Page 74 of Third Strike Smitten

“Yeah. Of course.” I back out of the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind me. “I’ll be right out here.”

I lean against the wall outside the bathroom, running a hand through my damp hair. My heart is still racing and my body is still wound tight with desire that I have no business feeling right now. The image of Isla in that black lace bra is seared into my brain, and I know it’s going to haunt me for days.

“Motherfucker,” I mutter under my breath, pressing my forehead against the cool wall.

The bathroom door opens a few minutes later, and I straighten up, trying to look casual. Isla emerges in my T-shirt, the fabric hanging past her thighs, the collar slipping off one shoulder. My boxer briefs hidden beneath the shirt. She looks small and vulnerable and so fucking beautiful it makes my whole body ache to hold her, comfort her, protect her.

“You look adorable in my shirt, Coach,” I tell her, trying to be cool, calm, and collected. “Feel better?”

She nods. “I definitely feel cleaner, yes.”

“Good. I’m just gonna hop in the shower and get myself cleaned up. Then how about I order some food and we can take it easy for the night, huh? Get comfy and watch some horrible television until we pass out. I’ll get you some painkillers and more ice to help keep that swelling down too.”

She smiles, though it’s not that full megawatt smile I’m used to. “I think that sounds nice.”

In the bathroom, I strip off my wet boxer briefs and step into the shower, turning the water as cold as I can stand it. The shock helps, but not enough. I’m still painfully aroused, my body refusing to cooperate with my better judgment. I squirt some body wash into my palm and then wrap it around my cock, my other hand gripping the shower wall as I jerk myself off to thoughts of Isla’s body against mine, her breath against my neck, her hands in my hair. It doesn’t take long—I’m already wound so fucking tight—and when I finish, I press my forehead against the wall, guilt and relief warring inside me.

“Fucking hell,” I sigh, my words barely audible over the running water.

I finish my shower quickly, the cold water helping to clear my head. By the time I’m dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, I’ve managed to get my body back under control, even if my mind is still a mess. Grabbing my phone from the counter, I take a minute to order some food and when I emerge from the bathroom, Isla is sitting on the edge of my bed, her legs dangling over the side. The sight of her there, in my space, wearing my clothes, does something to my emotions that I’m not ready to examine.

“Food’s on the way,” I tell her. “I got us a bunch of chicken strips and French fries. Something easy so you won't have to work too hard. Oh, and some chocolate chip cookies because it’s a sin not to have cookies.”

“Perfect,” she says, watching me with those bright green eyes that seem to see right through me. “You didn’t have to order so much, though.”

“I know you didn’t eat at the park.” I sit down beside her, careful to leave enough space between us. “You need to eat something.”

The food arrives twenty minutes later, and I set everything up on a tray in the middle of my king-sized bed. Isla settles beside me, tucking her legs underneath her, my T-shirt riding up slightly to reveal the hem of my boxer briefs. I force my eyes away, focusing instead on the television remote.

“What do you want to watch?” I ask, flipping through channels.

“Something that doesn’t require thinking,” she says, taking a bite of a chicken strip. “My brain is too tired for anything complicated.”

I land on a reality show about people trying to figure out who the murderer is among them. The contestants are already bickering about who gave someone the marble chalice that is obviously a telltale sign. “Perfect,” I say, setting the remote down. “Mindless entertainment.”

Isla laughs, the sound warming me from the inside out. “Oh, I love this show. Did you see the last season where the comedian cries at the end because he feels so bad for deceiving everyone?”

“Oh yeah! The guy who murdered his best friend. Yeah, that was brutal.”

We fall into an easy rhythm, eating and watching the show, occasionally commenting on the contestants’ poor decisions. The tension from earlier slowly dissolves, replaced by something comfortable and familiar. It feels like we’ve been doing this forever. I’m hyperaware of Isla beside me, the warmth of her body, the way she tucks her feet under her thigh, the subtle scent of my soap on her skin. She’s wearing my clothes, sitting in my bed, and the domesticity of it all hits me like a fastball.

“For what it’s worth,” I say during a commercial break, “I really do appreciate everything you did for me today.”

She turns to look at me, her beautiful green eyes soft in the dim light of the television. “What do you mean?”

“For the whiffle ball game. For... all of it.” I gesture vaguely, not sure how to articulate what I’m feeling. “You didn’t have to do that. Organize all those people, get Mackenzie to cater, convince my brothers to show up.”

“I wanted to.” She shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just orchestrate one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. “It was just for fun. It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she says, but I can see in her eyes that she knows it was more than that.

“Not to me.” I set my plate down on the nightstand and turn to face her fully. “You know that, right? What you did today... It meant something to me.”

Isla’s cheeks flush slightly, and she tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear. “I just wanted to give you a night where you could remember why you love baseball. Without all the pressure, you know? No rules. No impossible standards.”

“You did that and then some.” I reach for her hand without thinking, my fingers wrapping around hers. “I haven’t had that much fun playing in years, so thank you.”

She squeezes my hand back, her fingers warm against mine. “You’re welcome, Killian.”

The way she says my name—soft, almost reverent—makes my heart constrict. I find myself studying her face, the way the television light plays across her features, highlighting the angry bruise on her cheek. All this pain she went through today and yet she still finds the humor and the joy in life. She’s nothing short of amazing, really.