I refuse to leave my career and my life in the hands of anyone else but me and fuck anyone who tries to stand in my way.

  I’m about to head back into the studio when Casey walks through the front door. She takes one look at my face and demeanor and her shoulders sag in defeat.

  “So, you already know, huh?” she asks.

  “Know what? What are you talking about?”

  She tosses the paper bag she’d been carrying onto the coffee table before sitting in the chair across from me. “I found these at the newsstand. I bought every copy they had, I swear, but I don’t know if it’ll do any good.”

  Dread runs through my veins like ice water. I don’t want to look at what’s inside. I’m ninety-nine percent sure I already know what I’ll find but being the glutton for punishment I am makes me reach in anyway and pull out a stack of magazines.

  Right there on the front cover is a picture I’ve seen many times over the last few months and it’s not pretty. This time, though, there’s more than one picture and the two new ones are even worse than their predecessor.

  The picture that started this new bullshit in my life is a grainy, somewhat out of focus image of someone who looks a lot like me leaning over a table and snorting a line of cocaine. Newsflash: it’s really me snorting coke. Just like it’s really me in the “new” clearer picture showing the same thing but from a different angle. It’s also really me in the third picture shown kissing a woman who is sitting on my lap.

  For the record, I’ve never denied being in those pictures or doing the things they show me doing, even kissing Kylie. We were high and drunk, and I get frisky, regardless of sexual orientation. My management and PR teams tried to cause doubt to the validity of the first photo, but I knew it was a lost cause and released a statement admitting my guilt along with a heartfelt apology, much to the dismay of Terry and my family.

  In the letter, I spoke briefly about being at a party and succumbing to peer pressure. I vowed to seek help, although, I’m not an addict. It was recreational, I swear. I also donated a large sum of money to various addiction-related charities before hanging my head in shame and hiding out in my home here in New Orleans. I thought it was all going away but, apparently, I was wrong.

  “Are you okay?” Casey asks, concern evident on her face.

  “No, but I will be. I’m going to go up to my room, if that’s okay. Thanks for getting these, I really appreciate it.”

  Once I’m alone and snuggled under the blankets on my bed, I allow myself a few minutes to wallow. All of the positive energy I was relishing in just moments ago is gone and I feel like a deflated balloon...empty and just sad.

  I’m simply at a loss as to what I can or should do to make this go away. I’ve owned up to my mistakes but people don’t seem to care about that. They only want drama and to focus on my imperfections because it keeps them from dealing with their own. I’m a fighter and my gut is telling me to keep fighting but I don’t have it in me right now.

  Maybe I should call Terry and agree to go on the stupid date with Cody.

  I wonder if these new pictures are why he set the date up in the first place and if so, that means he knew about them and didn’t warn me. What an asshole.

  My sadness slowly morphs into anger the more I think about it and I wish I had someone to vent to, besides Casey. Of course she would listen, but I feel like she’s too close to the situation to be objective.

  Besides, I don’t like to wrap her up in the ugliness of the business. She never asked for any of this. I’ve always tried to protect her as much as possible.

/>   Lying here, staring at my ceiling, the only face I can see is Bo’s. But I try to shake it...him. No way. There’s no way I can talk to Bo about this. He’d go running for the hills, I’m sure, and I wouldn’t blame him one bit. I even tried to warn him while we were at the crepe truck. I told him he doesn’t want to be caught with the likes of me. If he knew about this, he’d believe it and then what?

  He’d start ignoring my text messages?

  I’d never see him again?

  No, I definitely can’t share this with him, not right now anyway, but I would love to hear his voice again. That would definitely make me feel better. But I can’t just call out of the blue, right? What if he’s busy with his team? I’d worry about him seeing the magazine, but I know he’s at Spring Training and the only thing on his mind is making it to the majors. I doubt he’s reading gossip rags. God, I hope none of his teammates show him.

