Page 100 of Third Strike Smitten

I clear my throat, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my perfectly tailored suit. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” she says, her voice firm despite the emotion in her eyes. “It’s everything.”

The weight of those words hangs between us, heavy with meaning. I want so badly to acknowledge it but fear this is not the right time. She’s nervous enough about what she has to do tonight. The last thing I want to do is make it worse for her.

“Ready to face the masses?” I ask, offering her my arm.

She takes it, her fingers curling around my bicep. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The drive to the venue is quiet, filled with unspoken tension. Isla stares out the window, her fingers playing with the bracelet, twisting it around and around on her wrist. I can feel the nervous energy radiating off her, and I wish I could take it away.

“Hey,”

“Hmm?”

I reach over and take her hand, lacing my fingers through hers. “You’re going to be amazing tonight.”

She gives me a weak smile, her thumb tracing small circles on my palm. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” I say with absolute certainty. “Because I know you, Isla. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.”

Her eyes glisten in the passing streetlights, and she squeezes my hand. “Thank you for being here with me tonight. I know you didn’t have to⁠—”

“Stop,” I interrupt gently. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

And I mean that with my whole heart.

The venue comes into view, a modern glass building that’s been transformed for tonight’s event. I can see the lights reflecting off the windows, the valets in their crisp uniforms, the first arrivals making their way inside. My stomach tightens with anticipation, but not the anxious kind I’m used to. This is different. This is about Isla, about being her support, her anchor.

And that job comes easily for me.

I pull up to the entrance and hand my keys to the valet, then circle around to open Isla’s door. She takes my offered hand, her grip firm despite the slight tremble I can feel in her fingers.

“You’ve got this,” I affirm as I help her out of the car. She takes a deep breath and wraps her fingers tightly around my bicep. “And I’ve got you.”

As we approach the entrance, I notice the way people’s heads turn. It’s not just because I’m Killian Haynes, Portland Lagers’ star pitcher. It’s because Isla is absolutely radiant, commanding attention without even trying. The gold bracelet catches the light as she moves, a subtle reminder of what we share.

“Mr. Haynes!” A reporter materializes from nowhere, camera already flashing. “Can we get a photo of you and your date?”

“No, you may not,” I tell the cameraman. The crowd around us turns, looks of surprise and shock on their faces. “But you can get a photo of the amazing Isla Fallon and the man lucky enough to be her date.”

I pull Isla close to my side, my arm wrapped around her waist as we pose for a few shots. Isla’s smile grows more natural with each flash, and when the reporter asks about our relationship, I find myself saying things I never thought would come out of my mouth.

“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The moment we step inside, the noise hits us—the murmur of conversations, the clink of glasses, the soft music playing in the background. The room is filled with Portland’s elite, all dressed in their finest, mingling with drinks in hand. I spot several familiar faces from the sports world, including the owners of the Portland Lagers and Portland Rush.

Isla’s hand tightens on my arm, her knuckles turning white. I lean down, my lips brushing her ear. “Breathe, Coach. I’ve got you, I promise.”

She nods, her breath coming out shaky. “I’m trying.”

I squeeze her hand, keeping my voice low and intimate. “Want me to tell you what I’m thinking about right now?”

“What?”

“I’m thinking about how that slit in your dress is going to be my undoing all night long.” I let my fingers brush against the exposed skin of her thigh. “I’m going to be counting down every second until I can peel this dress off you later.”

A small laugh escapes her, and I feel the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. “You’re terrible.”