The Change Up

by Quinn, Meghan

  Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC

  Copyright 2020

  Cover Design By: RBA Designs

  Cover Photo By: Michelle Lancaster

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at meghan.quinn.author@gmail.com

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

  www.authormeghanquinn.com

  Copyright © 2020 Meghan Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt - The Lineup

  Prologue

  MADDOX

  Have you ever said something you regret?

  Something you haven’t forgotten about an hour later?

  Something that sits with you, stews deep in your belly, and then seeps into your bones, burying itself so far into your marrow that all you can think about is the one thing you said . . . and how you wished you could take it back the minute it slipped past your lips?

  That’s where I am.

  Full of regret.

  People always say, “Don’t regret anything. It’s what makes you who you are.” That was said in a whiney, nasally voice. Did you hear it?

  Well, those people, the ones trying to spew rainbows and sunshine up your ass about blatant mistakes . . . yeah, they’re only saying that because they fuck up on a daily basis.

  Think about it, what REAL person is okay with all their regrets? No one. There is always that one thing you did, that one time, that you will always, always, always think . . . “What if I’d done that differently?”

  It keeps you up at night.

  You wonder, what transformed, what took over my brain, to utter such words. To alter your life completely and send it down an entirely different course.

  Yeah, my life has been fucking altered all right.

  Everything was fine.

  I was pitching one hell of a fucking season for the Rebels, my ride or die team. I was getting along with my teammates, even the infamous Cory Potter, who made a splash after last season. I’ll hand it to the man, he really is the boss. I was getting laid whenever I wanted, which is always a plus for a guy who has massive amounts of adrenaline pumping through him daily, especially on a pitching day. And there were no strings attached.

  None.

  Yeah, I might have a rotation of women I call, but any single player in the major leagues does. You need the outlet. Even the prestigious Cory Potter had some booty call numbers before he found Natalie.

  I was living a great life, and then it all changed. And it changed fucking fast.

  Before I knew it, I was staring into my fridge at dairy products not made from a cow, but rather from oat. What the fuck is that? Oat milk? Explain to me where an oat has a goddamn nipple.

  My toothbrush is made from bamboo, which gives off a very woody, splintery taste, and I’ve been using toothpaste tablets instead of paste from a tube . . . because apparently, tubes suck up life in the landfill.

  The eco-friendly toilet paper in my apartment disintegrates in my hand and is worthless, making bathroom breaks a fucking nightmare.

  And there’s a goddamn three-legged dog in a suit and tie sitting on my couch that goes by the name Herman.

  I don’t have any privacy, I barely remember what meat tastes like anymore, and Herman has a goddamn staring problem. And the three-legged motherfucker, yeah, he’s stealthy. I find him waiting for me outside the shower . . . staring.

  When I wake up . . . staring.

  When I’m trying to make a goddamn tempeh sandwich . . . staring.

  Every time I tell him to “get a life” or to “fuck off” or for the love of Christ “get a new hobby”, he doesn’t even bat an eyelash.

  He just stares!

  I can’t fucking take it anymore.

  I’m losing my goddamn mind and I don’t know . . . maybe it’s because I haven’t had sex in what feels like forever, or because my burgers are now made of imposter “meat”, or maybe because I’m forced to do things I don’t want to do. Either way, something needs to give, because I’m pretty sure from all the vegan shit I’ve been eating, my armpits are just about ready to spring their own mung beans.

  Christ.

  One phone call.

  That’s all it took.

  One fucking phone call from a person I cannot say no to, a person who will forever and always be . . . my insanely beautiful and free-spirited best friend.

  Chapter One

  MADDOX

  “What are you doing tonight?” Lincoln asks, my best friend who was traded a couple seasons ago to the Rebels, thank fuck.

  I lean back in my locker and let out a long breath. It was one hell of a game tonight. Came all the way to the ninth inning where Cory clocked one to the right, bringing in Marcus, our third baseman, for the win. Defending our World Series title from last year hasn’t been easy, but we’re holding strong as we’re nearing the second half of the season.

  “Probably going to grab a steak on the way home, call up Tess. Why?”

  Lincoln shakes his head. “I have a date.”

  “Really?” I ask, sitting taller. “Like a real one?”

  “What other kind of dates are there?” Lincoln laughs.

  I drag my towel off my head and push my hand through my damp hair. “The fucking kind of dates.”

  Lincoln laughs and shakes his head at me. “Dude, there is more than just fucking around with a girl. There’s intimacy. Getting to know someone. Finding a person who makes you happy. You should try it sometime.”

