Hard to Catch: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (The Beasts of Baseball Book 3)

by Alice Ward

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  INTRODUCTION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  MORE FROM THIS SERIES

  A SNEAK PEEK

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  MORE BY ALICE WARD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT AND DISCLAIMER

  Hard to Catch

  THE BEASTS OF BASEBALL

  BOOK 3

  INTRODUCTION

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  BOOK DESCRIPTION

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

  Todd Morris

  I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being traded from the Mets — until the day I’m traded to the Beasts. Now I’m catching for Calvin Malone, their star pitcher. Star pretty boy. Star pain in my ass. The tension between us is thick. All over a girl. Whitney. The woman I deserve. Not him.

  If that’s not bad enough, I learn that my reputation as an adrenaline junkie, a daredevil, a risk taker has landed me a babysitter during spring training. I have to admit... Katrina Delaney is hot. Not only is she damn fine to look at, she’s the daughter of a baseball legend. And mysterious. She’s hiding something beneath that social media perfection. But what? I want to find out.

  Katrina Delaney

  Good ole’ dad, Bobby "Spaceman" Delaney. He did it this time. Our family fortune is being sold to the highest bidder while I try to figure out how to survive on my own. Sure, I’m twenty-three, old enough to handle my own life. But I’ve never had to. Daddy has always handled everything — until now.

  Thank God for Rhett Hamilton, my savior. An amazing job opportunity as the social media manager for the Beasts is my new lease on life, my beginning, my chance to prove I can do it on my own. I’ve spent my entire life around baseball players, so it’s a perfect fit. The only thing that’s changed is how I look at these men. As a girl, I’d neglected to appreciate their rugged good looks, hard bodies, and wickedly sexy demeanor. As a woman, I’m appreciating plenty, especially the new catcher Todd Morris. But his deep blue eyes seem to see right through me. To the real me. To my secrets.

  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 and features a heart twisting HEA with No Cliffhanger.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Todd

  “Higher!”

  The buzz of the airplane’s engine sounded in my ears while the instructor, Hans, gave me the thumbs up. I shook my head and grinned. Not nearly high enough yet.

  I sucked on the oxygen bottle, taking in what my lungs desperately craved as we made the climb past the eighteen thousand feet range my instructor had done his best to convince me was my “sweet spot.”

  I wanted more.

  Needed more.

  My play time in the sky was going to last over a minute and a half, pushing two minutes if they’d let me. Not enough, but I’d take any moment of freedom I could get.

  “We’re reaching twenty thousand feet,” Hans yelled in my direction.

  The door of the plane was open, my parachute packed and tested by myself. This wasn’t my first rodeo. I wanted to go higher. “Twenty-five.”

  Hans grinned, but shook his head, then looked toward the pilot and nodded. “You ready?”

  I was born ready.

  He checked my oxygen and gave me another thumbs up. I gripped the overhead cord, walked toward the opening of the plane, and felt the cold air pulling at me with an angry force. Adrenaline rushed through my veins like heroin. This was the highest I’d pushed my accelerated freefalls, and even though it wasn’t as high as I wanted, it was enough to create tiny pricks all over my skin and send blood rushing to my cock.

  Another thumbs up near the door, a quick reach up to unclip myself from the plane, and I was sucked into the cool blue sky.

  My brain calculated the time I needed before releasing the chute as I steadied myself into a superman position. I flew through the heavens, falling over a hundred and seventy miles per hour toward the earth. I spiraled, spun, glided, just like a bird, better yet, like a superhero. No wingsuit to slow me down, no instructors to hold my hand. I was on my own, class A baby.

  My lungs tightened in my chest from the sheer speed and altitude of the fall, but I refused to reach for the oxygen bottle strapped to my hip. I wanted to feel everything, pain included. The view was spectacular. The earth looked like tiny grids as I busted through the clouds.

  I checked my altimeter, and with great reluctance, pulled the rip cord. My body halted abruptly from the fast-paced fall and lifted high into the sky as I slowed, drifting for the last two thousand feet.

  Peace.

  The feeling of total oneness with nature, the silence so intense it almost had its own sound, were nearly as addicting as the adrenaline rush of the fall. I loved this part too. Floating, watching the earth grow larger beneath me until I extended my legs and returned to the hard ground.

  “Whoowee!” the ground instructor called out as he ran toward me. “You okay?”

  “I’m great,” I said as I began unclipping my chute.

  The older man, Garett, was the owner of the company. He’d offered me over fifty jumps in the last year, all of which he kept under wraps. He always found a remote location where I’d be out of the media, and even though he knew he’d stand to make a fortune to sell the story of my rebellion against the Mets and MLB rules, I trusted he never would.

  “How high did ya climb? It looked like you had a seventy-nine-second freefall at least.” He grinned, already knowing I’d pushed the limits he’d tried to set for me.

