Page 22 of Third Strike Smitten

My life falling apart.

…We’ve also included a plus one for this event. Should you need more than just one extra ticket, please let me know and I’ll make sure your wishes are accommodated…

I close the email and stare out the window of my hotel room. The Chicago skyline stretches before me, a sea of lights against the night sky. It’s beautiful, but I’m not really seeing it. My mind is back in that hospital room, the smell of antiseptics and the constant beeping of machines.

I should be flattered. They want me to speak because I’m a “success story.” I can walk now, even if it’s with a limp. I can run, though not like I used to. I can live a relatively normal life even though everything about my life changed that day.

I know what they want. They want the inspirational version. The one where I overcome tragedy through sheer determination, where I smile through the pain and make everyone believe that if they just try hard enough, they too can overcome their “mobility challenges.”

They don’t want the real version. The one where I screamed into my pillow every night for months. Where I punched walls and broke things and told my mother I wished I had died instead. Where I still sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, certain I can feel my legs being crushed all over again. No one wants to hear that. So, am I really a success story? Or am I just someone who got lucky enough to recover most of what I lost?

“Don’t take life too seriously, Isla. Like it or not, you’ll never get out of it alive anyway.”

That’s what my dad used to say when he saw how hard I would study for organic chemistry or molecular biology. It was my dream to be a doctor. A surgeon. I knew when I was ten years old that I wanted to save lives and be loved and adored by everyone I saved. I wanted to be everyone’s favorite doctor.

But sometimes life hands you big fat fucking lemons and it takes forever to learn how to make enough lemonade to just…survive.

“Okay, Isla. Enough of the dark and heavy,” I scoff as I stare at my reflection in the window. I pocket my phone and consider going downstairs for some dinner since I napped through the normal dinner hour. My stomach has been rumbling since the end of the game I caught online. I could probably order room service but it’s late enough after the game that I imagine most of the players will have gone to bed since they play one more time tomorrow. Not having to pretend to be my usual chipper self on a day where I just don’t have the energy would be really nice. I know I just need to get out of this room and look at something different for a while, so I grab my keycard and quietly head to the elevator, making my way down to the bar. It’s much quieter here tonight than it was last night. I grab a small booth toward the back wall where I can still see out into the hotel lobby area and order myself a burger and a glass of wine.

As I take my first sip, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I’m tempted to ignore it but something makes me pull it out anyway. It’s a text from Tara.

Tara

Just checking in. How’s it going with the baseball boys? Have you kissed Killian yet?

I roll my eyes but can’t help the small smile that forms.

Me

No kissing. No making out. No hand-holding. No nothing. We had drinks with the team last night. That’s it.

Tara

Drinks? Plural? Girl, you know that’s step one in the baseball player seduction playbook.

Me

There is no playbook. We just talked. He’s actually kind of…different than I expected.

Tara

Different how? Like, serial killer different or actually-a-nice-person different?

Me

The second one. And before you get any ideas, it doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for anything and he’ll be a distant memory by October.

Tara

Uh huh. Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.

I lock my phone and set it face-down on the table, taking another sip of wine. My burger arrives, and I’m halfway through it when I hear a familiar voice.

“What’s the matter, Coach? Did the vending machine deny you your entire dinner this time?”

I look up to find Killian Haynes standing beside my table. My stomach performs a complicated dance, like a flock of birds suddenly startled into flight. I clock his gray sweatpants that hang off his hips and a plain black T-shirt that stretches across his pecs in a way that should be illegal.

His hair is still a tiny bit damp from his post-game shower, dark strands curling slightly at his temples. He’s wearing the same dark rimmed reading glasses he had on last night, which somehow makes him even hotter. Less untouchable baseball god and more exhausted man trying to survive another day in the spotlight, but still…there’s something about a man in glasses that I find wildly attractive.