  “Nah, I’m good,” I answer while slipping on a pair of jeans.

  “You sure? Because look at Potter and Orson. They recently found love and they’re having one of the best seasons of their lives.”

  I pause and face Lincoln. “Are you fucking saying I’m having a bad season? Because I have three losses under my belt.” I hold up three fingers. “Three. That’s a really good fucking season if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, but two of those losses were a bloodbath where you were out in the third inning.”

  “I’m allowed to have a bad fucking day. Christ. And no girl is going to change my game. You should know that by now. And why do you even care?”

  “Because . . . you haven’t tried to be in a relationship since Jamie. Maybe it’s time, you know?”

  Is Lincoln drunk? Where the hell is this coming fr
om? Granted, he’s always been the guy who’s been open to finding the right person for him, even if it’s taking him fucking years and a painful process to figure out who his soul mate is—even though I could probably point it out within a second—but to toss his ideals on me? He doesn’t do that shit.

  I punch my arms through my T-shirt and slip it over my head. “Why the hell are you trying to get me to date?”

  Lincoln shrugs. “Might be nice to go on double dates.”

  I pause amid swiping on some deodorant. “Are you fucking with me right now? You’re coming at me hard with dating someone because you want to go on double dates?”

  He shrugs with a smirk. “Heard they were fun.”

  “Fuck, man.” He laughs. “Ask Potter or Orson out. Leave me the hell out of it.” I cap my deodorant, toss it in my locker, and snag the keys to my ’69 Mustang Boss 429—kept the motorcycle back at my apartment today—and stuff my wallet in my back pocket.

  “But it would be more fun to watch you squirm on a date.”

  “You’re a really good friend,” I say sarcastically while finally checking my phone for messages. Only one, from Kinsley. I smile to myself. “I’ll catch you later.”

  “That’s a no on the whole double date thing?”

  From over my shoulder, I say, “That’s a fuck no.”

  On my way out of the locker room, I give a few guys fist bumps and then run straight into Cory Potter, who’s already dressed and heading to his car as well.

  Last season, fuck, I don’t even know how to explain last season. When Cory was traded midseason to the Rebels two years ago, I was pissed. Not even going to sugarcoat it. The front office took on his massive contract, which I knew would eat up a lot of the pot when it came to acquiring additional players. We were already sucking big time that season and everyone thought he was going to turn it around for us. Spoiler alert: he didn’t. And what was even worse was he was known as a Bobbies fan—our hometown rival—so I wanted nothing to do with the overpaid asswipe. It wasn’t until the offseason when I heard the guys talking about his work ethic and dedication that I started to ease up.

  Now, we’re really good friends, and I’m one of the reasons he’s back with his girl and getting married this November. I tell him it’s all because of me that he’s with Natalie. I tend to rub it in his face whenever I get the chance. He just laughs it off but deep down, I see the gratefulness in his eyes.

  “Heading out?” Cory asks.

  “Yeah. You?”

  He nods. “Natalie made some dessert she wants me to try.”

  We start walking down the hallway toward the door that leads to the players’ parking lot. “Is it really dessert?”

  Cory smirks. “I never know with her. Somedays it’s actual dessert like a giant pan of brownies topped with caramel and nuts, and sometimes it’s her naked on the counter.”

  I let out a low laugh. “Talk about that particular dessert with her brother?” Jason Orson, our catcher and resident obnoxious but sensitive jokester, is Natalie’s brother. When Cory started dating Natalie, it was a dream come true for Jason because his obsession with Cory was and still is borderline Kathy Bates in Misery.

  “Sometimes.” Cory laughs to himself and says, “Just to make him cry.”

  “Hell, I’d do the same. Fucking with him as a soon-to-be brother-in-law would be my daily goal in life.”

  “It does breathe air into my lungs.” He props the door open for me and we both head out into the dimly lit parking lot that is patrolled by security until the last player leaves.

  “A couple more weeks and then it’s the All-Star break,” I say, noticing our cars are parked next to each other. “I’m glad I’m taking the few days off rather than pitching.”

  “Yeah, I wish I’d done the same, but making the All-Star team after all the bullshit from last year . . . wanted to revel in it.”

  “Attention whore.”

  He doesn’t deny it, just shrugs. “The boss demands attention.” I roll my eyes at the use of his nickname.

  “You’re getting far too cocky. I need to bring you back down to reality.”

  “Only you could.” He unlocks his car. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” I answer while sticking my key into my door and unlocking it.

