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.”