I grumble something I can’t even make out and then shield my eyes as I turn over in bed. My jeans are still on, as well as my shirt from last night. My face is aching with pain I’m welcoming at the moment, and my retinas nearly melt into my eye sockets from the sun shining through the hotel windows.

“What . . . the . . . fuck?” I ask, shielding my face and trying to sit up as my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton and my head spins like I’m on a Tilt-A-Whirl.

“I would keep a six-foot radius from the beast, boys,” Lincoln says, waving a bat in front of me. “Boy didn’t brush his teeth last night. I’m sure his breath could peel the skin off your face.”

I sit up and rub my eye, except that’s the eye that’s throbbing. “Ahhh, shit,” I cry out, gripping my head.

“Yeah, you have a shiner. I suggest you wear some makeup today on the mound.”

Fuck, am I really pitching today? All the days on this away trip have melted together.

“We brought you food,” Jason says. “Not going to lie, dug into the croissants and jam while you were drooling on your pillow.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. “If this is an intervention, I’m not interested.”

“Not an intervention,” Lincoln says, handing me a drink concoction that I can only assume is a hangover cure. I take it down in one large gulp and let the immediate shiver rock up my spine as I cough a few times, the burning in the back of my throat unexpected. “Threw in a little extra Tabasco sauce for being an idiot last night.”

I stand from the bed and all three guys take a step back. I wobble on my feet and steady my breath as I try to make my way to the bathroom.

“If that’s it, I’m taking a piss and a long-ass shower.”

“That’s not it,” Cory says. “You’re going to be followed religiously until we get home, so you don’t make a dumb mistake like you almost did last night.”

“Drinking too much?” I scoff. “I’ll be fine on the mound.”

“We’re not talking about pitching,” Jason says, a serious tone to his voice. “Dude, you almost took a girl back to your room.”

I pause, my pursuit to the bathroom on hold as I turn toward them. “What?”

“Christ,” Lincoln says, head dropping back. “Maddox, you’re drinking is out of fucking control if you can’t remember that. Cleat chasers in the hall. You were steps away from taking one into your hotel room. The reason you have a black eye is because I punched you. It was the only way I knew how to stop you.”

I mull it over.

What would I have done if I woke up this morning with a random girl in my bed?

I shake my head. What the fuck would it have mattered?

I’m done too. You broke my heart, Maddox. You broke it into irreparable pieces.

Once Kinsley’s made up her mind about something, there’s no changing it. She’s tenacious. She’s so fucking strong-willed. I’ve known that for over twenty years, because in all that time, no matter what, she’s stayed by my side. My friend. My . . . everything. So, no matter what . . . she won’t change her mind now. And I hurt her physically. I saw her fear . . . of me. I’m done too. She’s done. It’s over.

It’s all over.

“Stay out of my business,” I say, before going into my bathroom and slamming the door. I turn the fan on to drown out their voices and lean against the sink, facing the mirror.

Once again, I stare down my refection. My eyes look even more sunken than before, now decorated in black and blue. Well, one of them is, and there seems to be no life to my face, as if overnight someone sucked any last ounce of my soul from my body, leaving me with a shell of a body.

Sick of my reflection, I flip on the shower, strip down, and then lean over the toilet, relieving myself as I lean against the wall in front of me.

Shit, I’m in pain.

I’m in no mood to pitch.

And I can feel a storm brewing over my head, ready to explode.

There’s a good chance it’s going to explode tonight, on the mound.

My mind is blank.

Completely blank.

The crowd erupts in cheers as we enter the third inning. I’ve given up two hits, no runs, and I’ve already pegged two guys. One by accident, one on purpose, because I fucking felt like it.

We’re up by two runs thanks to Cory’s massive bomb over the fence.

And even though I should be in the zone right now, I should be feeling good, going to my tunnel vision, I can’t focus.

I don’t see anything in my mind like I normally do.

