Page 63 of Third Strike Smitten

“I’d have to know what I was chickening out of first,” I say, still trying to process that my girlfriend—fake or otherwise—organized this whole thing, whatever it is, for me. “I still don’t know what I’m doing here. Did you know about this?”

“Of course.” Shepherd’s grin softens into something quieter, more serious. “Who do you think she called first?” He watches Isla for a moment, the way you watch something you don’t want to look away from. “She wanted to know what you were like before, Kill. Before all the noise.” He turns back to me. “And she wants you to be able to remember too.”

Sebastian opens the back of his truck and pulls a tote down for Isla. She lifts the lid and then gives Seb a high five.

“Alright, Coach. Enough is enough. What are we doing here?” I ask a few paces behind Isla.

She giggles and then reaches into the tote, pulling out a large red plastic bat. “Whiffle ball!”

I chuckle as a goofy grin crosses my face. “What?”

“I planned a whiffle ball game,” Isla says, her green eyes dancing with mischief. “Just for you.”

I stare at the field where my teammates are standing around, laughing like they haven’t got a care in the world and suddenly something pulls taut behind my ribs, like a knot I didn’t know was there finally catching.

“You did all this? For me?”

“Don’t look so shocked.” She nudges my shoulder. “I’m capable of nice things, you know.”

“But why?”

She shrugs like it’s the easiest explanation. “I thought it might be nice to play without all the pressure for once. You know…give you a chance to remember who you are when people aren’t watching you.”

I stare at her, completely dumbfounded. She planned this. All of it. She got my brothers, my teammates, even Mackenzie with her catering truck, all here, just for me.

“Whiffle ball?”

The smile on her face is contagious. “Yeah. Because I wouldn’t stand a chance if we were playing baseball. Let’s be real, Haynesy.”

I take one look at the girl standing in front of me and can’t help myself. I close the distance in one step, my hand finding the curve of her jaw, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. I don’t think about who’s watching or what this looks like or whether it’s going to blow our cover. I don’t think at all. I just lean down and press my mouth to hers.

It’s nothing like the kiss at the stadium. That one was desperate, frantic, me grabbing onto something solid because I was drowning. This one is slow. This one is tender and deliberate as my mouth moves against hers. This one means something more than she could ever realize because Isla Fallon, with her bright red hair and her cute little freckles and her stupid beautiful optimism, looked at me and decided I was worth the effort, and that does something to me. She makes that small sound again—the one that’s been living rent-free in my head for weeks—and her fingers curl into the front of my shirt like she’s afraid I might pull away.

So, I don’t pull away. Instead, I let my forehead rest against hers, our breath mingling in the small space between us. Her eyes are still closed, those long copper lashes fanning across her cheeks, and I can feel her pulse hammering beneath my thumb where it still rests against her jaw.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the words feeling inadequate for what she’s given me.

“Of course.” She smiles up at me. “What are friends for?”

I huff out a laugh but lower my voice so only she can hear. “I think you know you’re more than just a friend, Coach. And I can’t believe I’m saying this…” I place my lips right by her ear and claim, “but I’m starting to really fucking like when you call me Haynesy.”

God, I want to kiss the adorable little smirk that appears right off her face as she confirms, “Noted.”

“So, you’re playing too then?” I ask, stepping back and taking her hand in mine.

“Hell yeah, I’m playing,” she says confidently as we walk toward the field. I notice the way she’s limping slightly and wonder how she’ll handle running the bases. “And so is everybody here.” She gestures to my teammates. “But there’s just one catch.”

Carter brings his hands to his hips listening to Isla as she speaks to the group. “What catch?”

“None of you can play the positions you’re used to playing.”

There are both groans and cheers of excitement throughout the group.

“Because, duh, that’s all you ever do,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “This game is about having fun. Remembering why you love playing. It’s not about being the best...or any good at all, really. So, you have to play a position you don’t get paid to play, and we’re not keeping score. We go until we’re tired.”

“Or until Haynes wins, obviously,” Alaric jokes.

“Which one?” Carter laughs. “There are literally four Haynes boys on the field right now.”