Page 117 of Third Strike Smitten

Go.

Love.

Run.

“I don’t know what to do, Killian. I’ve never done this before. I don’t think I can⁠—”

“Then don’t make a decision right now,” he tells me. He lifts the key off the bed and places it in my palm, wrapping my fingers around it. “Keep this.”

“But Kill⁠—”

“You will always have a home here, Coach. Whatever you decide, this will always be home for you, because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there will never be another person in this life for me but you.”

He lifts from his knees and cradles my face, kissing me so gently it breaks me open. His thumbs move across my cheeks, catching tears as fast as they fall. When his lips leave mine, I have to press my hand to my sternum just to make sure my heart is still inside my chest where it belongs.

“I love you so goddamn much, Coach.” His voice is wrecked. “So, keep this key. And no matter what you’re thinking about, whether you decide to stay or if you decide to go, you’ll know I want you here. I will always want you here.”

I hold the key in my palm; its weight heavier than it should be. I know he desperately wants me to tell him I’m staying, but I can’t give him that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“I’m so sorry, Killian.”

For what? I’m not sure.

For loving him?

For hurting him?

For agreeing to our initial arrangement in the first place.

Something shifts in his expression, a subtle hardening, a wall going up. He nods once, then stands, putting distance between us.

“It’s okay. Take all the time you need,” he says, his voice carefully neutral now. “But Isla?” He pauses, his jaw working. “If you leave…I won’t…I won’t chase you.” He blinks quickly and stares at the ceiling for a moment. “I just…I can’t.”

He can’t.

Killian’s words are heavy and final. He turns away from me, his shoulders rigid beneath the damp skin I’ve traced so many times with my fingertips.

“Killian,” I beg, my voice breaking on his name. “Please don’t⁠—”

“Don’t what?” He doesn’t turn around as he grabs clothes from his dresser, his voice carefully controlled despite the tremor I can hear beneath the surface. “Don’t set a boundary? Don’t protect myself from being destroyed when you walk out that door?”

The key burns in my palm, its edges digging into my skin. I should set it down. I should give it back. But my fingers refuse to unclench, holding onto this tiny piece of him like it’s the only thing keeping me anchored to this moment.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” I say, though the words taste like ash in my mouth.

He laughs, a sound so devoid of humor it guts me. “Yeah, well, you’re doing a pretty good job of it anyway.” He pulls on his boxers and a pair of shorts, grabs a T-shirt and a clean pair of socks. “I’ve got to get to the field.”

And with that he walks out of the room. And when his front door closes with a soft click, it somehow sounds more final than any slam ever could.

Though the clock on the nightstand tells me it’s only been seven minutes, I sit on the edge of the bed for what feels like hours sobbing. Seven minutes since Killian walked out. Seven minutes since I watched the man I love close himself off from me because I was too much of a coward to say the words that would keep him here.

The key digs into my palm, its edges sharp enough to leave marks. I open my hand and stare at it, this tiny, ridiculous thing that somehow holds the weight of everything I’m about to lose. The baseball charm catches the light, winking at me like it knows something I don’t.

I press my hand to my sternum again, feeling the erratic hammering of my heart beneath my palm. It’s still there. Still beating.

Still mine.

For now.