“I’ve got to go,” I say quickly. “Good night.” And before I can stop myself, I hang up and turn off my phone only to roll over in bed, clutch my pillow, and cry myself back to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
MADDOX
One Week Later
The apartment is silent, the air still, and the only glint of light in my bedroom is from my phone, shining back at me, tempting me.
I lift the secret bottle of whiskey stored under my bed to my lips, welcoming the burning sensation down my throat. It feels good, almost as good as the bruise on my jaw from another fight I created.
Seventh inning, benches cleared again, Trevor Donald threw his bat at me, I hopped over it, and we tackled each other. He got a good shot on my jaw and I plowed him in the side. When I was ripped away from him, Jason shoved me into the dugout and back into the locker room. I could tell from the look in his eyes, he was done.
And since he’s not here tonight, during his “shift”, I know he is done.
Of course, I’m not alone though. Trusty Lincoln is out on the couch.
They should all do themselves a favor and leave me the fuck alone, because this incessant babysitting is doing nothing but pissing me off even more.
I tilt the bottle back, sucking down another swig and then rest it on my leg.
I miss her.
Fuck, I miss her so much.
And the worst part of all of this, I knew I was going to fuck it up. I knew deep in the pit of my stomach, that what I had with Kinsley was too good to be true, and I didn’t deserve it, that there was no way I would be able to keep her for myself.
I was right.
The first chance I got, I sabotaged the entire thing and now . . . fuck, now I’m so goddamn lost, I don’t know what to do.
I lean my head against the headboard of my bed and close my eyes. The room spins instantly so I open them and take shallow breaths, my emotions starting to build up again, like they do every night, but this time, they feel stronger.
Maybe it was because for the first time since I became a Rebel, I was called into my manager’s office. I was berated, yelled at, told to get my shit together, and when I came back here, I thought how I could possibly do that? My initial reaction was to call Kinsley to ask for help. To use her as a guiding light out of this tailspin that doesn’t seem to stop—only growing more daunting by the minute.
Because I’m a masochist, I go to the pictures app on my phone and open the folder that’s marked Kinsley. My guts twist the moment her beautiful face comes on screen.
I drag my hand down my face, pain building so much in my throat that it feels like I can’t breathe, as if there’s only a millimeter of space for air to pass through.
The misery of that night haunts me.
Taunts me.
Has buried itself so deep within my bones that every time I move, I feel the pain I put between us.
I can taste it.
I flip to the next picture. It’s of the both of us. I’m squeezing her tight, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and she has the sweetest smile on my face. Joy. It’s the only way to describe the picture—unfiltered joy.
Fuck, how could I have been so stupid? So rash? So harsh to judge without listening?
I kicked her out of my life without an explanation, leaving nothing but raw sores on a broken heart.
I flip to the next picture.
Kinsley and Herman.
I lift the bottle, take a large gulp, as I stare down at the two things that became the most important things in my life. My girl . . . and my dog.
Are they even still here, in Chicago?
Did they move back to Woodland?
Did Kinsley have to give Herman up?
Did she have to quit her job?
Fucking . . . hell.
I exit out of the photos and go to my contacts, before I can stop myself, I press call.
Bringing the phone to my ear, I silently pray that she answers. I have no idea what time it is, and I know the last time I called her, I couldn’t recall a damn thing I said to her. I heard her voice, and that’s all I needed.
“Pick up,” I whisper, my leg bouncing on my mattress. “Please pick up.”
The phone rings one more time and I hold my breath just as I hear a soft, “Hello?”
Relief floods through me, easing the ball of tension that was churning at the base of my skull. “Kinny, baby,” I say softly.
“Maddox, it’s . . . it’s two in the morning.”
I wince and set my bottle on the nightstand. Tomorrow will be brutal, that’s for damn sure.
“I’m sorry. I just, hell, I miss you.”
She sighs, and I hear the shuffle of her sheets.
Before she can say something, I quickly add, “Are you still in Chicago?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and I check my phone to make sure she didn’t hang up on me. Thankfully she hasn’t, so I wait patiently.
“Yes,” she finally says and just the thought that she’s still here, in the same city, gives me relief.
“Where?”
“It doesn’t matter, Maddox. We shouldn’t even be talking right now.”
Feeling her pull away, I say, “You’re my best friend, Kinsley.”
“Then you should have never treated me the way you did,” she says, her voice sad. “Please stop calling, you’re making this harder than it already is.”
She’s going to hang up, so I say the first thing on my mind. “I’m lost.” I swallow hard. “Kinsley, I’m so fucking lost without you.”
“I’m sorry, Maddox, but that isn’t my problem anymore. You took away my chance to care for you when you told me to get out of your life. Good night.”
And then the phone goes dead.
I slouch down in my bed, my hand covering my eyes, as I feel the first bout of wetness cascade down my cheek.
Fuck.
* * *
One Week Later
“Give me your phone.”
“Fuck off,” I say, clutching it to my chest.
