We didn’t move in the booth.
We didn’t attempt to leave.
We both were content with where we were.
At one point, she handed me a pen from her purse and I drew on a napkin, upside down and she had to guess what I was drawing before I finished. She guessed Nick Jonas. It was Mr. Rodgers. When I turned the napkin around, she saw it, but that didn’t bode well for my drawing. She laughed so hard from her mistake that she used the Mr. Rodgers napkin to dab at her tears.
Fuck, she makes me laugh when she does stupid shit like that. Not a care in the world, just using my drawing as a tear collector. And it made me realize how much I’d genuinely missed her. Nothing gets her down . . . apart from animals being mistreated. I can forget I’m an elite athlete with constant pressure to perform when I’m with her, and I can’t take for granted. That . . . freedom to be myself. To laugh with my favorite person, because that’s how my life used to be.
“No more ice, I’m good.”
She stops me in the entryway and takes my chin in her hand. Her other hand falls to my shoulder, steadying herself. On her toes, she examines my eye and when she pulls away, she smiles. “The bruising is quite interesting. What are you going to tell your guys? Bar fight? Or that you were struck in the eye by a little lady with an unyielding arm?”
“Luckily, I won’t see them for a week, so . . . nothing.”
“You’re not even going to post it on the gram? Come on, your fans would love something like this. They’re used to you getting in fights, which I really hate by the way. Did you know that?” She moves her hands so they rest on my chest, and I’m so goddamn tempted to bring my hands to her lower back, squeezing her in tightly against me. But I keep my arms at my sides, not sure I could control myself if I moved them anywhere else.
“You don’t like me fighting? And yet, you pegged me with an air hockey paddle tonight.”
“It slipped out of my hand when I was raging. I didn’t mean to throw it. But you punch someone on the field for no reason. That scares me.”
I can’t fucking help it. I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “It’s not for no reason, babe.” My hand lingers behind her ear. “It’s about protecting your team and your teammates. Baseball can be really fucking dangerous, especially when pitchers viciously peg another player. Some aim for heads, and that’s unacceptable to me. And I make it clear: don’t hurt my players.”
“You do the same thing. You’re known for taking out elbows.”
“Only when I have to. What people don’t hear or see is what’s said on the field, in the batter’s box, on the bases. My teammates report back, and we decide if we’re going to take action. Rebels don’t roll over.”
She moves her lips to the side. There’s something she wants to say, but she’s holding on to it. She backs up and nods, head tilted down. I catch her wrist and bring her back. This time, I place one hand on her lower back. “What are you not saying?”
She bites her bottom lip and shakes her head. “It’s nothing. I should get ready for bed.” Before I can stop her, she walks away, leaving me feeling very unsettled, so I follow her to her bathroom where she’s brushing her teeth. I grip the doorframe and stare her down. When she spits, I say, “We tell each other everything, Kin. So what are you not telling me?”
She slips one of my Rebels shirts over her head and I watch as she undresses in front of me underneath it. The magical work she does of removing her clothing without showing one inch of skin is something I’ve seen her do many times growing up, but there’s something about seeing my Rebels shirt on her that twists at my heart. It’s all I ever want to see her in. I want to know that my shirt is huge on her but gives her comfort. I want to know that she’s soaking in my scent when she’s sleeping. And I want to peel that goddamn shirt off her to reveal her beautiful body.
She must notice me staring because she says, “I borrowed it. I hope that’s okay.”
“Take whatever you want of mine.”
She rolls her teeth over her bottom lip just as her eyes flash to my mouth and for a brief second, I have the thought that maybe she’s starting to have this crazy sensation as well, this all-consuming need to touch me, to be close to me, to kiss me.
But as soon as the fleeting thought comes into my mind, it flies away as she pushes past me to the kitchen where she gets water.
I push my hand through my hair, growing more irritated that she’s not talking to me so when I speak next, my voice comes out harsher than I want. “Kinsley, just fucking say whatever you’re hiding.”
She pauses, startled. I hate that look on her face, as if I just slapped her. It guts me, and I immediately feel guilty for raising my voice. I walk closer and I say, “I’m sorry, I just—”
“When you fight, you remind me of your father.”
And just like that, she returns the punch. This one hits me square in the chest.
My reaction causes her to set the water down and come toward me, but I slowly back up, unable to process what she just said to me. Out of everyone in my life, she knows the tumultuous and toxic relationship I had with my father. There were good days and there were a lot of bad days. Days I wish I’d never experienced as a child, days that have shaped me into the man I am today . . . apparently in more ways than one.
Unable to come up with a response, I turn and head for my bedroom, my anger starting to boil.
“Maddox, wait.”
I slam my bedroom door and stand in the middle of my room, unsure what to really do . . . or say.
You remind me of your father.
What a fucking brutal comment. It sears me to my very core. The one thing I never wanted to be—my dad. I’ll never understand how the devastation he experienced when my mom left triggered his choice of alcohol over the care of his kids. And then the ensuing brutality. I’m not that man.
Hands gripping the back of my neck, I pull tightly and will my pulse to even out, to stop thumping so hard through my veins that it’s impossible to breathe.
