Page 118 of Third Strike Smitten

The apartment feels different without Killian in it. Quieter, emptier, the silence pressing in from all sides. I can still smell him on the sheets, on the pillow, on the air itself. His presence lingers in every corner of this space, a ghost I can’t outrun no matter how fast I go.

I should get up. I should pack. I should call the airline and confirm my assignment details. I should do all the practical, sensible things that need to be done when you’re about to upend your entire life. Instead, I curl into a ball on Killian’s side of the bed, pressing my face into his pillow. His scent envelops me and I breathe it in like it’s oxygen. Like I’m drowning and this is the only thing keeping me alive.

The tears come again, hot and relentless, soaking into the pillowcase and I let them fall.

I cry for everything I’m losing.

And for everything I’m too afraid to keep.

25

KILLIAN

The ice pack on my shoulder does nothing for the ache in my chest.

I stare at the blank wall of the clubhouse, the familiar scent of leather and sweat doing nothing to ground me. My arm throbs from overworking it, but it’s a welcome distraction from the hollow feeling that’s taken up residence behind my sternum. Our final game of the season is tomorrow, and I can’t focus on anything except the empty seat where Isla used to sit when she would hang out in here.

“Haynes.” Coach Daniels’ voice cuts through my thoughts. “You’ve been staring at that wall for ten minutes. You gonna tell me what’s going on with you, or should I just assume you’ve developed a sudden interest in drywall?”

I peel the ice pack off my shoulder and toss it into the bin. “Nothing’s wrong. Just tired.”

“Bullshit.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his expression softening. “You haven’t been yourself since you got here this morning. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been in here for two hours already, throwing until your arm’s about to fall off.”

I shrug, wincing as the movement sends a sharp pain through my overworked muscles. “Last game of the season. I’ve got to get us into the playoffs.”

“Right.” Coach Daniels doesn’t sound convinced. “Why do I have the sneaking suspicion that your mood has something to do with your girl?”

The mention of her sends a fresh wave of pain through my body. “What about her?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Haynes.” He pulls up a chair and sits across from me, his expression unreadable. “The whole team’s noticed she hasn’t been around for a few days. And you’ve been a walking ghost ever since.”

I scrub my hand over my face, the stubble rough against my palm. “She has her own life. It was always temporary.”

He chuckles softly and I swear to God I want to punch him in his goddamn face. “Temporary, huh?”

“Yep.”

He folds his arms over his chest, studying me with those sharp eyes that have seen through every lie I’ve ever told. “Then why do you look like someone kicked your dog?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t have a dog.”

“Exactly my point.” He sighs, rubbing his jaw. “Look, I’m not here to pry into your personal life. But I need my ace pitcher focused for tomorrow’s game. The playoffs are on the line, and right now, you’re about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Coach.”

“You want confidence? Earn it, Son.” He stands, clapping a hand on my shoulder, my good shoulder, thankfully. “Get your head straight. Whatever’s going on with Isla, figure it out. Right now, I need you locked in.”

He walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the dull throb in my arm. I know he’s right. I know I need to focus. But every time I try to think about pitch sequences or batting lineups, my mind drifts back to Isla. Back to the moment she looked at me with tears in her eyes and told me she loved me but wouldn’t commit to staying with me.

If she loved me, she would stay.

I grab another ice pack from the bin and press it against my shoulder, the cold biting into my skin. The physical pain is easier to handle than the emotional one. At least I understand why my arm hurts.

“Bro.” Bishop’s voice pulls me from my thoughts as he pushes through the clubhouse door, Carter, Brock, and Alaric walking in behind him. “We need to talk.”

“Not now, Hop,” I mutter, not looking up.

“No. Now,” he demands. “Right fucking now.” Carter shuts the door once they’re all in and they cross the room, dropping into the chairs around the room. “What the hell is going on?”