  I decide to settle for a text message and ask if he’d be up to a phone call later. My phone starts buzzing as soon as I pick it up, scaring me and almost making me drop it. Shocked is an understatement to how I feel when I see Bo’s number flashing on my screen.

  He’s calling me.

  Is he psychic?

  I quickly hit the “accept” button and say hello, not caring if I sound desperate or nervous.

  “Hey, Charlotte. Is this a bad time? Is it okay that I called?”

  He’s so sweet, I swear. Not even trying to fight back my grin, since he can’t see me, I reply. “Hey! Yeah, I’m glad you called, actually. I was just thinking about calling you...too.”

  Smacking my head, I roll my eyes at my stupidity. For being able to stand in front of thousands of people and bleed on a stage, sometimes I can be a real dork. But when I hear him blow out a gust of air like my answer relieves him, I can’t help but smiling a little wider.

  “Yeah?” he asks, like he’s not sure if he can believe me. “That’s cool. How was your day?”

  Is it weird that I like that he’s not completely full of himself. Being an athlete, I would think he’d walk around like he’s God’s gift to women, but Bo Bennett is nothing like that. Actually, I’m beginning to wonder if he even knows just how fucking sexy he is.

  Like, GQ material.

  “Well,” I begin, wondering how honest to get with this being our first phone call, “It started off strong then, kinda crashed and burned...but it’s much better now...thanks to you.”

  Oh, my God. What is this guy doing to me? I have no chill. None.

  “Anything you want to talk about?” he asks—attentive, sincere.

  I consider it, consider telling him about Terry and the constantly resurfacing photos of me doing a line of coke...the publicity dates...everything, but I decide not to. I just want to put it all out of my mind for now. “Nah,” I finally say, clearing my throat and licking my suddenly parched lips. “Tell me about your day. Have they decided on the final team roster yet?”

  “They did,” he hedges, sounding kind of hopeful, but leaving me hanging.

  “And…” I throw my blanket off and sit up, genuinely anxious to hear if he made the team or not. I’ve watched videos of some of his big games on YouTube and he’s nothing short of amazing, like fucking badass. The Revelers would be stupid to not have him as their starting third baseman this season.

  “You’re now officially speaking with the New Orleans’ Revelers third baseman!”

  “That’s amazing...Not a surprise though,” I add, smirking and biting down on my lip as an image of him comes to mind. I watched this video the other day of him catching a ball and firing it across the field. So fucking hot. “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you, Bo.”

  “Thanks. I couldn’t wait to tell you. I was wondering if you’d like to go to the home opener in a couple weeks. I can get you a ticket.” His voice quickly changes from ecstatic to shy and I find myself swooning just a bit.

  Okay, a lot.

  “I would love to see you play. Of course, I’ll be there. I bet your parents are over the moon. What did they say when you told them?”

  “Oh, shit. I haven’t called them yet. I got the official word, got in my car, and called you. I should probably let you go, so I can tell them,” he says with a nervous laugh.

  I can’t help but laugh before agreeing that he should definitely call them now. I even promise to keep it our secret that he called me first. Before hanging up, he asks if we can talk again later tonight and I immediately say yes.

  Chapter 7

  Bo

  “Hey, Rook,” Davies says, walking into the locker room with a towel around his waist. “Get laid last night?”

  I huff a laugh and shake my head, not giving him a verbal response because I know I’m going to get harassed regardless, might as well keep my mouth shut and let him say whatever he’s going to say.

  “Rook.” Davies steps beside me and folds his arms, forcing me to look his way. “What did I say about first game jitters?”

  “Don’t have to worry about me,” I tell him with a shrug. It’s true, I’ve never been one to let first games get to me like some players do. I don’t force myself to puke up my nerves. I don’t say ten Hail Marys. I don’t need a shot, a hit, or a woman. The work I put in every day is the only insurance I need.

  Sure, it’s the major leagues, but I’ve been here before. Granted, my ass never left the bench, but sitting in the dugout for a few games last season gave me the chance to see what it would feel like and I think I worked through some of the mental game.

