“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 took 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?”