The Rookie and The Rockstar Read online

  “There’s no way this guy doesn’t have some skeletons in the closet. I mean, a guy like him...and all those girls who love athletes. There are Instagram accounts dedicated to guys in baseball pants. He has to, at the very least, have some hook-ups that have made it to the internet. You don’t play his level of ball and walk away squeaky clean.”

  “There’s nothing, Case. I already told you.”

  She sighs, leaning her head back on the couch as we both zone out, probably also both thinking of Bo Bennett. And honestly, that pisses me off a little. I don’t want my sister thinking about Bo Bennett. Actually, I don’t want anyone thinking about Bo Bennett.

  Except me.

  “He’s a good person,” I say, tamping down the irrational jealousy. “Probably too good of a person for me.”

  Casey sits up abruptly and shoves me. Hard.

  “What the fuck, Casey?”

  “Well, what the heck, Charlotte?” she challenges. “What did I tell you about talking down about yourself?”

  “What did I tell you about turning into Mom?” I volley back.

  Her eyes narrow. “What’s so bad about Mom?”

  I chuckle, loving how she can defuse a situation in a split second. There’s no one like Casey. Of course, she’s my little sister and I’m probably biased, but she is a good person. And she is like our mother, but in the best ways. I always mean it as a compliment even though I use it to get her riled up.

  “You’re a good person, too,” Casey says quietly, settling back on the couch beside me, like she can hear my inner thoughts. “And I think a guy like Bo could use a girl like you. You’ll spice up his life...give him a little adventure.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively and laughs.

  “Closet whore,” I mumble.

  After we tidy up the living room and say our goodnights, Casey heads for bed and I head for the studio. Bo still hasn’t texted, but that’s okay. If I was him, I probably wouldn’t either. I’m sure he knows I was blowing him off.

  Well, not blowing him off, I muse...but that would be fun.

  Again, like he’s psychic, my phone buzzes in my back pocket and I take it out to see his name on the screen.

  Bo: Hey Charlotte

  Charlotte: Hey Bo

  I smile to myself as I open the door to the studio and walk inside. Our text messages are probably juvenile, but I don’t care. They’re the most carefree, fun thing I’ve experienced in a long time. Plus, I kind of missed my childhood. I didn’t go to a regular school, was tutored on set for most of my middle school and junior high. I never had normal relationships. My first date was when I was fifteen and the guy was my eighteen-year-old co-star. He picked me up in a BMW and took me to The Ivy. There was nothing normal about it.

  Bo: Thanks for coming to my game today.

  Charlotte: Thanks for the tickets. We had fun.

  Bo: Your little sister seems nice.

  Charlotte: Is that code for annoying?

  Bo: LOL

  Bo: I never had siblings, so it’s cool. I’m glad you brought her.

  Charlotte: I could say something seriously mean but she’s not so bad.

  There’s a long pause and I wonder if that’s the end of tonight’s conversation, feeling a little disappointed if it is. Our nightly routine of texting mixed with a couple phone calls here and there is what has brought me out of my writing slump. Casey wasn’t lying when she said he’s my muse. Although, I wouldn’t have admitted that to him.

  Thanks for that, Case.

  Bo: Sorry again for springing my parents on you like that without a warning. I was going to introduce you and then realized what a mistake that was…

  A mistake?

  My stomach drops and I suddenly feel a little crushed inside that Bo would be embarrassed to introduce me to his parents. I know, I know. I didn’t want to meet them in the first place. But there’s a difference between me wanting to meet them and him wanting me to meet them.

  Bo: That came out wrong. I would’ve loved for you to meet them and my mom would’ve flipped over you. But it was a mistake to not give you a heads up. Next time, full-on introductions, but be prepared to sign autographs and relive your days on Take the Stage.

