COLD HEARTED BALLER Read online
COLD HEARTED BALLER
Logan
Copyright © 2019 by Logan Chance
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For all the people who were ever too afraid to try…
Try.
Contents
Note To The Reader
Special Offer
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
SNEAK PEEK of BRIDE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
SNEAK PEEK COLD HEARTED BASTARD
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Logan
Note To The Reader
In this book, the professional Major League Baseball teams have been changed to made up names. I know loyalties run deep, and this is all for fun and not to start baseball rivalries.
Condoms are rarely mentioned in this book. I feel it takes away from the scene, and heat of the moment. Please note, all characters are practicing safe sex.
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One
Calliope
My veins are going to explode. I scan the list of ingredients in the Max Energy drink I consumed this morning, checking to see if drugs are listed. They aren’t.
With a move I imagine is worthy of Maxwell Hunter, the star pitcher who endorses it, I wind my arm back and rocket the sleek silver can across the conference room of Mayhem Marketing. It thunks against the cream-colored wall and lands with a thump inside the small trash can.
“Yesss,” I exclaim as the door opens.
“They’re ready for you, Calliope,” Rita, assistant to the man who’s going to hire me to cater all of his marketing company’s functions, informs me with a furrowed brow.
He hasn’t actually agreed to hire me yet, but he will, because according to the energy drink ‘It’s winning in a can.’
“Let’s do this, Rita,” I nearly squeal, ping-ponging around the room where I’ll be serving the King and his court various items I’ve created. “I’m going to win them over with my baking skills.”
“You ok?” she asks, at half the speed I seem to be talking.
I give her two very animated thumbs up, feeling like my arms are going to shoot off to the ceiling.
“Yes.” I smooth my hands down the long length of my hair, from root to bottom. The usually heavy brown locks feel like they’re standing on end. I need to calm down, but I can’t. I feel electrified. Times one hundred.
She moves to the corner of the room as Tobias Longwood, grey-haired owner of Mayhem Marketing, enters, followed by two men in suits. My heart rate accelerates to an unnatural rhythm. I’m not sure if it’s the energy drink or the fact I’ve been dreaming about this opportunity for such a long time. If I can land this account, I’ll finally have the extra money to expand my cafe. Thanks to Max Energy, that thought makes me extra excited.
“Miss Thomas, hello,” Tobias greets me. “Thanks for coming.”
“Nice to meet you,” I respond a little too loud over the pulse in my ears, giving his outstretched hand several vigorous pumps.
His brow furrows just like Rita’s did, and I try to dial it down a notch, but my dial is broken.
It can’t be normal that my lips tingle when I smile as Tobias introduces me to the two execs who will help decide my fate about whether or not I’ll be hired.
While the people I’m here to impress take a seat at the rectangular table, I chatter, uncontrollably, about my creations and with jittery hands remove the rich chocolate cake adorned with the Mayhem logo from its box.
“Looks delicious,” Tobias compliments me as I move closer at warp speed.
My feet walk faster than my heels can keep up, and instead of placing my showpiece in the center of the table, the cake somehow teeters amidst a chorus of gasps to end up a ganache mess... right in Tobias’ lap. All three layers.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologize, staring at the broken lump on his groin.
“Are you on drugs?” he asks with a pinched face, looking down at the red Mayhem logo smeared on his pristine white shirt.
“No,” I deny, “I can explain.” My eyes dart at a rapid pace to the shocked expressions on the other faces seated at the table.
“You get one shot here. That was yours. Thank you for coming in, Miss Thomas.”
“It was an energy drink—Max Energy—by that famous baseball player,” I tell him, because like he said, this is my one shot. “Listen, whoever marketed that as success in a can should be fired.”
As he removes a lump of cake from his soiled trousers into the garbage can Rita retrieved, he informs me, “We designed that campaign.”
The room is silent as I pack my things and go. All of my dreams follow me out the door. I'm too high on Max Energy to be depressed.
I have no one to blame but myself. And Maxwell Hunter, the man behind the drink.
When I get home, I drop my purse on the kitchen counter and beeline straight for the fridge. On the top shelf, next to the milk, sit the remaining cans of Max Energy. I tilt one of the tall cylinders and read the tiny black font:
Max Energy will give you that extra you need to reach your goals. It’s winning in a can.
Share your success.
Leave a review.
The words taunt me before I toss it in the trash. The four cans left in my fridge follow it into the garbage before I move over to my laptop on the island in my kitchen. I type in the web address to the Nile site listed on the can and search for Max Energy, clicking on the tiny thumbnail, and then, scrolling through all the five star reviews.
