Page 21 of Third Strike Smitten

“Just like that.” She pops another chip into her mouth, crunching loudly. “That’s the job, right? Always moving.”

Okay, I should go. I should definitely go back to my room and stop standing in this hallway. But I don’t.

“I think somewhere along the way baseball stopped being fun.”

What the fuck am I saying?

And why am I saying it to her?

The words hang between us. I watch her face for the moment she decides I’m unhinged, or worse, pathetic. That I’m just some overpaid athlete in a hotel hallway complaining about his dream job to a woman he barely knows. But Isla doesn’t laugh or step back. She just studies me for a moment, her head tilting almost imperceptibly, like she’s recalibrating something.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I get that.”

And I almost wish she hadn’t said it that way. It would be easier if she’d brushed it off, but the way she says it—quiet and certain, like she means it—lands somewhere I wasn’t expecting. I don’t talk about this kind of stuff. Not with Bishop, not with Shepherd or Sebastian. Not even with my actual coach.

She takes another step toward her room, then pauses, turning back to face me one more time. Her green eyes catch the dim hallway light, and for a second, I think she’s going to say something else about baseball or fun or whatever the hell I just dumped on her.

Instead, she gives me a small smile. “Hey, Haynesy?”

I look up, meeting her gaze. “Yeah?”

“You smiled more tonight.”

And before I can even form a response—before I can tell her she’s wrong or make some sarcastic comment to deflect—she disappears into her room, the door clicking shut behind her.

I stand alone in the hallway, staring at the empty space where she just was, the echo of her words hanging in the air.

You smiled more tonight.

And I mumble to myself, “Yeah. I think you might have something to do with that.“

6

ISLA

Inever thought a simple email could make me feel like I’ve been sucker punched. But there it is, sitting in my inbox like it belongs there, all bright and innocent and casually life-ruining.

Dear Ms. Fallon,

The Step Forward Foundation would be honored to have you as our keynote speaker at our annual fundraising gala on August 15th. As one of our most inspiring success stories, the story of your journey from catastrophic injury to where you are today serves as a beacon of hope for our current patients. We hope you will consider sharing your story with our supporters and donors…

I stop reading, because I know what comes next. My story. The one where I went from promising college athlete to broken body in a hospital bed, learning to walk again after the car accident that nearly killed me. The one where I had to relearn everything; how to stand, how to take a step, how to live with a body that would never be the same.

How to navigate my life knowing I was spared but my father wasn’t.

My phone feels heavy in my hands, like the weight of the words is somehow physical. I should be honored, I know. I should be thrilled. The Step Forward Foundation literally saved my life and gave me back the ability to walk when doctors said I’d be lucky to ever feel my legs again. They deserve my gratitude, and my time any time they ask for it.

But the thought of standing on that stage, spotlight on me, telling a room full of strangers about the worst part of my life…

My thumb hovers over the delete button. It would be so easy to pretend I never saw this. To continue flying above the clouds, serving drinks and snacks to wealthy baseball players, never having to face my past head-on. But something stops me.

Maybe it’s the memory of Dr. Flowers, who spent hours with me after her shifts ended, showing me exercises to help me walk again. Or maybe it’s the thought of the other patients I met during my time there. The ones fighting their own battles, the ones who, like me, wondered if life would ever feel normal again.

I sigh and continue reading.

...As our keynote speaker, you would be joining a select group of individuals who have inspired our community with their courage and determination. The gala is our primary fundraising event, with all proceeds supporting the expansion of our rehabilitation services for patients with mobility challenges…

My eyes catch on the words “mobility challenges.” Such a clinical way to describe what I went through. What I still go through sometimes. The doctors called it that too, a “mobility challenge” instead of what it really was.