Rookie Mistake: A Sports Romance Novel (The Beasts of Baseball Book 1) by Alice Ward Page A

like Ace Newman, but for some reason, I didn’t respect him the same way I did Ace. Even pissed off at him, I still had respect for the man.
    I think Marty got the hint I wasn’t really listening once we pulled into the parking lot of Home Plate. The valet took my keys, gushed all over me in the same way that he had over Ace the first time I’d been here. For some reason, that gave me a strange satisfaction.
    Inside the club, I received the same treatment that Ace had before. The hostess was quick to recognize me and took me to the VIP section where I received that fateful lap dance from the nasty blonde Ace was finger fucking. I slid into the booth, claiming it as my own and felt an even stronger, yet not so strange satisfaction.
    “Two beers,” I ordered quickly from the brunette I vaguely recognized from that blurry night as Marty slid into the booth next to me.
    I knew the television screens that surrounded the sports themed bar would soon blast the replays of the earlier scrimmage game, if they hadn’t already. “Maybe this isn’t the best place to be,” I smirked to Marty as if he had the ability to read my mind.
    “Shit happens,” he mumbled and then took a long swig of his beer.
    Frank arrived with a smile and an energy that felt nothing like my own. It was as if it hadn’t even bothered him that we had such a rough day, but then again, he didn’t play a position that was scrutinized as much as me.
    “I’ve gotta make a phone call,” I said, excusing myself from the booth.
    I dialed Whitney, and when she answered I wanted to climb through the phone and melt under her sweet voice. “Hey, babe.”
    I jumped straight to the point. “I stopped for a beer with the guys. It was a pretty bad fucking day.”
    Her voice went from sweet to sour in an instant. “Oh great, so you’re going back to hanging out with Ace and his whores now that Holly’s gone?” she snapped.
    Jesus Christ, that fucker just keeps ruining my mood!
    “I’m not with Ace. I’m with Marty and Frank,” I snapped back.
    I stopped listening to her once her tone hit a certain pitch; it was like a dog whistle just falling on deaf ears. I couldn’t win for losing, and tonight I guess it was a fucking lose, lose!
    “I won’t be late, I just need to cool off,” I said with forced patience into the phone, “I love you.” I hung up while she was still ranting about something.
    Marty and Frank were arguing over another baseball statistic, a past time that I guess kept them both happy, but annoyed the fuck out of me and anyone else who was close enough to listen. “What do you think?” Frank pulled me into the argument as I sat down. “Who’s the better pitcher, Nolan Ryan or Cy Young?” They both fell silent and waited eagerly for my response, like somehow my opinion was going to be treated as gospel.
    “Young won 511 of his 749 games, pitching over 7,300 innings. He had one hell of an arm, but Nolan Ryan was a machine, pushing out fastballs, throwing seven no-hitters and won the strikeout title 11 times.” I spouted out my useless knowledge of some of the greatest baseball pitchers of all time. “So, I guess I would say Nolan Ryan,” I gave my final answer.
    “But, he never won a Cy Young award,” Marty pushed, obviously the one who was arguing that pitcher as the best.
    I shook my head, realizing that the argument was going to continue no matter how I interjected. “They are both better than me, that’s all I know.” I laughed at my own remark to lighten the gloom on their faces and then guzzled half of my beer quickly to ease my pain of the day.
    “Hey, Ace!” Frank called out, waving him over to my booth. Yes, my booth!
    “Thanks for keeping my seat warmed up, boys.” He smirked before sliding in next to me as if we were best friends. His hand reached for my shoulder and squeezed as I refused to make eye contact. “I’m sorry I was hard on ya, kid, I know you had shit to deal with at home,” his words felt like