  “Twenty thousand was sweet.”

  He nodded, smiled, but didn’t reprimand me for going against his judgment and advice.

  “I’ll get to twenty-five next time.” I smirked as he helped me push the last of my personal chute back into the bag.

  “A lot of jumpers lose consciousness that high. That’s a sure-fire way to get yourself killed on a solo jump.”

  “I can handle it. Didn’t use my oxygen this time.”

  The old man shook his head, grinned, and patted me on the back as I pulled off my jumpsuit and changed shoes. “You got too much to live for to be so bound and determined to risk it all.”

  Risk? What was life without risk?

  The plane circled overhead before landing just a few hundred feet away
from where we stood. Garret handed me the keys to the Harley Fat Boy I’d rented for the day and walked toward the plane. “‘Til next time.”

  My legs straddled the powerful machine, chrome glistening in the sunlight, my fingers tightly surrounding the handgrips. My backpack securely tied to the back, adrenaline continued to race through my system as I kicked down, sending that familiar rumble between my legs as I yearned for the open road. I wanted one so bad, not this one, but a custom with a stretched out front end, high grip handlebars, and, of course, more power. That dreaded agreement made with the MLB to steer clear of dangerous — or what they considered dangerous — activities kept me from having one of my own. It was also the reason for the hour drive I had to get back to the city. If it were up to them, I’d be surrounded by bubble wrap sitting at home waiting for the season to start. No thanks. They’ll never know what doesn’t kill me.

  Vibrations shot through my thighs as the bike raced down the highway. My mind drifted to the jump. I was disappointed I didn’t push to go higher. Next time.

  Shit!

  Red lights shone in my face as vehicles in front of me scattered across the highway, trying to avoid something I couldn’t see. I hit the brake and jerked hard on the handles, barely missing a truck skidding across the lane. Its back bumper hit my rear wheel, tossing me like a ragdoll to the side. Then I was down, sliding out of control. My bike glided across the pavement on its side, my leg barely escaping being trapped beneath it and ripped to shreds. A slam into a white pickup truck brought the bike and me to an abrupt stop.

  “Are you okay?” I looked up to find a tall, skinny man with a long beard over me. He extended his hand. I refused, getting up on my own. The bike was a mess. My leg skinned, some blood coming from my elbow, but I was okay. My head hurt like hell, making me grateful I hadn’t been stupid enough to ride without a helmet this time.

  “Yeah, I’m good. What happened?”

  “It’s a wreck up ahead, at least three or four cars involved.”

  Twisted metal was everywhere with columns of smoke growing larger by the moment. People were screaming and tires screeching as more traffic halted to avoid the pileup. Running to the worst of the wreckage, I spotted a bleeding woman lying on the asphalt trying to crawl to a little red car turned up on its side, smoke pouring from the engine. She was crying and screaming, “My baby!”

  Panic set in as I realized what she was telling me. I ran toward the car and looked inside the window. A little girl, maybe a year-old, was crying in the backseat. She was still attached to her car seat, which was now holding her inside, even though gravity wanted to drop her into the back door.

  “It’s okay, sweetie.” I pushed myself inside, stretching as far as I could reach and got a grip on the buckle that held her in place.

  “Please help her,” the mother screamed.

  “I’m trying,” I promised, feeling the pressure of the situation, and especially feeling the heat coming from the front of the car.

  My fingers gripped the buckle. My other hand reached forward, ready to catch the girl as I unhooked her from the seat. She fell into my hand with a force I hadn’t expected, almost ripping my shoulder from its socket.

  “I got you,” I whispered, pulling the screaming child toward the window and backing out with her in my arms.

  The mother wrapped her arms around me, squeezing both me and her daughter with an overly appreciative hug. “Thank you,” she sobbed, taking her daughter from my arms, inspecting her from top to bottom. I steered them both away from the burning car, urging those around us to get far away.

  EMTs and the police were finally on the scene, and a news crew looking to get the big story were making their way toward me. I walked back to my bike, unwilling to answer any questions or be interviewed, when a firm hand pressed against my shoulder.

  “Todd Morris?” I turned to find a man in uniform. Not a cop, but a firefighter. His smile was wide, his eyes filled with excitement as he spoke. “You’re a hero,” he said a little too loudly.

  I shook my head. “No, you’re the hero.”

  I tried to shrug away, but by that time, the news crew was already in my face. Fuck.

  “Todd Morris, a major-league favorite, legendary Mets catcher, is now a hero.” A perfectly groomed blonde woman spoke into a thick, round microphone while the cameraman captured the image of her standing beside me with the wreckage in the background.

  No way, this isn’t happening.

  “I’m not a hero. And I’m not doing any interviews.” I walked away from the reporter and the camera.

  The traffic was starting to move in the far lane, but as I looked at my bike, it was obvious I wasn’t going anywhere. The reporter and the cameraman were back in my face. She pushed the microphone at me again. “What made you run to save that little girl?”

