Page 102 of Third Strike Smitten

Three more years in Portland.

Three more years with my brothers.

Three more years where Isla might⁠—

“I’d be a fool not to lock you down,” Marcus continues, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “You’ve been the heart of this team for a while now, but lately? You’ve been the soul of it too. You and Isla both.” He chuckles. “It seems she’s good for the whole team.”

I swallow hard, my eyes instinctively finding Isla across the room. She’s deep in conversation with Eleanor and a group of women, her hands gesturing animatedly as she speaks. The gold bracelet I gave her catches the light with her every movement.

“Thank you, Marcus,” I manage to say, my gaze still fixed on her. “I appreciate the confidence.”

He follows my line of sight, a knowing smile playing at his lips. “She’s good for you, Haynes. Don’t fuck it up.”

Don’t fuck it up.

As if it’s that simple. As if I haven’t already complicated things beyond repair by falling in love with a woman who’s only supposed to be temporary.

“I won’t,” I say, though I’m not sure I believe myself.

After dinner, Isla is introduced to the crowd and given a warm reception. Before she stands and makes her way to the podium, I lean over, kiss her temple, and whisper in her ear, “I believe in you, Coach. Knock’em dead.”

She gives me a nervous glance so I stand to help pull back her chair, and once she’s on her feet, I kiss her once more and vow, “And when your speech is over, I’ll spend the rest of this night with my face between your legs until you’re coming so hard you forget your own name.”

That puts some color into her cheeks and a wide smile on her face as I escort her to the front of the room. The crowd applauds as she makes her way up the steps of the stage, her limp only slightly evident as she walks to the podium.

“Good evening,” she starts as she sets her iPad on the podium in front of her and then looks out at the crowd. There’s so much pride in my soul for her right now I can’t help but tear up just looking at her.

My girl.

My Isla.

“My name is Isla Fallon, and eight years ago, I died for thirty-seven seconds. The doctors told me I was lucky. My family told me I was brave. Strangers told me I was strong. But the truth is I don’t feel any of those things right now. The truth is, I feel like a fraud standing up here, pretending to have some profound wisdom about survival when most days I’m just trying to figure out how to keep moving forward.”

She clears her throat. “People hear my story and they imagine courage. They imagine determination. They imagine some movie-worthy moment where I looked death in the face and decided to fight.” She shakes her head. “But that's not how it happened.

The crowd becomes eerily quiet as they listen to Isla speak.

“On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, as I was driving back to college with my dad, a car hydroplaned and crossed the center line, pushing my car off the road and down a hill where I remained for nearly two days. Before I had even realized what was happening, there was metal hitting metal and glass exploding everywhere.” Isla shrugs as she looks out at the crowd sitting captivated by her every word.

You could hear a pin drop in here right now.

“One second I was laughing with my dad about a song on the radio and the next…I couldn’t feel my legs.”

An audible gasp comes from the guests as they listen to Isla’s story. And my stomach churns at the mere thought of her being in pain and being afraid.

“I remember the smell of gasoline,” she tells us. “And I remember screaming at the top of my lungs for help but nobody would answer.”

Fuck.

“I remember looking over at my father and not understanding why he wasn’t asking me if I was okay.”

Isla glances down. The quick swipe at her cheek tells me she’s crying. “And I remember him telling me he loves me more than all the stars in the sky before he took his last breath.”

She sniffles as the room sits in silence, several people reaching for tissues or holding hands with the person next to them.

“That's the part people don't like to talk about,” Isla says into the microphone, standing a bit taller now. “The part where survival isn't beautiful because it’s anything but. It's ugly and it’s terrifying and it’s lonely. It's lying in a hospital bed wishing you could trade places with someone who didn't get the chance to come home and it's waking up every morning and wondering why you were the one who lived.”

Oh, Isla.