Delicious! I finished a project for work that earned me a bonus.
Homerun. Finally, put together the bookshelf I’d been dreading.
Review after review raves about this drink.
7 stars!
I'd give it 100 if I could! I've never tasted anything like this or had so much energy. You will love it!
Seven out of five?
I can barely refrain from commenting to ReviewQueen that her rating is impossible. You can not give more than you have.
I click on ‘My Review’ and select one star. Annoyance flows through my veins and spills out from my fingertips as I type.
Let me share my story with you. It doesn’t have a happy ending, just like the book I had stayed up all night reading didn’t. I was tired the next morning, and my coworker had given me these from her PR package, so I thought, ‘Sure, I’ll try it.’ I drank one
before the most important meeting of my life. Big mistake.
This is not success in a can. Don’t drink the kool aid, people. Or actually, do. Maybe you won’t bounce off the walls and lose your dream client. Thanks, Max. Thank you for my failure. I hope you have a losing season.
And then, I press the submit button. Take that, Maxwell Hunter.
Two
Calliope
Guilt is the heaviest of emotions. I know, because I’m pinned beneath its weight right now. A blanket of doubt and shame over my review suffocated me all night. I couldn’t sleep.
On my side, arm draped over a pillow, I watch the callous morning light filter through the blinds, mocking me. A sigh leaves me as I roll to my back and watch the ceiling fan rotate on an endless loop.
Maybe I shouldn’t have put Max Energy on blast. I’ve never done anything like that before in my life. I should delete my review and erase this whole thing from my mind.
I kick free from the tangle of the comforter, grab my tablet from the nightstand, and log into the Nile website where I posted the review. There’s one new email notification, and I nearly have a repeat of the Mayhem incident when I click it.
It’s from Maxwell Hunter. The Maxwell Hunter. Star athlete. Crusher of my dreams. Why is he emailing me? There’s no way he’s emailing to thank me for my review. Slowly, I move my cursor to the link to open it.
Good evening,
I couldn't help but notice you didn't like Max Energy. Clearly, this is a user error on your part? And why would you hope I have a losing season? That’s not very nice.
Best regards,
Max Hunter
I read the email twice. User error? Not nice? I’m very nice.
Good morning,
Sorry to inform you that my review was not an error. As a matter of fact, if I had given more, ReviewQueen wouldn't have been able to give it two extra. See, it all evens out. Maybe you should contact ReviewQueen and tell her seven stars is impossible? And as for the losing season, well, maybe then you can know what it feels like to fail.
Have a nice day,
Calliope Thomas
So much for deleting it. I toss my tablet aside, and climb out of bed.
My feet pad with harsh thumps across the hardwood floors as I make my way down the hall and into the kitchen. My dark mood all but eclipses the bright sunshine filling the room as I walk around the granite-topped island and grab the coffee from the cupboard. I push a nutmeg pod into the stainless Keurig just as my cell phone rings.
My eyes flit to the screen illuminated with the name of my best friend, Jill.
I force cheer that I’m not feeling into my voice when I answer, “Hello.”
“How did it go yesterday?”
“Really bad,” I say before filling her in on everything from staying up all night reading the book she suggested, to being a zombie the next day, and finally the madness of the energy drink.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “It’s all my fault for telling you to read Hell’s Fury. And then giving you those PR drinks that came with Maxwell Hunter’s calendar I ordered.”
Jill has been my best friend since college, my bakery is in her bookstore, she and Tara—our accountant—are my tribe, so the last thing I want is for her to blame herself.
“No, this is all on me,” I tell her. “But I’d rather blame Maxwell Hunter.”
She laughs. “You know he’s a local player, right? The Colorado Larks.” My brows raise at this tidbit, because, no, I didn't know that. “Have you seen him? He’s gorgeous. Why do you think I ordered his calendars for the store?”
“Well, because I know you love the Larks.”
“Uh yes, because of him. My other line’s ringing, so I'll have to call you back."
We say our goodbyes, and I toss my phone down, closing my eyes, and massaging my temples.
Warm nutty aroma from the coffee maker wafts through the air, and the scent relaxes me. I’ve never been a coffee drinker. I just like to smell it brewing when I’m stressed.