For the first time since I met Kinsley, I’m truly mad at her.
Chapter Eleven
KINSLEY
What have I done?
Tears stream down my face as I stand in the hallway, staring down Maddox’s bedroom door.
Why would I say that to him, knowing how he feels about his father?
What I said was the truth though. I’ve seen many fights that Maddox has engaged in and the look in his eyes, the fury as he screams at other players, when he cocks his arm back, when he’s pulling at shirts. It makes me sick to my stomach, because I’ve seen that image before.
The anger.
The closed fists.
The aftermath.
It’s too familiar. Every time Maddox gets into a fight on the field, I turn off the TV. I remove myself from the image and try desperately to think of something else, because the resemblance? It’s devastating. Scary. Real.
But I swore to myself I’d never say anything. I’d never point it out, because I knew the horrible effect it would have on Maddox, someone who told me at two in the morning, while I held ice to his face, that he’d never be like his dad. Ever. And I told him over and over again, he wouldn’t. I told him he’d be a far better man than his dad ever was. And he is.
And then tonight, I told him he reminded me of his father . . . at his worst.
A sob wracks my chest. I try to stifle the noise, but there’s no use. The more I replay the devastated look that crossed Maddox’s face, the more I cry. Harder and harder until I can barely breathe. Stumbling to the wall, I lean against it and sink down onto the floor where I bury my head in my hands.
That’s where I stay for I don’t know how long. It’s where I sob uncontrollably, and my shoulders start to hurt from the constant spasms. It’s where I regret the last ten minutes so much that I feel physically ill. It’s where I feel Maddox squat down next to me, only to pick me up in his arms and carry me to his bed.
When he goes to set me down, I cling to
him, not letting him let me go.
I don’t have to look at him to know he’s shirtless. I can feel his warm skin against mine.
I don’t have to open my eyes to know he’s still angry. I can tell from the stiff set of his shoulders.
He leans back on his bed, me curled on his lap, arms wrapped around him as I cry even harder. In between sobs, I try to apologize, but it comes out all garbled and unintelligible.
With a soothing hand, he rubs the back of my head and tries to calm me.
It’s too much. He’s being too kind, which makes me lose it even more.
“Kinny, breathe.”
“I’m . . . s-s-sorry.”
“I know,” he says on a sigh, his hand gently stroking my hair.
I lift off him and grip his cheeks so he’s forced to look at me. The anger I saw erupt in his eyes is gone, but there’s immense sadness, and that’s even worse. I never want to make my best friend sad or see this devastated look ever again.
In between sobs, I say, “I . . . I . . .”
“Shh,” he says, rubbing my back now. “Calm down, Kinny. Deep breaths.”
I nod and take a moment to calm myself, his hand on my back helping me. After a few moments, I finally say, “I was out of line for saying that, and I am so sorry I even put that thought in your head.” New tears fill my eyes. “I love you, Maddox, and I truly do believe you’re the furthest thing from your father. You’re so kind and sweet, and you have a beautiful heart, one that’s depicted fluently as your pen touches paper every night. I’m so, so sorry.”
His hand falls to my thigh where he rubs it gently, never going up too far. The pressure is enough to remind me of how he gripped my leg in the bar booth, how it ignited a deep yearning inside me with each pass. It made me think of Maddox in a whole new light, one I need to stay as far away from as possible.
“Do I really look like him?” He glances up at me. “Tell me the fucking truth. Don’t lie to spare my feelings.”
I press my lips together and close my eyes, hating this moment more than anything. Slowly, I nod. “But, it’s only in the moment where your temper flares and you charge. I see something in your eyes and it frightens me. Reminds me of that one time I was under the stairs, watching you face your dad when he came home at noon after being fired. It brings back the sounds of his fist connecting with your face, the crunch. The thud of you hitting the floor.” More tears spill over my eyes. “It’s that look in your eyes that terrifies me, where I’m taken back to that moment.” It was the most horrific moment of my life, watching my best friend be brutally assaulted by his own father. I had no idea what that looked like and had nightmares for months once I knew.
He drops his head to the headboard and whispers, “Fuck.”
“But that doesn’t mean you’re him,” I say quickly. “You’re not even close to being him. You know how to handle your liquor. You would never hurt someone you love, ever. You might get angry faster than others, but you control it. You’re protective, and that quality is admirable. Sitting with you right here, right now, I know I’m in a safe place, that you would never let anything happen to me. If I were in a room with your father, I’d be terrified.”
He doesn’t respond. I watch his chest rise and fall a few times, his breath slows right before he lifts his head and cups my cheek. Sincerity fills his pupils. “I’m sorry, Kinny. I’m so fucking sorry I scared you.”
I shake my head. “Don’t apologize. I should have never said anything. It was stupid.”
“It was what I needed to hear,” he says, gripping my cheek tighter. “I needed to be reminded of how my temper can sometimes skyrocket and get out of control.”
“You’d never hurt me though.”
“Never.” He swallows hard. “I love you, Kinsley.”
My full name, with those three words. It undoes me.
