The Change Up

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Not going to happen,” I say. “It’s Kinsley. Things have never been intimate with her.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?” Lincoln asks, as if he’s jumping on the romantic train with Jason. Why did I know when I told them this was what they were going to say? Apparently, men and women can’t be friends without sexual tension between them. I don’t buy it.

  “I don’t know, maybe a year ago?” Has it really been that long? That makes me fucking sad. “We talk every month though.”

  “FaceTime?” Jason asks.

  “No. She likes talking on the phone, not being able to see each other. She says it reminds her of the old days.” I smile thinking about the time I accidentally tried to FaceTime her. The panic in her voice was hilarious.

  “So you haven’t seen her in a while?” Lincoln asks. What’s he getting at?

  “No.” I look between the two of them. “Why the fuck are you smiling like that?”

  “Oh, you’re in for a fucking whirlwind.” Jason claps his hands. “Let me ask you this, is she pretty?”

  Fucking gorgeous. Always has been. A natural beauty, never concerned about makeup or getting dirty . . . the complete opposite of her mom.

  “Yeah,” I answer casually.

  But my response seems to say more as both Lincoln and Jason laugh even harder.

  “You’re fucked, man,” Lincoln says. “Have fun banging your best friend.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? You don’t even know her, why would you say that?”

  “Because. I know you,” Lincoln says. “And when you see something you like, you don’t ever step away.”

  “I don’t know you as well as Linc,” Jason says, “but I do know you like to fuck, and having a pretty girl in your apartment getting all snuggly and shit, yeah, you’re so fucking her.”

  I roll my eyes at both of them. God, their immaturity’s incredibly irritating. I lean back in my chair and say, “You don’t know Kinsley like I do. Our relationship isn’t like that. Trust me when I say I’m not concerned.”

  Not even in the slightest.

  * * *

  Knock, knock.

  I look over at my door and then hop up off the couch. In a pair of black sweats and a black Rebels shirt, I open the door to find Kinsley standing on the other side, two big suitcases and . . . no fucking way . . .

  “Ahhh, Maddox.” Before I can even ask her why she brought Clyde with her, she throws her arms around me and pulls me into a hug. “Oh my God, did you make more muscles?” Make more muscles. Only Kinsley would phrase it that way.

  She pulls away and squeezes my biceps. Her green eyes wide in awe. As she takes me in, I do the exact same thing, but spend my time perusing her.

  Her platinum-blonde hair is short, just past her chin, with her signature natural wave that girls apparently pay a lot of money to have. Her porcelain face is devoid of all makeup, her dark lashes frame her mossy eyes, and that little slope of her nose feels so damn familiar that it makes me want to reach out and touch it. She’s about five inches shorter than me. Not terribly short, but not tall either. Her frame is lithe and of course, with one glance I can tell she’s not wearing a bra. I can count the amount of times I’ve seen her wear one. “What’s the point when they’re small and perky?” is what she told me once while cupping them.

  My conversation with the boys briefly floats through my mind as I give Kinsley a full-body once-over. Yeah, she’s fine, gorgeous as hell, and adventurous in bed—from what she’s told me—but she’s also Kinsley, my best friend. The girl next door. My comfort. My home. I would never fuck with that . . . ever.

  “Uh, hello.” She snaps her fingers in my face. “Are you okay?”

  Blinking a few times, I say, “Sorry, I thought . . . I thought you were coming tomorrow.”

  “Had to sneak out when my mom was sleeping.” She winks and then hands me her suitcases before grabbing Clyde.

  She nods toward my apartment, but I don’t move. Instead, I point at Clyde and say, “What’s that doing here?”

  She looks down at the cot that she’s duct-taped repeatedly to keep alive. The cot I used to sleep on whenever I stayed at her place. The cot she gave Blake Young a blow job on once.

  “You know Clyde. You two go way back.”

  “Yeah, and why is he still alive?”

