Page 17 of Third Strike Smitten

I should be exhausted. It’s nearly midnight, we’ve got another game tomorrow, and I’ve been drinking for the past three hours. But instead of the usual weight that settles on my shoulders after a day like this, I feel surprisingly lighter.

Isla Fallon.

Her laugh echoes in my head as I cross the room, tossing my key card onto the dresser and running a hand through my hair. I liked how her eyes had lit up when she talked about baseball. The way she called me out with a smirk, seeing right through my bullshit intrigues me more than I care to admit.

I strip off my shirt and throw it in the general direction of the laundry bag, missing by a solid foot. Whatever. I’m too busy thinking about how Isla Fallon didn’t try to impress me. Not once. She wasn’t fawning over who I am. She just...treated me like a normal person, and for some weird reason, I don’t know what to do with that.

Nobody treats me like a normal person anymore. Not fans, not reporters, not even most of my teammates. They treat me like Killian Haynes, the pitcher, the headline, the contract. But Isla? She treated me like I was just some friend of hers at a bar. Some guy she could roast about his pitching form and his resting bitch face and the fact that I apparently look like a Victorian husband.

Whatever the fuck that really means.

I slip my glasses on, grab my phone, and drop onto the edge of the bed, scrolling mindlessly through my notifications. Nothing important. A text from Bishop asking if I made it back to my room, which I ignore because he’ll see I’ve read it and figure I’m alive. A few missed calls from numbers I don’t recognize, probably media requests I’ll deal with tomorrow. There’s a follow-up text from Harper Meers reminding me to “loosen up,” which I also ignore. But then my team group chat lights up.

Bishop

So, are we just going to ignore the fact that Kill smiled more tonight than he has all season?

Brock

I counted FOUR actual smiles. Not smirks. Not that weird grimace thing he does. I saw full-on teeth.

Carter

Five. There was one when she called him a Victorian husband that was DEFINITELY a smile.

Jude

I’m still recovering from the “only the pretty ones” line. Isla Fallon is a national treasure.

Alaric

She roasted his pitching and his personality in the same night. I want her at my wedding…or maybe my funeral. Was she sent here from God himself?

Layton

I think we should start a petition to keep her on as our permanent flight attendant. My pitching has never been better.

Paxton

You don’t pitch, Layton.

Layton

Details.

I roll my eyes and type back quickly.

Me

Fuck all of you. I was being polite.

Bishop

Since when are you polite?

Me

Since when do you pay attention to my smiles you creepy asshole?