I fall into his chest and cry some more. “I love you, Maddox.”
He holds me tightly, one of his hands cupping my head. “Thank you.”
Confused, I ask, “For what?”
“For always being there for me, especially when I needed you the most. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you. Not just from you sitting on the sidelines cheering me on, but from the late-night safety place you gave me. For always leaving your window unlocked so I could crawl in next to your bed and use the blankets you kept on the floor for me. For waking me up before the sun rose so I could make it back to my room undetected. For the many nights you kept snacks hidden for me in different places so I didn’t go hungry. For never ever judging my situation, but instead loving me when I wasn’t getting love anywhere else.”
I lift up to look him in the eyes. One single tear falls down his cheek and I quickly wipe it away. As I stare at him, inches away from his handsome face, I feel this fiery need to kiss him. To show him how much he’s loved, how much I care for him, how much I’m feeling in this very moment—like it’s monumental and is about to change everything between us.
How would he react? Would he kiss me back? Would he want to kiss me back or would he feel bad and kiss me only to regret it in the morning?
I’m scared, but I also need him more than just a friend. I need every inch of him, and that’s more terrifying than anything. I’m pretty sure in this moment, both of us crying over a troubled childhood, I’m falling for my best friend. I don’t just love him, but I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.
I look down at his lips and then back up, my body itching to move forward, my heart pounding so hard that with each thump, I feel myself move a centimeter closer and closer . . .
I wet my lips.
I prepare my heart for rejection, but just as I gain the courage to close the distance between us, Maddox says, “Will you stay here with me? In my bed? Hold my hand?”
And like a candle being blown out, that fire inside me dissipates. Maddox sees me as a friend, as the girl he grew up with, and that’s something I never want to mess with. So I nod and slide off his body, onto his mattress where I tuck one of his pillows under my head and face him.
He pulls the covers over both of us and then faces me as well. He gives me a soft smile, whispers, “I love you, Kinny.” And then takes my hand in his.
Holding back another wave of tears, I say, “I love you, too.”
And then I steady my aching heart, reminding myself to be thankful, that we’ll always be friends.
Only friends.
* * *
“Good morning,” Maddox whispers softly with a slight shake to my leg.
My eyes burn as I try to peel them open. It feels next to impossible due to the tears I shed last night.
“Hey, you have to start getting ready, babe.”
The burn in my eyes starts to grow stronger as I open them, and then that’s when it hits me—the things I said, the look in Maddox’s face, the anger . . . the pain.
I sit up quickly and wrap my arms around Maddox, who sets the coffee in his hand on the nightstand to return the embrace. His cheek falls to the top of my forehead and I revel in his fresh soap smell.
“I’m sorry about last night,” I say again, even though I already apologized so many times last night.
“I know.”
“I feel so sick about it. You’re being so kind to me, letting me stay here and I go and say something like that.” I shake my head. “I’m so sorry.”
Releasing me, he takes my chin in his hand and forces me to look at him. “Stop apologizing.”
Tears well in my eyes and then drop over when I speak my worst fear. “I don’t want you to hate me.”
“Hate you? Kinny,” he exhales. “I could never hate you. You’re my girl, the most important person in my life. Even when I missed our monthly phone call, you were and always will be the most important.” He hands me the coffee mug and says, “Last night was a confronting eye-opener for me. What you said about me stung, but what you said afterward stung even more. I forget how much my childhood ate up yours as well. I forget that you were
in the thick of things with me, rather than just the person I leaned on, and I hate to think that I do something that reminds you of those bad memories.” He pushes his hand through his wet hair, worry etched in his features. “I don’t want to be like him.”
I set the coffee down and take his hands in mine. “You’re not. You’re not even close to being him.”
“But the temper is there, the anger. I feel it building and brewing whenever the smallest thing ticks me off. It’s hard not to let it affect me. To forget about the anger. It’s exactly how my dad was. And then I act out on it. I take it out on other players. I might not take it out on the people I love, but I do use my fists, just like he did.”
“It’s different,” I say.
“Not really. I still use my fists to express my rage, and that’s not something I’m proud of. I thought it was okay to fight on the field, that it was part of my duty. But the more thought I put into it, the more I believe I was making an excuse for myself to let out that built-up anger. I’ve justified it. But those players are someone else’s brother or husband or son.”
“Maddox.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t. You said it yourself; it’s in my eyes. I have the same anger in my eyes as my father.” Before I can say anything, he places his fingers over my mouth, stopping me. “I understand what you’re saying. And this morning, I realized, it’s something I want to work on. That anger. I know the Rebels count on me to defend my teammates, but I also think I want to try the Cory Potter approach: not fight.”
“I don’t want you to stop being who you are, Maddox, just because I said something carelessly last night.”
“The thing is, that’s not who I am. It’s who the Rebels have molded me to be represented as, but it’s not me. I’m not defined by the way I can throw down on the field, but by what I do off the field, by the people I surround myself with, my drawings, my drive and hard work. That’s how I want to be defined, not the guy who throws a punch every chance he gets.”
The Change Up Page 11