Lincoln stands over me, his hair rumpled and a mess, wearing only a pair of shorts and looking less than pleased.
“Maddox, I’m not kidding. Give it to me.”
“Come any closer and I will fight you.”
Lincoln pushes both hands through his hair, irritation running through his body. “When are you going to get over this? We need you, man. You’re not just hurting yourself, but you’re hurting the team. Coach is about ready to put you on suspension. We can’t afford another loss from you . . . or another fight.”
“The fans like it,” I say, rubbing my hand over my sore jaw.
“You’re facing multiple fines and suspensions. Maddox, everything you worked for is about to fall apart. I don’t know how to fix this.”
“It’s not yours to fix.” I reach for the bottle of whiskey under my bed, completely forgetting that Lincoln doesn’t know about it. When he spots it in my hand, he moves so quick, my drunk ass can’t counter the swipe of his hand. The bottle is snatched and then chucked across my room, hitting the wall and crashing down it.
“Fuck,” Lincoln shouts. “You’re not just hurting yourself. You’re hurting your goddamn team, a team that’s stood behind you for years. Before you throw that all away because you fucked up, think about everyone else you’re hurting.” He walks off and slams the door to my bedroom.
I stare at the door, the darkness of the night making the room feel empty, contained, almost like a jail cell. Every night, after we’re released from the locker room, I take off on my motorcycle, throwing caution to the wind and zipping around Chicago, just to feel something, anything. But when I return to my apartment, all I feel is emptiness. I retire for the night in the bedroom. Cory or Lincoln will come in at some point and check on me. Cory won’t stay anymore, Lincoln will. Jason has given up completely.
I glance at my phone, plug in my passcode, and then open up my photos again. This time, I stare at a screenshot of Kinsley, one I too
k because I’d planned to draw it later and wanted to be accurate. Her shin is resting on her crossed forearms and she has a smirk spread across her lips that felt so original to her that I didn’t want to forget it.
Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I opened a sketchbook and . . . no, wait, I can.
My eyes connect to the sketchbook Kinsley gave me for her my birthday. I don’t dare flip it open to look at the drawing, the only drawing on those smooth white sheets of paper.
Kinsley stretched beneath me, her eyes focused on me as I moved my hand across the white paper, streaking it in black to resemble the goddess below me. It was a moment in time that I will never forget, a moment that will always haunt me, knowing what I carelessly tossed away.
I pull on my hair, the strands longer than normal, as well as the scruff on my face. A full beard now that’s untrimmed and undermanaged. The fans love it, the marketing team taking advantage, making shirts with my profile and a beard now. They’re marketing my goddamn pain.
Because it’s been a week and I’m past desperate, I lie farther down on my bed and open up my recent call list. I don’t even hover over her name, I just call.
It rings three times before she picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hey Kinsley,” I say, grateful that she picks up.
“Maddox, please stop calling me.”
“I can’t,” I say, hearing my own suffering in my voice. “I can’t stop calling, no matter how hard I try. I still crave your voice.”
She sighs heavily. “Don’t make me block your number.”
I sit up straight, my heart rate picking up at a rapid rate. “Don’t say that. Fuck, Kinsley, don’t fucking say that.”
“What’s the point of these calls? You’re drunk, you’re a mess, why would I want to talk to you?”
I rub my hand over my mouth and look to the side, trying to figure out an answer to her question.
“Not that I’m keeping tabs, because I’m truly trying to forget at this point, but I’ve seen your fights, I’ve seen the anger pooling around you, sitting stagnant. Why would I want anything to do with that? I have zero interest in being reminded of your father.”
Like a stake to my heart, she strikes hard.
“I’m not my father.”
“Really? Because you sure are acting like it,” she says, her voice growing stronger by the second. “You’re not the man I fell in love with, nor are you the man I came to rely on. You’re a shadow of him. And all for what? Because your girlfriend cheated on you over five years ago? Close to ten? Are you really going to let your past eat you whole like that, Maddox?”
“She cheated on me with my brother,” I say through clenched teeth.
“And you’re still angry about it. Do you know what that tells me?” she asks. “It tells me that you never got over her, that you possibly might still love her.”
“I never loved her.”
“You might think that, but it’s not what I see.”
“Kinsley,” I say, my voice tired, my will breaking. “I love you. I didn’t know what love was until you.”
“Is that so?” she asks, laughter in her voice. “Please explain how that love translated on your birthday?” I’m silent, no response. I have none. “That’s what I thought.” She blows out a heavy breath. “How many drinks have you had tonight?”
“Five beers. Lincoln smashed my whiskey bottle against the wall.”
“So you’re able to comprehend what I’m about to say to you.”
“Please don’t do this,” I say, feeling the end coming close. “Please just work this out with me.”
“Maddox.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s over. I suggest you move on, because I have zero interest in being with a man who treats a woman like you did on your birthday. I have zero interest in a guy who would rather pick fights out on the field and with his teammates than show his hard work and dedication to the sport. And I have zero interest in a man who would rather drown his nights in bottles of alcohol, like his father, rather than work through his demons.”