  I laugh and cringe a little. My time on the talent show was equally the best and worst thing that ever happened to me. I mean, it restarted my life, giving me a new career—the one I’d always dreamed of. But it was also a period in time when I was trying to figure myself out. Let’s just say there were many variations of Charlotte Carradine—and later, Lola—on the stage of Take the Stage. Not to mention, the behind the scenes shots they referred to as The Daily Stage was a freaking Barbara Walters special. The producers’ goal every day was tears. They didn’t care how they got them—piss you off, scare the shit out of you, show you pictures of your dead dog—as long as they got them.

  It was all about the views.

  Never mind the souls you’re crushing in the process.

  But that’s Hollywood...that’s show business...that’s living life in the public eye.

  The thought actually makes my stomach turn. Not for the first time do I wonder if Bo realizes the life he’s stepping into. It doesn’t matter if you’re an actress, musician, athlete, the second you sign that big contract and start performing for the public, they feel like they own you.

  Charlotte: I’m sorry I bailed like that. I’m just not good at stuff like that.

  I hesitated a little with how to word that, not wanting to be too presumptuous. We’re not in a relationship, right? This is just friends...talking.

  Bo: Neither am I.

  Smiling at the phone, at his honesty, I reply—going out of my comfort zone because Bo feels worth it.

  Charlotte: Well, I guess we can be bad at it together.

  Chapter 9

  Bo

  I’m on my first chartered flight to my first major league away game. It’s definitely not like the minors. Playing in Des Moines, we traveled primarily by bus.

  I’ll admit, it’s nice. The leg room alone is worth writing home about. Also, the food, or the fact that we were served actual food and not pretzels and peanuts, is also a nice perk.

  The chatter was a little loud when we were first getting in the air, all the players joking around and yelling at each other about the Fortnite game they’re playing and the Mario Kart competition they had last night at Mack’s house. He’s one of the few players who isn’t married and has an actual house. Players are always gathering there to play video games and poker. But now that we’re a couple hours into the flight, everyone is pretty much passed out.

  I’ve got my eyes closed, but I’m not asleep, just faking it so I can catch a few moments of peace and quiet. Away games for rookies are a little more taxing than they are for the vets. I carried five bags from the stadium to the bus and again from the bus to the ticket counter.

  I’m also wearing a ridiculous suit that was hanging on my locker when I got to the locker room this morning. Hot purple pants with big yellow flowers and bright yellow suit jacket.

  At least it’s team colors.

  When I was back in the minors, I remember a guy who’d got called up for a season telling us that they made him dress like Marilyn Monroe on his first away game.

  Some guys get pissed and call it hazing. I call it a rite of passage.. If they didn’t give me a hard time and make me carry their fucking bags, I’d think they didn’t like me or didn’t have any faith that I’d be around for long. The fact I’m now sitting here in a suit that could be used as a beacon on a ship makes me feel like part of the team.

  When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I pull it out, expecting some kind of encouraging message from my mom or some player stats from my dad, but it’s neither.

  Charlotte: Hey Bo.

  I smile at her familiar greeting and quickly message her back.

  Bo: Hey Charlotte.

  Charlotte: Are you in the air?

  Bo: Yep, headed for Sacramento.

  Charlotte: Looks li
ke I’ll be in Cali this week too.

  My heart immediately speeds up at the thought of her being close, reachable. We shared a quick dinner after our last home game the other night, dipping into a local place she goes to occasionally. It was just as nice as the first dinner we shared. The conversation flowed easy. She’s funny and witty and interesting. I could listen to her talk for hours. The lilt of her voice paired with its huskiness is intoxicating.

  I don’t drink.

  Or do drugs.

  But I decided the other night that I’d happily do Charlotte.

  And I mean that in every sense of the word, which is scary as shit.

  I went into this thing not wanting a distraction, but I quickly realized that distraction or not, I couldn’t get enough of Charlotte. She’s so different than what I thought she’d be. Something changed after that first game. Seeing her with her little sister humanized her, endeared her to me. I’ve always seen her for more than what she is on the stage, but that day, I saw Charlotte, the sister...just a person making her way through this world like anybody else.

  My parents have always taught me that it’s not what a person does for a living that makes them important or valued, it’s who they are as a person that counts.

