Page 123 of Third Strike Smitten

The weight of their support settles over me like a warm blanket, easing some of the tension in my chest. Maybe I don’t deserve it, but I’m grateful for it anyway.

“Now,” Brock says, standing and stretching, “how about we get you through a proper warm-up? Your arm’s going to be useless tomorrow if we don’t get some blood flowing through it.”

26

ISLA

Iwatch Killian’s fastball sail high and outside, missing Bishop’s glove by a foot, and my stomach drops to my knees.

“Ball four,” the umpire calls, and the runner trots to first base with a smirk that has me screaming internally at the television.

This is bad. This is really bad.

I sink lower on my barstool at The Alley Tap, the wood creaking beneath me as I try to disappear. Two innings in and Killian’s already walked three batters. His ERA is climbing faster than a rocket, and I know—I know—it’s because of me.

“Jesus,” Tara mutters beside me, her eyes glued to the screen. “He’s really off tonight, isn’t he?”

I can only nod, my throat too tight for words. The camera zooms in on Killian’s face, and even through the pixelated image on the bar’s old television, I can see the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows that only appears when he’s fighting his anxiety.

I did this to him.

“Maybe you should go to the game,” Tara suggests, nudging my elbow with hers. “He might play better if he knows you’re there.”

I shake my head, watching Killian’s shoulders slump as he walks off the mound after the inning ends. The camera follows him to the dugout, catching the way he slams his glove against the bench before sitting down alone, away from his teammates.

“I can’t,” I finally manage to say. “Not after what happened. He doesn’t want me there.”

Tara sighs, swirling her drink. “I know you didn’t ask my opinion but Sis, I’m going to give it to you anyway because I call total and complete bullshit. You know he’s probably beating himself up in that dugout.”

“Yeah. Because of me,” I tell her. I wince at the memory and the hurt in Killian’s eyes when I told him about the email I received. The new assignment I was given. That my time in Portland was over. I’ve replayed the moments over and over in my head at least a hundred times, wondering if I could have handled it differently. “You should’ve seen his face, Tara. Telling him I was leaving gutted him.” I lower my head. “It gutted me.”

“Girl, you know there’s an easy solution here, right?”

I turn my attention from the television to look at my roommate and best friend. And I sigh. “It’s not that easy.”

“The fuck it isn’t, babe.” She shrugs her shoulders and looks at me like I’ve just said the craziest thing. “You just…stay. You love him, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, but⁠—”

“Then you stay,” she says. “You call Betsy and you tell her you can’t do the New York gig and you either ask for something a little closer to home or you come back over to commercial flying. Any airline would be happy to hire you. You know that.” She raps her fingernails on the bar counter. “Ooor here’s another idea. You could tell Killian you’re madly in love with him, marry his ass and never have to work another day in your life.”

A laugh bursts out of me. Not because it’s a bad thought but because out of all the thoughts in my head right now, marrying Killian Haynes and living happily ever after, after the way our conversation went the other day, feels absurd.

“Right. Okay.” I tip my beer back and let the cool amber liquid slide down my throat. “Easy peasy.”

Tara shrugs. “Tell me what part is a lie?”

Before I have the chance to answer her, the bar door swings open, and Sutton Price walks in, scanning the room before landing on me with an expression I can’t quite read. She’s dressed in a pair of ripped jeans and a Portland Lagers baseball jersey, her hair hanging around her shoulders in beautiful waves. She makes her way over, sliding onto the stool next to me without invitation.

“Found you.”

“How did you know I would be here?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“I didn’t.” She nods toward the man polishing glasses behind the bar. “But you should know better than to come into the bar where I used to work. I have eyes in this place.” She nods toward the man behind the bar. “That guy right there is Cal. He owns this place. When I didn’t spot you at the game, I sent a message to a few friends I know. If you’re trying to hide, spoiler alert…you’re not doing a very good job.”

Great. Even the bartender is in on this intervention. I slump further on my stool. “I assume that means you know what happened.”

“Every excruciating detail.” She says. “You really did a number on him. He’s flailing on that mound today.”