Page 75 of Third Strike Smitten

Once we’re done eating, I clear away the food and grab us both another bottle of water from the fridge. We go back to watching our television, laughing over the show’s strategy and analyzing the diverse cast. We’re silent for a few minutes until the next commercial comes on and when it does, I turn to ask Isla how she’s feeling only to find her out cold, leaning against one of the pillows. I stare at her for a moment, her lips slightly parted, her breathing a steady rhythm of deep sleep. The angry purple bruise on her cheek causes more guilt to twist in my gut again. But there’s something else there too, something warm and terrifying that I’m afraid to examine too closely.

She doesn’t stir when I reach over and gently brush a strand of hair from her forehead. Even with exhaustion etched into every line of her face, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “Come on, Coach,” I coo, sliding my arm behind her shoulders. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

She makes a small sound in the back of her throat but doesn’t wake as I reposition her down on the bed properly and pull the duvet from underneath her, tucking it around her shoulders. She curls onto her side, facing me, one hand coming up to rest near her chin. She looks so peaceful, so trusting, curled up in my bed wearing my clothes.

She’s perfect.

I move quietly around the room, turning off the television and most of the lights, leaving just the soft glow from the bathroom. My body still hums with desire, but it’s tempered now by something more tender, more protective. I watch her sleep from the other side of the bed and something inside me cracks open once again. It’s not just guilt or attraction or gratitude. It’s something deeper, something I’ve been trying to ignore since the moment I met her.

I care about her.

Not in the way I care about my brothers or my teammates. Not in the way I care about the game. This is different.

It’s also scary as hell.

I don’t know how to do feelings and I’ve never been very good at relationships, but where Isla is concerned…I think I wouldn’t mind trying.

“For you, Isla Fallon, I think I’d do just about anything.” I lean down and ever so softly kiss her temple.

“Good night, Coach.”

16

ISLA

Iblink against the morning light streaming through Killian’s floor-to-ceiling windows, my hand instinctively reaching for the warmth that should be there but isn’t. The sheets on his side of the bed are cold, which means he hasn’t been here for a while.

I sit up slowly, my cheek still throbbing with a dull, persistent ache and the memory of last night comes flooding back. The whiffle ball game, Killian carrying me to his car, the shower that was somehow both innocent and the most intimate experience of my life.

He didn’t kiss me.

He didn’t even try.

I remember waking sometime in the middle of the night and seeing him sprawled across the couch near the bed, his long legs dangling over the armrest. Even in sleep, he looked troubled, his brow furrowed, his lips moving slightly as if arguing with someone in his dreams.

But now the couch is empty too.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand so I grab it thinking maybe it’s Killian from another room. But it’s Tara’s name I see on the screen.

Tara

Hey! Checking in from Orlando. How are you feeling this morning? Still alive?

Me

Hey. Just woke up. Face still hurts but I think the swelling is better.

Tara

And how’s our favorite pitcher?

Me

Uh, not sure. He wasn’t in the bed when I woke up.

Tara

PAUSE. BACK UP. WASN’T IN THE BED? Are you telling me you two SLEPT IN THE SAME BED?? GIRL! I feel you are leaving out some major tea here!