There are no pictures of Kinsley laughing with that gorgeous smile. There are no images of Kinsley cuddled up on the couch with Herman. And the drawing I committed to memory of her naked, lying across my floor? It’s unreachable. I can’t focus on it, I can’t . . . fuck, I can’t remember it.

It’s driving me crazy.

Because there’s one image I keep picturing, one that’s haunting me over and over again.

Kinsley, in a yellow dress, on the floor, tears in her eyes . . . after I pushed her to the ground.

It churns my gut.

Heightens my self-loathing.

Ramps up my anger to the point that all I’m seeing is red. Red everywhere.

Batters are mere shadows, waiting for my wrath.

The fans are taunting, ramping up the rage pulsing through my veins.

And the alcohol I can still taste on my tongue from the shot I took before I walked out on the field, a ruthless reminder of how the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

The emotions, the fury, the loss of the best thing that ever happened to me? It’s colliding at once into a giant burst that pounds at the back of my eyes, throbs through what’s left of my soul. It’s building and building and building.

I need the release.

I need the pain.

I need to forget.

Staring Jason down, I set my hands, wind my arm back, and plunge forward off the mound, plunking the batter dead in the arm.

His bat is thrown.

“You want a piece of me,” he yells, and immediate relief washes over me as I go through the motions.

I toss my glove as he charges.

And when he reaches me, we tackle to each other. I hold my ground, punching him directly in the head. The crack of my fist to his jaw feels like an immense release I’ve been holding on to. When he pummels me in the ribs, I welcome the ripple of pain.

Fuck . . . finally.

This was exactly what I needed.

Just keep hitting me.

I deserve it all.

And then I can forget.

Forget it all.

Whack.

Chapter Twenty-Three

KINSELY

“Thank you for helping me move my things, Marcy,” I say as I set my bag down on the kitchen counter of my new living situation. “I really didn’t have a lot to move.”

“I know, but it’s never fun to move things yourself. And I wanted to make sure you were settled.”

I glance around the three-bedroom apartment I’ll be staying in for the next two months, counting my lucky stars. After Maddox shook me to my core, I went into work the next day, tried my hardest to keep it together, but failed miserably. Marcy found me crying in the corner of an empty kennel, clutching a broom to my chest. It was a low point for me. She helped me off the floor, took me to her office, and asked me what was going on. I then proceeded to have verbal diarrhea and tell her everything that happened with Maddox, how he ordered me to leave his apartment, and if I didn’t find a place to live soon, I’d have to leave the shelter. She patted my hand and said we’d figure something out.

That day, I packed up and moved into a pet-friendly hotel for a few days, something that bit into my savings, but I had to get out of Maddox’s apartment, away from his scent, from the memories, from all his things that kept triggering my empty heart to feel again. After two days at the hotel, Marcy told me about a foster parent who’s been wanting to spend time with their grandbabies in Germany—military family—but hasn’t been able to find someone to take care of the animals. Marcy offered up my help, given I needed a place to sleep, and I’m clearly good with animals.

And to be honest, it feels like an oasis from the mental anguish and absolute heartbreak I’ve been suffering through the last few days. Serene, with white walls and splashes of moss green, the apartment is beautifully decorated, giving me spa-like vibes. It has a beautiful view of Lake Michigan and it’s right across from a cute dog park called Wiggley Field, with plenty of walking trails.

For the first time in days, I can take a small breath and not feel like I’m slowly dying inside.

And the dogs I’m watching? Total dolls. Two chihuahuas named Taco and Bella, who unfortunately lost their parents in a car accident. They’re a little skittish, but they’ve taken to Herman immediately, hence the three of them snuggling on a dog bed together. I think of taking a picture of all three of them, one chihuahua under one of Herman’s floppy ears.

“How are you doing?” Marcy asks.

I refill the dogs’ water and shrug. “Not great. I try not to think about it, distract myself with other things.” Like dog photo shoot ideas.

“You know you can talk about it with me. I might be your boss, but I’m a human as well. I can tell when someone’s hurting.”