“You’re not letting me work on it. You’re shutting me out.”
“Hurts . . . doesn’t it?” The bitter tone in her voice is shocking. “Call again, and I block your number. Good night, Maddox.”
The line goes dead, and I have the sudden urge to punch a wall.
Instead, I toss my phone to the ground and go to my bathroom where I flip on the shower to scalding hot. I want it to melt off my skin, because at least the water will burn enough to minimize the pain.
* * *
One Week Later
“Good game,” Lincoln says, passing me in the showers.
I nod and head into the locker room, the burn of the shower doing nothing for me. I pitched seven shutout innings, one of the better games I’ve pitched in a while, given my track record of clearing benches lately. Not only did I see the appreciation on my teammates’ faces, but I also saw the ease in my manger’s eyes, almost as if he was relieved he didn’t have to say anything to me.
When I come up to my locker, I see my sketch pad and pen and briefly consider picking it up, but when I go back to the game and try to conjure up images in my head, I only see one thing. It’s not anything I want to draw.
Kinsley in her gorgeous yellow dress, on the ground, tear-stained cheeks, and a look of horror on her face.
It was on replay, over and over again, while my body pitched on autopilot.
I can’t remember a damn thing that happened in the game. I don’t know what I pitched, who I pitched to, or what they hit. All I know is that after each inning, I stepped into the dugout, and draped a towel over my head until it was my time to head back out.
My teammates left me alone.
Jason didn’t bother to tell me jokes.
And when it was time to go ice my arm, all my manager had to do was give me a nod toward the locker room. I knew my time on the field was done.
With my towel secured around my waist, I walk up to my locker and sit down in the chair provided for us. Resting my forearms on my quads, I clasp my hands together and stare at the ground.
I’m fucking wrecked.
Pitching today took more energy out of me than any other game, and it was because I was trying to pull it together, fighting the demons eating me alive, telling me what a failure I am.
“Want to talk?” Cory says to my right.
“Does it look like I want to talk?”
“Nope,” he answers.
At least he’s observant. I sit up and reach for my boxer briefs when Cory pins me with his hand to my chest.
I glance down at his hand and then back up at him. There’s no humor in his eyes, no light banter. He’s all business. “Remember when I was going through that shit with the fans and the media, after I foolishly broke up with Natalie?”
“Don’t turn this into a thing. It’s completely different.”
“It’s not,” he answers. “It’s really fucking not. We both destroyed the best thing that happened to us. Now I’ve let you have your time to sulk. I’ve given you weeks to try and pull this together on your own, but you’re failing miserably.”
“Wow, great pep talk.” I push his hand away, but he returns it, unwavering.
“This isn’t over for you. She might say it is, but it’s not. The love you two shared, you don’t get over that in a few weeks. That shit sticks to you, clings around your bones, buries itself in your marrow.” Looking me square in the eyes, he says, “You wouldn’t let me give up, so to hell if I let you. It’s time you clean yourself up, sober the fuck up, and win your girl back.”
“I unfortunately agree,” Jason says, leaning against my locker, arms crossed. “Even though you’re an asshole, I think there’s some good left in you. Plus, Linc’s trying to make things work with his girl now, and you’re making that hard.”
“I never asked him to stay with me.”
“And he would never leave you alone, not in the state you’re in,” Cory counters
. “We’re weeks away from playoffs, dude. We have a fighting chance at this, and to hell if we’re going to go into it without your girl cheering you on.”
I shake my head. “She threatened to block my number if I call her one more time.” Saying it out loud makes it that much more embarrassing.
“That’s what happens when you drunk-dial people in the middle of the night. You piss them off.” Jason shakes his head. “Do you not know what romance even is?”
“My father was an abusive alcoholic, so I didn’t really have an example.”
Cory stares me in the eyes when he says, “Then don’t you think we should break the cycle? Do you want to be like your father, or do you want to rise above him, be better, be the man Kinsley deserves?”
Hell . . .
“She’s done with me.”
“She’s done with the man you are now,” Jason says. “She’s not done with the man she fell in love with. Trust me on this. When Dottie broke my heart, lied to me, no matter how hard I tried, I still loved her. I couldn’t put that behind me. You need to work at it.”
Annoyed, I cross my arms over my chest and say, “Okay, if you two think you’re so smart, how do you think I go about doing it?”
“Sobering up would be job number one,” Cory says.
“Not fighting would be job number two,” Jason says, holding up his fingers.
“And coming up with a plan would be job number three,” Lincoln says, coming up behind me, “and I have just the idea.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
KINSLEY
One Week Later
“Do you ever smile?” I ask Herman, as he stares up at me while I eat my breakfast. “I know, I know . . . you miss him.”
I miss him, too.
Even though I don’t want to admit it, I do miss him. But that’s bound to happen. He was my everything, my person, and to cut him out of my life so suddenly, so completely . . . nothing alleviates that unabating pain. I just wish Herman wasn’t extra mopey about it. Makes things worse.
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