Page 126 of Third Strike Smitten

We move quickly, tossing bills on the bar and rushing toward the door. Cal waves at Sutton as we leave, a knowing smile on his face.

“Good luck!”

27

KILLIAN

The mound feels like quicksand beneath my cleats, and every pitch I throw sinks me deeper.

Four innings in.

Three walks.

Seven hits.

A hit batter.

My ERA is climbing faster than a rocket, and I can’t seem to find the strike zone if it had a neon sign pointing to it.

“You’re flying open,” Coach Daniels shouts to me. “Trust your stuff, Haynes.”

Bishop would tell me I’m overthinking, but he knows better than to say that to me right now. He knows better than to say anything to me tonight, thank Christ.

It’s not that I’m overthinking. I’m just not thinking about the game at all. I’m only thinking about her. I’m thinking about Isla’s empty seat and the lack of bright red hair along the first baseline.

She was supposed to be here.

I really thought she would be here. That above all else, she would come to the last game of the season. Even if she didn’t stick around to see me afterwards, I expected to hear her usual razzing when I hit the mound.

But it’s been unusually, eerily, fucking painfully silent.

I checked my phone in the clubhouse just in case, but there was nothing. No messages. No missed calls. Just the same blank screen that’s been staring back at me for several days. That’s what’s destroying my focus. Not the opposing team’s lineup. Not the pressure of making the playoffs. Just the gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be.

Isla is gone.

She chose New York over me.

She chose fear over love.

And even though my teammates seem to feel positive about the whole thing, that maybe there’s a chance for us, I just don’t feel it.

She chose not to fight.

So why should I?

I wind up for the next pitch, my arm feeling like it’s moving through molasses. Bishop’s giving me a target low and away, but my body won’t cooperate. My release point is all wrong, and the ball sails high and inside, nearly taking the batter’s head off.

“Time!” the umpire calls as the batter steps out of the box, shooting me a dirty look. I don’t blame him. I’d be pissed too if someone nearly took my head off because they couldn’t get their shit together.

Bishop jogs out to the mound, mask pushed up on his forehead, concern etched across his face. “Kill,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “You gotta lock in, bro. We need this game. You’re going to get pulled.”

“Maybe it’s for the best.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t do this, Kill. Don’t fucking do this right now. I know you’re hurting but we need you. The team needs you. I need you. And when this game is over and we’re on to the fucking playoffs, Isla is going to need you to be in a good headspace so the two of you can work everything out.”

I meet his stare under my ball cap, his words sinking into my soul. I nod, unable to form words past the lump in my throat. Bishop jogs back to home plate and gets back into his crouch, giving me a fresh target. I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head. I wind up again, focusing on Bishop’s glove, on the small white target he’s giving me. This time, my release point feels right, and the ball snaps into his mitt with a satisfying pop.

“Strike!” the umpire calls.