Page 25 of Third Strike Smitten

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s quite the compliment, Haynes.”

He shrugs, suddenly looking uncomfortable with his own sincerity. “I’m just saying what I see.” He gestures to me with a half-eaten Reese’s Cup. “You’re one of those people who lights up a room without even trying.”

My cheeks warm at his words. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough.” He tears open a package of M&M’s, letting the colorful candies spill onto the table between us. “I’ve seen how you interact with the team, how you make everyone laugh even when they’re in a shitty mood. And I saw how you handled yourself at the game. You didn’t back down, even when I was giving you my best death glare.”

I can’t help but smile at that. “Oh. That’s what that was? I thought it was your ‘I’m constipated but trying to look intimidating’ face?”

Killian laughs, a genuine sound that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You call people on their bullshit and you do it in an amusing way.”

“And yet,” I sigh, “standing up in front of a room of strangers and telling them about the worst moment of my life feels impossible.”

He’s quiet for a moment, arranging his M&M’s by color like it’s the most important task in the world. When he looks up, there’s a renewed confidence in his stare.

“What if you didn’t have to do it alone?”

7

KILLIAN

“What do you mean?” she asks, tilting her head, her hair cascading over one shoulder.

I’ve never been this nervous about a conversation that doesn’t involve a contract negotiation. And yet here I am, sitting across from Isla Fallon in a hotel bar close to midnight, my heart pounding so hard I’m pretty sure she can hear it over the shitty background music. The M&M’s between us are arranged in a color-coded line like I’m some kind of candy psychopath, and I can’t stop fidgeting with the wrapper of a Reese’s Cup I’ve already destroyed.

“I mean, what if I went with you?”

She blinks, her wine glass paused halfway to her lips. “To the gala?”

“Yeah.” I grab another Reese’s Cup and tear into it, mostly to give my hands something to do. “As your plus-one. Then you wouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Isla sets her glass down carefully, like she’s afraid it might shatter. “Killian, you don’t have to⁠—“

“I know I don’t have to.” The peanut butter is sticking to the roof of my mouth, which is great because now I can’t backpedal even if I wanted to. “But I’m offering.”

She studies me for a long moment, her head tilted slightly to one side. “Why would you do that?”

I need to say it. I need to just open my mouth and say the words, but every time I try, my brain short-circuits because I know how fucking insane this is going to sound.

“So,” I start, then immediately stop because my voice comes out sounding like I swallowed gravel. I clear my throat. “Hypothetically speaking⁠—“

“Red flag number one,” Isla says, pointing an M&M at me. “Whenever someone says, ‘hypothetically speaking,’ they’re about to say something insane.”

“Fair.” I smile leaning back against the booth, trying to look casual even though I feel anything but. “Okay, not hypothetically. Actually speaking. I have a proposition for you.”

Her eyebrow arches. “A proposition?”

“Not like that.” I hold up my hands. “I mean, not the kind you’re probably thinking.” I try to keep my voice steady, but I’m pretty sure I’m failing miserably. “This is more of a...mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Isla’s eyes narrow, and she leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “I’m listening.”

I take a deep breath, mentally rehearsing the pitch I’ve been running through my head. “Look, I’m just going to be honest here. The front office is breathing down my neck. Harper—my agent—says they’re worried I’m burning out. That I’m too tense on the mound, too isolated from the team.”

“What?” She rears back. “Are they insane? You’re their star pitcher.”

I nod and finally say what really needs to be said because fuck it. I’m in this far. “Right. Their star pitcher who has panic attacks in the bathroom before games and severe anxiety on the mound.”

Her brows furrow as she studies me. I’m sure she’s waiting for me to laugh and say ‘just kidding’ so when I don’t, she quietly says, “Wait. Really?”