  Being a professional baseball player doesn’t mean shit. I hit fucking balls and catch them. It’s not rocket science or a cure for cancer. The thing that makes me like Charlotte so much is that I can tell she feels the same about herself. She’s just doing what she loves, but she doesn’t think that just because she’s a rockstar and playing on the radio in people’s cars and homes and every club around the country, that she’s any better than anybody else.

  She’s real.

  And she’s beautiful.

  And, yeah...

  Bo: Sacramento?

  I laugh, doubting she’s going to Sacramento, but it’d be nice. I’d like to see her.

  Charlotte: Ha! I wish. But no. LA.

  Sitting up a little straighter in my seat, my stomach gives a twist. Charlotte confided in me the other night that she’s not a fan of L.A. It’s where a lot of her band members live and they’re not the best influences. Being in New Orleans gives her a break from the music scene, helping her find her balance and make good choices for her life. The idea of her being there and potentially in harm’s way doesn’t sit well with me.

  Bo: Concert?

  She didn’t mention one when we talked last, but I know her manager springs things on her at the last minute.

  Terry.

  I already don’t like that guy. I knew I didn’t like him from the first night I met Charlotte when he tried to force her in front of the cameras, knowing she just wanted to lay low and head home. He seems like a bully to me and I’ve never liked bullies.

  Charlotte: I wish.

  For a second, I think I’m going to have to pry it from her, but then the three little dots appear, letting me know she’s typing.

  Charlotte: UGH. It’s this stupid movie premier. Terry is making me go and I have to walk the carpet with Cody DiMarco.

  She adds an eye roll emoji and continues typing.

  Charlotte: I didn’t want to go, but he says it’s good publicity. Not sure if you know about the whole photo of me doing a line?

  She pauses and so do I. I actually do know a little, but I’d been waiting on her to bring it up and tell me about it herself, instead of jumping to conclusions or passing a judgement where it’s not mine to pass.

  Charlotte: That’s seriously cringe worthy to type. But I did it. I owned up to it, made my apology, but that’s never good enough. That’s why I’ve been doing benefit concerts and stupid publicity dates. I’m not complaining about the benefits. I don’t mind doing anything for charity, but I’m over all the publicity bullshit.

  Another pause.

  Charlotte: Sorry for dumping all this on you. I really just wanted to text you so if you saw a photo pop up of me with some guy you wouldn’t think it’s…

  Charlotte: IDK. Gah, I don’t even know what this is between us, but just know I’d rather be with you anywhere than with Cody fucking DiMarco on the red carpet. That’s all I wanted to say.

  Letting out a deep sigh, I run a hand down my face.

  Bo: Thanks for telling me.

  I almost leave it at that, but I can’t leave her hanging.

  Bo: I’d rather you be with me, but I hope you have fun at the movie premier.

  Charlotte: Hope your games go well this week.

  Bo: Thanks.

  I do leave it at that, because honestly, I don’t know what else to say and I don’t know if I can do this. Am I ready for all of this? I know being with Charlotte won’t be easy or private. Eventually, it’ll be the two of us showing up in grainy photos. Do I want that?

  “Who are you talking to?” Mack asks, leaning over the back of the seat in front of me.

  I quickly click the screen off and put it back in my pocket. “No one.”

  Lie.

  Charlotte is so someone, but I don’t want to get into that with Mack Granger. I’ve seen what the gossip rags write about him. I’ve heard the stories. He’s a womanizer.

  “A girl?” he asks, of course not giving up that easily.

  “No,” I tell him, leaning back into my seat and closing my eyes, but then I feel the plane begin to descend and the flight attendant walks by, telling us we’re approaching Sacramento. Unlike a commercial flight, she doesn’t ask us to put up our trays and laptops. She just smiles, like really smiles, flashing her bright white teeth. “I’m gonna have to ask you to take your seat in a few minutes.”

  “Sure thing, darlin’,” Mack replies, letting his Texas drawl really come out. Once she moves on to the row of seats behind us, he turns his attention back to me. “So, who’s the chick?”