  Seriously? Reporters asked the most asinine questions sometimes.

  I’m not an asshole. It was a baby girl. There were plenty of reasons why anyone would’ve done the same thing. But, I knew not anyone would have done it. Most of the drivers were more concerned with where they needed to be than with the crying mother on the side of the road. As far as they were concerned, she was the problem, the reason they were going to be late.

  “I’m not doing this,” I insisted, pushing the camera from my face.

  “Where were you heading before the wreck occurred?” the reporter asked without flinching at my irritation. “Isn’t spring training soon?”

  None of your business, lady.

  Heading back to my bike, I spotted a dude bent over my bag. “Hey!” I yelled and took off in his direction. He looked up and panicked, picked up the bag, and started to run. I caught up to him. Caught the bag, more specifically, my chute. The damn thing unfurled behind the running man before he dropped the bag and darted between stopped cars. Shit. I looked back, and yep, the fucking camera was still pointing my way. Irritated beyond belief, I balled up the chute and began stuffing it back into the pack.

  “Is that a parachute?” the reporter asked. I ignored her as I zipped the pack shut and headed back toward the bike. But I heard her speaking into the camera, excitement at her “breaking news” clear in her voice. “A real daredevil and hero in the flesh, Todd Morris, All-Star catcher for the Mets…”

  I was so fucked.

  I picked up the bike and moved it to the side of the road. The police began ushering everyone out of the road including the pushy reporter and her sidekick cameraman. Thank God!

  “You need us to call you a tow truck?” the officer asked.

  “No, thanks. I’ll handle it.”

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone. Thank goodness for the protective case I’d just bought, not a scratch.

  The rental company was more than eager to send someone out to get the bike, and of course, collect me from the side of the highway. When I told them the bike looked totaled, they actually sounded relieved. Guess they stood to make more from a totaled bike than a wrecked one. Whatever.

  Traffic picked up its pace, moving smoothly once again after the wreck was removed. The officer who’d run the reporter off sat down on the guardrail beside me. “So, how much trouble is this gonna get ya?” he asked.

  I chuckled. In the last two years, I seemed to stay in trouble. The coach was constantly on my ass, and the GM rode me hard with threats of trading me to another team if I didn’t cool it. “Let’s just say a lot.”

  He patted me on the back as the tow truck arrived. A scruffy looking man got out, shaking his head and whistling. “This da bike?” he asked, spitting on the ground way too close to my feet.

  “Yeah,” I agreed without shooting out any of the sarcasm that lingered on my tongue.

  “Good luck, Todd.” The officer gave me one last pat on the back before heading to his car.

  I helped the tow truck driver load the bike onto the trailer and then climbed into the front seat beside him. The truck smelled of tobacco, coffee, and raspberries, a weird combination.
>
  I was so happy to be back at the rental office and out of that truck. After signing a shit load of paperwork, I hopped in my car and headed home. All I wanted to do was fall asleep, forget about this day, and hopefully not find myself on the five o’clock news.

  “You look like you’ve had a rough day,” my doorman greeted me with his usual too nosey routine.

  I grinned, pushed the elevator button, and disappeared inside.

  My condo was quiet, peaceful, and inviting. I locked the door, stripped out of my clothes and headed for the shower. A quick assessment of the damages proved to be less than my body took after a tough game on the field. I stepped into the shower, letting the hot jets massage my aching muscles and wash away the grime and blood from my day. All that adrenaline… lost in one split second of bad luck.

  I grabbed a towel from the rack, wrapped it around my waist, and found my phone lit up on the bedroom dresser. The coach's mean mug was flashing on the screen with his number displayed at the top. Are you fucking kidding me right now?

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” his voice growled through the phone.

  I sighed to let him know I’d heard him, but I didn’t speak. It didn’t matter if I wanted to, the man was on a roll. Getting a word in edgewise wasn’t happening, not now, not ever.

  “A fucking motorcycle, and was that seriously a parachute in your backpack? Are you trying to kill yourself?”

  “It was just a little fender bender. It wasn’t even my fault,” I argued.

  “I don’t give a flying fuck whose fault it was, or if you’d saved a burning school bus of children, you know the fucking rules. You should… you break them every time I fuckin’ turn around.”

  “I’m sorry, Coach. It was just a little ride. Not like I had any way of knowing that would happen.”

  “First thing in the morning. My office.” That was all I heard before the click of him hanging up.

  I turned on the news. Sure enough, there I was. That overly zealous reporter was pushing her microphone in my face, and the cameraman was capturing me trying to stuff my parachute back into my bag. This was bad. This was real bad.

  I fell onto my bed, phone in hand. I searched the Internet for information on what was said about me. Daredevil on the Diamond Does It Again, read one headline. Another splashed my face with a headline that simply read, Hero.