  “You know what happens to rookies who strike out every at bat, right?” he asks with a cocky smirk.

  I nod, not giving him any leeway. “Not worried,” I quip. And I’m not. I’m also not trying to jinx myself or anything, but I’ve never struck out in my first game on a new team.

  In my first high school at bat, I knocked it out of the park.

  They called it beginner’s luck, until I hit sixteen more that season. Not only a school record and state record, but also a national record.

  In my first college at bat, I hit a double and by the end of the game, I hit for the cycle.

  In my first minor league game, I hit a grand slam.

  “You’d look mighty pretty in that sombrero,” Davies ribs, pointing to the golden hat hanging on the wall in the middle of the lockers. He laughs, nudging me with his arm. When I don’t reply, he adds, “You know I’m just messing with you.”

  “I know,” I tell him, focusing my attention on my new locker. It’s still setting in that I’m here—in the New Orleans Revelers club house—and I have a starting position.

  Skip set the batting order and he has me batting fourth, in the clean-up spot.

  Pressure?

  Sure.

  Nerves?

  Of course.

  But I’m here for it. It’s what I live for.

  The pre-game dinner for the Revelers is not your typical pre-game dinner. Most ball clubs have their standard PB&Js before a game or maybe subs from a local deli. The 1894 Baltimore Orioles accredited their pennant win to gravy. I’m hoping the shrimp po’ boys everyone is now inhaling is our team’s gravy.

  “Po’ boys before the game,” Davies says to Mack Granger, our catcher, as they cheers their sandwiches. “Beignets and beers after.”

  Ew.

  I mean, I love a good beignet, although I haven’t indulged in many as of late. But beignets and beer...that sounds like a hard pass for me.

  “Rook,” Mack shouts over the clubhouse chatter. “Beignets and beers!”

  It sounds like a battle cry as everyone chimes in with him and I shake my head and smile, but I’m not one to mess with tradition or superstitions. We all have them, especially baseball players. Being the new guy, I know I have to adapt. I want to. I want to be a part of the team and for them to learn to trust me and accept me, know that I’ll have their back on and off the field. It’s one of the non-sport related things I really love about the game.

  These half-dressed fools, cheersi
ng sandwiches and chanting about beignets and beer are more like brothers than teammates. We spend so many hours and days together, seeing each other more than our own families, if you don’t learn to love each other, you won’t make it.

  “Beignets and beer,” I call back, half-eaten po’ boy in the air, earning me some slaps of camaraderie on my back and guys walking by and rubbing my head.

  Apparently, that’s another tradition of theirs: rubbing the rookie’s head for good luck.

  As we’re all finishing up getting dressed, gearing up to head out to the field for pre-game warm-up, I start to feel the nerves. My parents are going to be out there tonight, which isn’t unusual. When I played the minors, in Des Moines, they were at most of my home games. It was only a three hour drive and one they promised they loved making. Even now, with it being a plane ride away, I’m sure they’ll make whatever games they can.

  My dad said he and Mom were planning a few weekend getaways around my away games.

  When I’d called them about starting tonight, I could feel the pride seeping through the phone. My mom cried, of course, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my dad did too. He’s a softie. Even though he’s a tough coach and keeps the boys in line, being more of a father figure off the field, they know he loves them. He works hard getting his players noticed, finding them scholarships, and working overtime to help improve swings.

  Knowing they’re out there brings me a lot of confidence.

  Knowing Charlotte is out there brings me a lot of...I don’t know, a different kind of nerves...excitement...anticipation.

  When I called her, on auto-pilot, like it was the most natural thing in the world, I almost hung up before she answered. I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn’t. I was just going with how I felt, and I was feeling like I needed Charlotte to know I made the team.

  In the last week or so of Spring Training, making the team and being based in New Orleans took on a new meaning. Being here means I have a chance to see her again. I know I said I don’t want distractions and I mean that, but texting her at night actually helped me take my mind off the game and focus better during the day.