  She cutely winks at me. “Duct tape, baby. You know that.” She gives Clyde a shove and I’m forced to fall back into my apartment while she wheels the old cot across the living room, to the far corner near the windows, the wheels painfully squeaking the entire time. When she situates the old metal cot with a torn, green mattress, she looks up at me and says, “Is this a good spot?”

  “Sure?” I ask in a question, unsure of anything at this moment.

  “Perfect.” She unsnaps the button that holds the two sides together and in a blast of dust, the cot springs apart and collapses on the floor, the mattress forming a hole in the very middle. She glances down at it and then chuckles. “Oh dear.” She reaches into the satchel slung over her shoulders and pulls out hot pink duct tape. She holds it up to the sky as if it’s her very own baby Simba she’s blessing the pride lands with and says, “Thank God for duct tape, huh?” Before I can tell her about the air mattress I purchased, she flips the cot over and starts ripping the duct tape apart with her teeth, repairing the old janky bed that should have been retired years ago.

  I shut the door to my apartment and say, “Kin, I bought an air mattress.”

  “Oh no need, this will be . . . just . . . fine,” she says, while struggling with one of the springs. “Just have to tape this sucker down and we’ll be all . . . good.” She huffs out a loud breath and then sits back, observing her work. She examines the area and then ties down the spring one more time with a large strand of tape. When she’s done, she flips the cot back over and then tests out the mattress by sitting down. When she doesn’t collapse, she smiles. “See? All good.”

  One thing about Kinsley you need to be aware of: she doesn’t waste anything . . . ever. If she can use it over and over again, she will. She will use something so much that the only way she will stop using it is if it turns into dust. It’s why Clyde from our childhood is here, it’s why the satchel on her shoulders has leopard print duct tape stretched across the bottom, and why she’s always wearing shirts that say reduce, reuse, recycle. If I didn’t know any better, she would have the saying tattooed on her body, but she doesn’t believe in marking your skin . . . like I have done.

  She sets her things down, stands, and walks toward me. Before I can say another word, she wraps her arms around me and rests her head against my chest. Instinctively, I embrace her, her signature scent of tea tree oil and lavender wrapping around the both of us.

  “I missed you,” she says, looking up at me, chin on my chest. Kinsley has a Julia Roberts mouth—wide, infectious when she smiles, and beautiful teeth that she’s a maniac about taking care of. There have been many times where I’ve had to wait for her in a restaurant while she goes to brush her teeth in the bathroom.

  “I missed you too, babe.” I give her a little shake. “You look good.”

  She steps away and says, “Pilates has been good to me.” She lifts up her arm and flexes for me. “Look at that bicep.” She nods to the tiny, little lump in her arm. “Go ahead, feel it.”

  Chuckling, I reach out and squeeze her arm with my finger and thumb. Surprisingly, it’s quite stiff. “Wow, Kinny, that could be a registered weapon.”

  “Too bad I don’t believe in violence, huh? I could easily take out quite a few people who litter.” She punches the air with her tiny fists. And then, as if a light bulb goes off in her head, her eyes widen and she points at me. “Which reminds me, let me see your hand.”

  Confused, I lift my arm and she examines my hand, shaking her head the entire time. “Maddox, why?”

  Uhh . . .

  “Why what?”

  She moves her finger over my knuckles, the scabs evident
from the brawl two weeks ago, when Jason was pegged by the opposing pitcher, on purpose.

  “Why are you always getting in fights?” Her eyes seem like they triple in size when she looks back up at me and fuck, I feel guilty.

  When the Rebels drafted me, I knew what I was getting myself into. They’re a team that doesn’t sit back and take it up the ass, so if we’re fucked with, we show that we don’t appreciate it. I can’t even count the amount of fights I’ve been in since I’ve been a Rebel. It comes with the territory and at this point, there’s no way to reprogram me. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel guilty when I see the look of disappointment on Kinsley’s face.

  I scratch the side of my cheek and quietly say, “It’s the nature of the game, babe.”

  “I would be so sad if you got hurt.” Her thumb rubs over my knuckles and something weird happens from the small touch. The light swipe of her thumb ignites something deep inside the pit of my stomach, stirring warmth at the base of my spine.