It’s a strange habit, I know. I’ve had it ever since I was fired from my job at the campus clothing store for refusing to wear the ridiculous badger mascot costume in a hundred and five degree temperatures. With my measly twenty dollar final paycheck in hand, I went to the coffee shop and ordered a crumb cake. With the heady scent of coffee surrounding me, the fact I couldn’t afford to lose that job didn’t matter anymore. My worries vanished. After that, if I was upset over a test, or a boy, or anything really, I would find myself traipsing across campus into the coffee shop for a crumb cake, letting the beans work their magic on my frayed nerves. Those crumb cakes helped me realize I could make a better one. I owe my career to stress and the smell of coffee.
My eyes slide to my laptop on the island, and my curiosity over Jill’s comments has me suddenly typing Maxwell Hunter into my search engine. The results load, and no wonder Jill ordered five-hundred calendars. I'm stunned by the picture of him.
Three
Calliope
Maxwell Hunter, my new nemesis, is hotter than the oven I’ll no longer be purchasing with the money from the account I just lost, thanks to his energy drink.
There’s a small picture above his bio where he's leaning over an older woman's shoulder with his stubbled cheek pressed to hers. Their chocolate brown hair is almost identical. Whoever she is, judging by his smile, he's happy to be next to her. It’s devilish, brandishing itself across his handsome face.
I critique the even, white teeth gleaming inside his full lips, looking for a flaw. Figures he doesn’t have one. A slight dimple mars his cheek almost giving him an air of innocence. Almost is the keyword, because his eyes tell a different story. They’re an arresting murky shade of green. I’ve zoomed in so far I can see the thick dark lashes framing them.
I scan his bio; he’s thirty-three, and the rest is information about baseball stats. There are so many articles about him—sports, entertainment, and gossip sites—and so many pictures. Pages and pages of images of him in his black and white Larks uniform, cap low on his forehead, with the ball in his hand. Images in worn jeans and a t-shirt, being stalked by paparazzi at different outings. Images in tuxedos with different women accessorizing his arm. Images with Max Energy.
I close out the tab and log into my email.
His face is front and center in my mind as I scan down the list of client emails, junk, more junk, and one new email from the Nile site. My stomach plummets when I see it's from the Devil himself, Maxwell Hunter.
My palms sweat. “Why is he still replying to me?” I whisper to myself.
Clearly, I’m an irrational reviewer. Someone needs to advise him to ignore people like me.
My finger makes a light caress on the touchpad, moving the cursor back and forth over the tiny, bold black letters of his name in the inbox. Deleting it and taking the high road, so to speak, would be the smart thing to do. Actually, never writing that review would have been the smart thing. But, it’s not like I’m applying for membership to Mensa anyway, and what could he possibly have to say now? Jill would let it go. She would. Unfortunately, I’m not Jill.
My finger makes one more trek across his name with the cursor, and, oops, my finger drops on the touchpad and I open it.
Calliope,
Fail? I never fail. And maybe you could spare a star from I Fucked Frosty? Five stars for fucking a snowman seems a bit excessive. No?
Best regards,
Max Hunter
A hot flush warms my face. I knew the book, I Fucked Frosty, would come back to haunt me. All the literary masterpieces I didn’t read, yet, I Fucked Frosty made it to the list.
When Tara picked that book for the holiday read, we laughed. It was a joke, but it wasn’t that bad. Turns out there was really a man reincarnated inside of Frosty, so if Maxwell Hunter wants to get technical, he wasn't even a snowman. Why is he stalking what I’ve rated, anyway?
Casting rational thinking to the wayside, as it seems is becoming the norm, I h
it reply. Apparently the high road is not a road I’ll be traveling today, and truth be told, I’m slightly miffed he's so gorgeous.
Maxwell,
Sorry to disappoint you (not really) but no. Can't you go bother someone else? I'm sure I can't be the only person who had issues with your drink. And until you've had sex with a snowman, don't judge.
Toodle-oo,
Calliope Thomas
I slam my laptop shut, fully aware I’m only adding fuel to the fire.
* * *
After a quick shower, where I was bombarded by images of Maxwell Hunter's delicious face, I slip on jeans and a long-sleeved, lilac tee. Three potential clients are waiting for catering estimates, and I’ve wasted too much time letting Maxwell Hunter bait me into losing my temper.
The leather chair in my office lets out a faint squeak when I sink down into it and jerk open the file drawer to remove the manila folders containing the information I need.
I can’t believe he has the audacity to bring up I Fucked Frosty. I rarely review books. I rarely review anything, and now this is happening. When Jill and Tara wanted to start a once a month book club, I thought it was a fun idea. Until now.
I should have just kept my mouth shut about his energy drink.