“You should be getting your rest.”

He floats his hand behind his head, the pose very casual for him, but from my end, I feel anything but casual. From how his bicep juts out next to his head, the way the pose gives off the whole sensual vibe—matched with his eyes that seem to look even brighter over FaceTime—I’m perplexed, thinking of Maddox in an entirely different way.

“I wouldn’t get any sleep knowing you’re sad. Let’s get your mind off Deeogee for a second so you can stop crying. I don’t want you going to bed only to cry yourself to sleep.”

“You know me too well.”

“I do. Tell me something that made you laugh today.”

“Made me laugh?” I tap my chin. “Umm . . . oh, Joan texted me a picture of a cat in a cowboy outfit. But it was one of those funny outfits where it looks like the cat is a mini human from the front.”

Maddox looks confused. “Who’s Joan?”

“Joan . . . your neighbor.”

“My—” He blinks. “My neighbor?”

“Yeah, 10B. She and Melvin are the sweetest couple. At first, she was a little rude, saying I wasn’t the girl for her Phineas. To be honest, I was insulted, because I’d like to think I’m a catch in the love department, but when I saw a picture of him in their apartment—”

“You went into their apartment?”

“Of course. We had tea and biscuits. Talked for hours. Melvin is a gem when it comes to baking, and he was so happy to share his orange and cardamom recipe with me because it was vegan. Imagine that.” I feel my mood shifting already so I hop off the bar stool, put the rest of the ice cream in the freezer, and go to the couch where I lie down again. “Anyway, I saw a picture of Phinny—that’s what they call him—and I thought he’s nice-looking and all, but so not my type. He’s really buttoned up, you know? Likes wearing a tie. A director in human resources for a fortune 500 company. He’s quite the catch but not for me.” Leaning closer to the phone as if telling a secret, I say, “He looked a little stuck-up. Not sure he could handle my bamboo toothbrush. Which, yours came in, I put it in your bathroom for you, along with the bar of soap I ordered for you and the deodorant. It smells decadent. I was holding the wrapped-up chunk yesterday to my nose, oh my God, so good, Maddox.”

He drags his hand down his face and says, “What . . . what are you talking about?”

“I told you I was getting you a bunch of eco-friendly products to try so we can reduce your carbon footprint. The soaps all came in recyclable wrappers, so we’re not clogging the landfills with more plastic bottles. The deodorant is a bar as well that you just swipe in your armpit so no plastic applicators. And the toothbrush, well—”

“I’m talking about the neighbors. Why are you hanging out with the neighbors?”

“Melvin and Joan?” I asked confused. “They invited me over and I wasn’t about to be rude. They really are so kind. They gave me some biscuits to take home for you.”

“Christ,”’ he mutters. “Did you tell them who I am?”

“I said your name was Maddox, but I didn’t go into detail. You know, I do have other things to talk about other than my famous best friend. It’s not always about you, mister.”

“I understand that, but . . .” He blows out a long breath. “Sorry, you’re right, it’s not always about me.”

“Glad you realize that.” I laugh, feeling a whole lot better. “Ugh, you made me laugh. That’s annoying.”

“Why’s that?” he asks, a light chuckle in his voice, his facial features morphing into humor rather than irritation.

“Because, it just makes you that much more perfect in my eyes.”

“Perfect? That’s a strong word. I think you and I both know I’m the furthest thing from being perfect.”

“Perfect in my eyes. Don’t forget, the imperfect is what makes you perfect to me.” I wink and he smirks.

“Imperfect describes me to a tee . . . besides my pitching of course.”

“Oh, of course,” I say dramatically. “We wouldn’t want to say you’re pitching has flaws.”

“Because it doesn’t. It’s why I’m the most dreaded arm in baseball.”

“Is that what the announcers and analysts are saying now?”

“Yeah.” He rolls his teeth over his bottom lip, and it’s really freaking sexy.

“Well, when you come home, I’ll be sure to bring that cocky attitude down a peg or two.”

“You always do.”

Smiling back at him, I say, “Thank you for making me feel better. I appreciate it.”

“Anything for you, Kinny.”

“Did you draw?”

He shakes his head. “Was going to, but I wanted to give you all of my attention.”

And that right there pulls on my heart. It’s as if there’s a string attached to it and he’s holding the other end, tugging and pulling every so often.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

“You’re welcome.” He yawns. “Okay, I’m headed to bed. I love you, Kinny. Talk tomorrow.”

“I love you,” I say, and hang up. I roll to my back, stare at the ceiling, feeling this anvil-like pressure slowly falling on my chest.

I love you. So simple for us, but recently so weighted.

It took me longer than it should have, but I finally have the TV on, a bowl of popcorn on my lap, and a sparkling water next to me as I stare at the giant screen in Maddox’s apartment.

“Maddox Paige looks to be on fire tonight. I was watching him during warmups and he was clocking in some of his best speeds all season. And it shows in the first three innings tonight. Lights out, untouchable.”

I smile, listening to the announcers talk about my best friend and how amazing he is.

I already knew this though.

I knew it back in middle school, when I saw his arm start to develop, as he mowed down the kids attempting to get a hit off him.

When he started pitching, he wasn’t great. But then he started practicing with a pitchback. I sat off to the side, trying to distract him, and every time he looked at me, I threw something at him, reminding him to focus on what he was doing. We spent hours in his backyard, him pitching, me trying to distract him. And the days I stood in as the batter, setting up the tee with a ball on top that he had to try to knock off—ball-to-ball contact—I wiggled around, said stupid things, did anything to distract him. At first, it worked. But then his focus narrowed and no matter what I did, it didn’t matter—he hit his location every time.

I knew he was going to be great, so it wasn’t a surprise when the Rebels drafted him. It was as if the movie of his life, something I’d been watching for years, was finally full circle. And I’d had the front-row seat to watch it unfold.

That attention hasn’t wavered.

I also understand why the Rebels fans love him so much. Everything about Maddox screams rebel from the dark scruff that lines his square jaw to the intensity in his eyes, to the way he wears his jersey, the top button undone, flashing his tight undershirt with his every movement.

He’s commanding, an alpha out on the mound, intimidating with his staredown and the unleashed force of his body as he pitches the ball forward. There’s no question: he’s one of the best.

“Strike three,” the announcer says, ending the inning.

I watch intently as Maddox ducks his head and slowly walks off the field, glove tucked against his thigh.

I shovel some popcorn in my mouth, trying to avoid the drool that wants to escape from the impressive power in his quads. Yowzer, look at those things.

Wow . . . just . . . wow.

The camera follows him into the dugout where he hops up on one of the benches and rests his arms on his legs, head bent forward. Tight shoulders, rippling forearms, thick thighs . . . Maddox is looking all man right now, a far cry from the noodle-like boy I grew up with.

Jason Orson walks up to him and they start talking. Jason must say something funny because Maddox cracks a smirk in his direction. A tiny lift of the corner of his mouth, a glint in his eye under the dark brim of his hat . . . oh hell.

I gnaw on my bottom lip as nerves twist and turn in my stomach. What is happening to me?

I spend a few nights with my best friend, a few consecutive conversations, and suddenly, I’m looking at him like a . . . like a . . . piece of tofu, freshly grilled with asparagus? I don’t look at Maddox like this. I don’t have thoughts about his lips and what they might feel like. I don’t consider running my finger along his jaw and down to his chest. And I certainly don’t think about the tattoos that weave over his body, meaning to each and every one of them.

But something’s happened to me. Something has tricked my brain into switching to lust mode and that crap needs to stop, especially before he gets back.