  A little freaked, I pull my hand away and try to joke. “You clearly haven’t seen me in a fight. I don’t get hurt.”

  “Yeah, I turn the TV off when I see the bases clear. Makes me sick to my stomach.”

  “Really?” I ask, not knowing this.

  She nods. “I hate fighting. So much. You should know that. Why can’t people just speak rationally? Why resort to fists?”

  “Testosterone.”

  She shakes her head and then hugs me again. This time, I squeeze her tighter while rubbing my hand up and down her back.

  This is normal for her. She’s very loving. It took me a while to get used to the way she expresses her love, but over the years, I’ve succumbed to her touchy-feely ways. And it’s nice actually, having someone in your life who enjoys showing love openly. She’s always told me she loves me, and has made sure I can feel that love, hear it, and see it. Coming from a home where we barely said I love you on special occasions, she was the breath of fresh air I needed growing up, the escape I craved when everything was going to shit at my house.

  When my parents were divorcing.

  When my mom took off, never once looking back.

  When my dad turned into an alcoholic and then died while driving drunk two years after I graduated.

  When my brother . . . hell . . . I can’t even talk about that one.

  She’s always been there for me. Through thick and thin, with her hugs, her love, and her banana bread.

  Which reminds me.

  I give her a shake and ask, “Did you bring any banana bread?”

  She pulls away with a smile. “Did you really think I would come empty-handed?”

  “I fucking love you.” She chuckles and I release her. “I’ll get the hot chocolate, you get the bread, and let’s meet on the couch.”

  “Deal.” She winks and takes off toward her satchel.

  And for a brief second, I take in the way her round rear wiggles away in her leggings, happy, and full of life. That's what she's bringing to my otherwise pedestrian home. Asking her to move in was just what I needed.

  Chapter Four

  KINSLEY

  One of the things I love so much about Maddox is even though he gives off this don’t come near me vibe when walking around the streets and even on the baseball field, with me, he’s anything but intimidating and rude. He’s thoughtful, loving, and most importantly, he’s real. He has no qualms in relaxing around me. Showing his true self.

  Which makes me feel special, as I know it’s a privilege.

  Mug of hot chocolate in hand, he angles his body toward me on the couch and reaches down to the plate of banana bread between us. He doesn’t use a knife, but rather breaks off a chunk. It’s how he always eats it, as if he can’t wait the few seconds to cut a slice to get the bread in his mouth.

  “This is so good, I swear you put drugs in it,” he says around his mouthful of bread.

  Chuckling, I say, “Yes, you know how I love lacing your banana bread with cocaine. That’s not flour, my friend, that’s pure street blow.”

  “And you got that special rise in the bread? Paul Hollywood would be impressed.”

  I sit taller and clutch his arm. “Oh my God, you did not just say Paul Hollywood.” Poking him now, I say, “Do you watch The Great British Baking Show?”

  He shakes his head. “No. But Jason Orson talks about it all the time. He’s obsessed with cooking and baking. When he finishes an episode, he comes into the locker room speaking with the slightest British inflection and saying words like stodgy in sentences even though it doesn’t make sense. He’s also gone off about Paul Hollywood’s blue eyes.”

  “I think Jason and I could be good friends, just from the interviews I’ve seen him do. It’s a shame he’s married.”

  He raises a brow. “Looking to date one of my players?”

  “No,” I say quickly and then think about it. “Well, I mean, not entirely no. Do any of them enjoy long walks on the shores of Lake Michigan picking up trash?”

  “Doubtful.” He chuckles.

  “Such a shame. All those muscles gone to waste.”

  “When did you become such a muscle fanatic?” Maddox asks while sipping his hot chocolate.

  “I’m not a muscle fanatic. Hell, have you seen Stan from the Feed and Seed? The only muscle that man has is in his pants.” I wiggle my eyebrows and Maddox cringes.

  “Gross, Kin.”