  My silence does nothing to shut him up.

  “Someone I know?” he asks, his tone turning thoughtful. “That hot thing that works in the office? Red head?”

  “No,” I reply, leaning back again and closing my eyes.

  “Well, I know you haven’t been anywhere to meet anyone. The guys tell on you, you know. Field, gym, eat in, to bed early...you’re about as boring as they come, Rook.” The levity in his words tells me he’s just giving me a hard time, but he’s also still not giving up. “So, is it someone from back home? Old girlfriend? Oh, I know...some chick you were bangin’ in Des Moines?”

  “Mack.”

  “You can call me Brick,” he says and it almost makes me open my eyes. Almost. But I decide to play it off, like he didn’t just give me permission to call him by the nickname that only the other vets usually get the privilege of using.

  “Someone I met at the gala,” I tell him.

  “Ahh.” Excitement ebbs into his tone. “Nice, man. I knew I should’ve gone. She from New Orleans? Local?”

  Cracking my eyes, I see him looking at me like a dog who thinks you have bacon.

  “Local.”

  “She hot?”

  I groan, realizing there’s no getting around this, so I sit up, adjust myself in the seat and level him with a stare. “If I tell you, can you keep quiet?”

  With his brows furrowed, he cocks his head in disbelief. “Of course, man.”

  After a few seconds, most of them spent mentally kicking myself in the balls for even thinking about telling Mack Granger about Charlotte Carradine, I finally spill it. “Ever heard of Lola...Carradine?” I ask, dropping it to a whisper.

  Mack’s eyes grow two times their normal size. “You mean that rocker chick?”

  I nod.

  “Long brown hair, long fucking legs? That Lola Carradine?” he asks, seeking clarification.

  I nod.

  Then he whistles and looks off to the side. “Are you fucking with me?”

  A huff of a laugh escapes me and I realize that in this situation the truth probably sounds more like an elaborate fabrication, something to get him off my trail.

  “You’re serious.” It’s not a question this time,
it’s a statement.

  I nod.

  “Fuck,” he drawls. “You ain’t playin’ around, are you Rook?”

  Laughing again, I shake my head, saying any of this out loud sounds crazy. I haven’t told anyone so telling Mack kind of makes it real. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” I admit.

  “I’m going to need you to take your seat and buckle up,” the flight attendant says on her way back up the aisle. Instead of turning around in the seat and doing like she asks, Mack gives her a smile and walks around to plop his ass down beside me, then buckling his seat belt.

  “So,” he says, once the flight attendant has moved on to the next row. “You’re fucking Lola Carradine.”

  I immediately shush him, looking around to see who might have overheard him, but everyone else seems to be doing their own thing. “What the fuck, man?”

  “No one cares,” Mack says with a roll of his eyes. “Dude, you’ve gotta get past this goody-two-shoes thing you’ve got going...it’s not good for your image.”

  “What?” I ask with another laugh.

  “You and your nose-to-the-grindstone, eye-on-the-road-ahead thing. We all get it—you work hard, you’re not a slacker. That’s cool. But most of the guys think you’ve got a stick up your ass and you need to lose that...ASAP. It’s not a good look, Rook.” He huffs a sigh, like it’s taxing for him to give me this talk, but someone has to do it. “Everyone is on edge their rookie season. No one wants to make a mistake. But let me clue you in on a little secret...mistakes make you human. People relate to that. So, don’t feel like you can’t let loose every once in a while.”

  “Duly noted,” I tell him, relaxing back against the seat and fighting back a small smile.

  “So, are you fucking Lola Carradine? Because, if you are, that’s some major cool points and you’re kinda lacking in that area, so—”

  “I’m not fucking her,” I say, cutting him off. “Just talking to her.”

  “But you want to fuck her,” Mack says, like it’s a given.

  Of course.

  I’d be lying if I said the thought didn’t cross my mind, like every day and every night and any time in between when I allow myself to think about her. Not just fucking, but being with her...kissing her, in particularly, but that’d probably sound like a pussy answer, so I keep it to myself.