Page 5 of Third Strike Smitten

I shake my head more to myself than to her and then I turn away, heading for the dugout before I do something stupid like acknowledge any further that she just helped me get out of that inning…that she calmed my anxiety before I got myself removed from the game.

Not that I will ever admit it.

Bishop falls into step beside me, his catcher’s mask now dangling from his hand.

“That’s more like it.” He nods toward the stands where the redhead is still watching us. “Who the hell is that? One of your recent fuck buddies?”

“No idea,” I mutter, but I can’t help stealing another glance her way. She’s leaning back now, her lips around the straw of her cup, looking happy as hell as she laughs with the woman sitting next to her.

“Well, whoever she is, she just saved your ass.” Bishop bumps my shoulder with his. “You were about to spiral.”

“Fuck off,” I lie, even though we both know he’s right. The familiar tightness that had been building inside is gone now though, replaced by something lighter.

Probably relief.

“Yeah, okay.” Bishop rolls his eyes. “Just don’t get too distracted. We’ve got five more innings.”

“Five more innings,” I repeat, more to myself than to him.

When we reach the dugout, Coach Martinez gives me a curt nod. “Nice save, Haynes. Keep it up.”

I grab my water bottle and take a long swig, letting the cold liquid wash away the last of my tension.

“You gonna look for her after the game?” Bishop asks, leaning against the dugout railing next to me.

I shoot him a look. “For what?”

“You know exactly for what,” he laughs. “You owe her.”

“Bullshit. I owe that woman absolutely nothing.”

Though if she were to be hanging around later, I may be willing to play a round or two tonight if she asks nicely.

“Not to mention she’s probably married or spoken for or whatever weird shit girls are committed to these days. Now leave me alone,” I say, taking the iPad from Daniels so I can look over my past pitches. “I need to focus.”

“Sure you do.” Bishop’s chuckle and accompanying smirk tells me he doesn’t believe a word out of my mouth. “Just don’t let her get in your head again.” He shrugs. “Or…you know, fuck it, let her do all she wants with your head. It works for you.”

“She wasn’t in my head,” I lie, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re bullshit. That redhead had cut through my anxiety like it was nothing, her voice somehow slicing through the noise of my own thoughts. And now as I sit here watching Brock Adams take his place at bat, I wonder if the redheaded mystery girl will stay for the whole game.

2

ISLA

“You’re going to give that guy a complex,” my friend Tara says to me as she tosses a few Cracker Jacks into the air and catches them in her mouth.

“No way, I’m helping!” I laugh, adjusting my baseball cap. “Did you see him before? All stiff and overthinking every pitch. Now look at him. Besides, he looked like he needed someone to cut through all that pressure he was putting on himself,” I add, taking a sip of my beer. “Pitchers are such head cases. Sometimes these guys need to remember they’re playing a game, not performing brain surgery.”

Not that he needs my help. The man is a professional athlete, after all. But there was something about the way his shoulders loosened after my comments, like he’d been holding his breath underwater and finally surfaced. I thought I even caught a hint of a smile out there and that’s rare for Killian Haynes.

Tara raises an eyebrow at me. “To them it is brain surgery. If they don’t play well they don’t make the millions, and some of these guys are getting paid more money than we could ever see in a lifetime. Lucky bastards,” she mutters.

“Right.” I nod, sipping my beer. “Which is why it’s my duty as a baseball fan to help them get out of their heads so they can do their jobs lest they become poor and homeless like the rest of us.”

Tara rolls her eyes and laughs. “Girl, you are so not homeless. Just because you spend more time in the air than on land does not mean you’re a homeless bitch. It probably means you should never own a dog though…or plants.”

I don’t respond because she’s my best friend and knows exactly why I choose to spend my time in the clouds instead of on the roads. And she’s not wrong. I’m not homeless. We have a small apartment together close to the airport. It’s not much, but we don’t need much. We’re rarely ever home and when we are it’s only long enough to do laundry and eat real food before we’re taking off again. Tara and I have been friends since we attended school together to become flight attendants. Our first big job was working together for Patriot Airlines, the largest commercial airline in the country, but where Tara stayed on, I jumped to a private corporate company. Now I go wherever the airline is contracted to go. I’ve been on planes with celebrities, billionaires, and all kinds of rich corporate leaders wining and dining their newest clients.

Knowing not to push the issue of being at home, Tara changes the subject, gesturing to the Lagers dugout. “What would you do if he found out who you were and approached you about your heckling?”