  Besides a few rookies still waiting to make their big purchase, I’m the only guy on the team with a car that wasn’t made in the last two years. When I was younger, my dad—when he was sober—took me to car shows after some of my baseball games, or even before sometimes. He would walk me around, telling me all about each and every engine. When I was in middle school, a black Mustang caught my eye. I remember spending an hour taking in every little detail. I memorized the name, took pictures of it, and told myself when I made it to the big leagues one day, I’d get myself one.

  And I did.

  Nothing sounds better than the roar of my mighty 375 horsepower V8 engine and its gnarly exhaust note as it rumbles around the Chicago streets. I set my phone and wallet on the seat next to me and click my seatbelt, which is when I see the text from Kinsley light up my phone again.

  Kinsley: You better call me today, Maddie. Or this friendship is over.

  Chuckling from the empty threat, I turn my engine to life. I’ll give her a call when I get home.

  * * *

  “You’re lucky you called me tonight.” Kinsley’s familiar smooth and girly voice floats through the speaker of my phone while I lie back on my couch with my sketchbook in my hand, a pencil in the other.

  “You offered up a pretty scary threat, Kinny.”

  “That’s right I did.” There’s fake anger in her voice. I can tell it’s fake because I’ve known the girl since we were five. Neighbors, best friends—who really shouldn’t be friends given our differences in interests—we know the ins and outs of each other. When she’s angry, her voice becomes shaky. She’s the type of person who reverts to crying because it’s the only way her body knows how to react when angry.

  “What’s up?” I ask, scratching away on my pad, drawing her face from memory as we talk.

  “What’s up? Seriously? Maddox, you missed our monthly talk. That’s unacceptable.”

  “Busy schedule, babe, you know that.”

  She sarcastically laughs. “Who was it . . . Katrina? Or Tess? Oh wait . . . let me look at my schedule.” She pauses and I continue to smile to myself as I outline her eye, thickening the top lid because of her dark lashes that line her beautiful green eyes. “According to what I have written down, it’s Yasmin.”

  “Why do you have my fuck schedule written down?”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Rolling my eyes even though she can’t see me, I say, “Yeah, it was Yasmin.”

  “I knew it,” she whispers. “Freaking Yasmin and her long black hair. She got me three months ago too.”

  “Really?” I ask, feeling a little guilty that I’ve missed two of these phone calls. Third Saturday of every month. It’s what we “set in stone” when we were in high school when I was being drafted. She was terrified I’d forget about her. I told her that would never happen, so we made a promise to talk on the phone every third Saturday of the month. Ten years later, we still make that phone call. Even if it’s a day or so off.

  “Yes. I mean, I get it, she has amazing boobs, but honestly, Maddox, is a pair of boobs really better than our friendship?”

  “I mean . . .”

  “I will glitter-bomb you. Don’t make me send another special package to your place.”

  “Christ, please don’t. The last one shot up my nose. I was sneezing glitter for days.”

  “Well deserved. At least the glitter was biodegradable so it probably dissolved in your snot.”

  I loop my pencil around her other eye, paying special attention to the shine in her iris that I remember so vividly from the last time she came to visit. “Good to know your glitter bomb is a part of me now.”

  “Just a gentle reminder that I’m always
with you.”

  I chuckle. “That glitter bomb was not gentle by any means.” She laughs, the sound like a warm blanket covering me up from behind. It’s impossible to count the amount of times I’ve heard her laugh, but the sound will never get old to me. It feels like home—and that’s always been about Kinsley.

  “So tell me all the things about life. I see that you’re killing it on the mound. You were so sweaty the other night. Every time they did a close up, I gagged.”

  “Aren’t you treat to talk to?” She laughs again. “That’s what hard work does to you, Kinny, it makes you sweat. You should try it some time.”

  “My, my, my, you’re ripe today. Have you been taking those vitamins I sent you? They’re supposed to improve your mood.”

  “They smelled like death. I chucked them.”

  “What?” she screams on the phone. “Maddox. That is such a waste.”

  “I’m kidding. They’re in my cupboard, untouched, but they’re in there.” I sketch out the little lift to her nose that I’ve studied many times. A slight slope with a gentle curve at the tip. A button nose, I’ve always told her.

  “Well open them, they will do you some good,” she huffs and I smirk, loving how easily I can annoy her. “So what else is happening in your life?”

  “Not much. Skipping the All-Star game this year to opt for a break. I feel like I need one.”

  “I was wondering what was going on. Do you plan on going anywhere? Maybe coming to visit me in Michigan for a few days?” There’s hope in her voice and I hate to disappoint her but . . .