  “But I’ve seen a few of your players with their shirts off, as the Internet is a nice place for research, and I will say this, I wouldn’t balk if someone asked me out.”

  “Why are you researching shirtless pictures of my teammates?”

  I roll my eyes at his scowl. I reach out and press my fingers to his forehead, urging him to relax. “I wasn’t searching for shirtless pictures. I was trying to learn everybody’s names, so I don’t embarrass you while living here and when I was studying images, there were quite a few shirtless pics to stare at.” I shrug. “Not too shabby the Rebels.”

  I don’t mention the picture I came across of Maddox with just a towel around his waist, chin tilted just slightly, his tattoos on full display, his body chiseled as if it was made from stone. There was his signature dark scruff framing his intense jawline, and a laziness in his eyes that was seductive, almost enticing people to come closer. It was one of the first times I realized my friend Maddox was a man. Not the boy I grew up with, but all muscular man.

  Well-defined pecs, sculpted arms, tapered hips with that V carved in the side, and then a dusting of hair at the waistband of his towel. It was a hot picture and I’d felt incredibly awkward looking at it. It made something inside me tingle. I shouldn’t be tingling when it comes to Maddox, so I quickly clicked out of the image and moved on.

  He doesn’t answer, just studies me, so I say, “And what if I wanted to stare at muscles? Why should I be shamed by that, Mr. I Love Big Boobs and Brunettes?”

  He stares at me blankly. “I don’t love big boobs and brunettes.”

  “Maddox.” I level with him. “I’ve known you for over twenty years, and I’m pretty sure I have a handle on your type at this point.”

  I can see him thinking about it, as if he’s going through a rolodex of women in his head and as time clicks by, I see him realize that I’m right.

  Laughing, I pat his leg and say, “Don’t worry, you haven’t fucked them all. There are plenty more big-boobed brunettes out there waiting to be introduced to your trouser snake.”

  “Christ, Kinsley, don’t call it that.”

  I laugh out loud and pick up a piece of bread for myself. “What do you call it?”

  “Penis.”

  “That’s so clinical. There has to be something else you call it?”

  “Cock,” he says in such a low, deep tone that I almost shiver right on the spot.

  Working my jaw to the side and skipping the intense eye contact he has right now, I ask, “Save that one for the bedroom?”

  “Sometimes.”

  And just like
that, the air around us seems to shrink. We’re treading weird territory, so I change the subject. “I didn’t bring any blankets for Clyde. I hope you have some.”

  He pops another chunk of banana bread in his mouth and chews, keeping his eyes trained on me the entire time. “Did you not bring any or did your mom refuse to let you take any?”

  “Maybe a little of both?”

  He chuckles and nudges me with his foot. “Got you covered, Kin.” He downs the rest of his hot chocolate and then sets his mug on the coffee table. “So, when do you start the new job?”

  “Wednesday,” I say, feeling myself get hyped. “I’m so excited about this job, Maddie. Working at the shelter in Woodland was fulfilling, but I always felt like I was missing something, you know? Like I wasn’t doing enough, especially since Woodland is so small, there wasn’t a lot of intake. I’ve been wanting something new for a while, so when I saw the opening of Director of Intake at Finding Homes for Furry Friends, I had to apply.”

  “Tell me exactly what they do? Find homes for people . . .”

  I smile, loving and appreciating the interest he has in my world.

  He’s a big-time baseball pitcher, someone who we’ll see in the Hall of Fame one day. His last name is plastered all over the backs of fans’ shirts, and his face on every Rebels promo material. He’s a staple of Chicago, but despite that, he can focus on my modest world.

  “The mission is to serve the terminally ill by finding forever homes for their pets. It’s one of the things we tend to forget when a loved one passes, and even though relatives and friends would like to help out as much as they can, you’d be surprised how many pets end up in the shelter after their owner has passed. It’s very sad to think about. They were so loved and cherished, and then all of a sudden, they lose . . .” I get choked up and take a deep breath. Maddox reaches out and takes my hand in his. “Sorry.” I try to laugh it off. “There I go again, crying over animals.”