Page 14 of Third Strike Smitten

“Well, look who it is! The man of the hour.”

I feel a sudden rush of heat on my face. He’s got that look, the one that says he’s amused but trying not to show it. His dark hair is still slightly damp from the shower, and the gray T-shirt clings to his body in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

When he finally meets up with the group of us, he lifts a brow precariously and says, “Grandma’s wheelchair, huh?” His voice is low and rough. “Creative.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool even as my heart hammers against my ribs. “I aim to please.”

“Or annoy,” he corrects, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I bob my head, failing to hide my amusement. “Potato-potahto.”

The other players exchange glances, clearly enjoying this little standoff. Brock nudges Killian’s shoulder.

“You should buy her a drink, Haynes. She basically coached you through that game.”

Killian’s eyebrow arches. “Did she now?”

“I think it’s the least you could do,” Carter says, crossing his arms. “She put more effort into your pitching today than you did.”

Killian’s eyes narrow slightly, but I can tell he’s fighting a smile. “Is that so?”

“Don’t listen to them,” I say, waving a dismissive hand. “I was just having fun. No drink necessary.”

“Come on, Haynes,” Brock says, giving him a playful shove. “You wanted a drink anyway.”

Killian runs a hand through his damp hair, and I try not to stare at the way his bicep flexes with the movement. “Fine. One drink. But only because I found the ex’s photo comment to be exceptionally funny.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, are you actually admitting I helped you?”

“I’m admitting you were...distracting,” he says, his voice dropping to that low rumble that causes flutters in my stomach. He steps forward and nonchalantly wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, Coach. Let me buy you a drink.”

I nearly choke on my own tongue. His arm is warm and solid around my shoulders, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, something reminiscent of leather and bad decisions all rolled into one. Cedarwood with a hint of bourbon and something clean beneath it reminiscent of crisp white sheets. I see the allure in Killian Haynes. He’s a whole vibe that could make my head spin if I’m not careful. The other guys are watching us with matching grins, and Padrick looks like he might actually pass out from excitement.

“Killian, you really don’t have to—“ I start to protest, but he’s already steering me toward the hotel bar.

“You heard them,” he says, his voice low in my ear. “I owe you a drink.”

The hotel bar is dimly lit and surprisingly quiet for a post-game evening. Killian guides me to a set of tables on the far side of the bar, his hand now on the small of my back as the rest of the guys fill in behind us. When the waitress appears, Killian orders a beer and then motions to me saying, “And whatever my coach here desires.”

Heat rushing across my cheeks, I fight back a smile and tell her, “I’ll have the same. Thank you.”

“You gonna buy me a beer too, Haynesy?” Brock singsongs, smirking across the table.

“Not tonight, Pookie. I’m busy.”

Brock’s mouth drops open in mock offense as the rest of the table erupts in laughter. I catch Killian’s eye and find myself grinning back at him, surprised by how comfortable I feel in his presence.

“So,” he says, leaning closer, “how does a flight attendant become such an expert on pitching mechanics?”

I answer so quickly I barely register the words in my own head. “Years of watching you fail, mostly.”

He barks out a laugh. “Fair enough.”

“I’m kidding,” I admit. “I’ve always loved baseball. Grew up watching games with my dad.”

Something shifts in his expression, a softening around his eyes that makes him look younger, less guarded. “Yeah? What team?”

“I was born and raised in Portland so I’m a Lagers girl through and through. I’ve been a fan since I can remember.”