Page 12 of Third Strike Smitten

All three of them throw their heads back in laughter as Bishop pats my shoulder from between our seats. “Bro, you are so fucked.”

Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.

4

ISLA

“Your fastball has less zip than my grandmother’s wheelchair, Haynesy!”

I can’t help myself. The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them, and Padrick— my second flight attendant who I’ve dragged along to today’s game—covers his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“I can’t believe you just said that,” he hisses, peeking through his fingers at the field below us. “You’re going to get us kicked out.”

I grin, adjusting my Lagers cap. “Nah, they love this stuff. Keeps the players on their toes.”

It’s game one of the three-game series in Chicago, and Killian Haynes is on the mound, looking about as tense as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. His shoulders are practically touching his earlobes, and his jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised his teeth haven’t turned to powder.

“He looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm,” Padrick observes, taking a sip of his overpriced stadium beer.

“That’s because he is.” And it’s true. Killian looks like he’s carrying the weight of the entire franchise on those broad shoulders. His dark brows are furrowed in concentration, and I can practically see the tension radiating off him from here. I curve my hand around my mouth and shout, “Fun fact, Haynesy! Most people take a breath before pitching! Now throw that son of a bitch like your ex just posted engagement photos!”

There’s a low chuckle from the crowd around me as we watch Killian make his next pitch. The pitch sails wide, a ball, and Killian turns to glare in my direction. Even from here, I can see the storm brewing in his eyes. I give him a cheerful wave, my grin stretching wider. Something about getting under his skin excites me.

“Jesus, Isla,” Padrick whispers, tugging at my sleeve. “He’s looking right at you. And not in a ‘I’d like to buy you dinner’ kind of way.”

“Perfect,” I say, cupping my hands around my mouth again. “I see you looking, Haynesy! That’s called eye contact! Try it with your catcher sometime!”

The crowd around us erupts in laughter, and even Padrick can’t hold back his snort. I feel a rush of satisfaction watching Killian’s shoulders drop just a fraction, the tension easing from his posture.

“See?” I nudge Padrick with my elbow. “He needed that.”

On the field, Killian winds up again, and this time his pitch is sharp, cutting through the strike zone with precision. The batter swings and misses, and a small smile tugs at Killian’s lips as he turns toward our section.

“See?” I applaud, genuinely impressed. “When you stop overthinking, you become terrifying. I love that for us.”

“I can’t believe that’s actually working,” Padrick says, shaking his head in disbelief as Killian strikes out another batter.

Haynes glances my way again, and this time, instead of a glare, there’s a hint of something else in his expression. Almost like he’s fighting a smile. He shakes his head slightly before turning back to face the next batter, but something in that look—just for me, I think—settles somewhere behind my sternum.

“Sometimes they just need to remember they’re playing a game.”

“I think you’re getting to him,” Padrick says, leaning in close. “But not in the way you think.”

“What do you mean?”

He gives me a knowing look. “That man is not annoyed by you, Isla. He’s intrigued.”

I roll my eyes but can’t deny the little flutter in my stomach at the thought. I mean there’s no denying the man is hot but I’m quite certain I’m not at all his type.

“Nah. He’s just amused by my wit.”

The next few innings pass in a blur of strikes, hits, and more playful heckling. By the fifth inning, the Lagers are up by two and Killian seems to have found his rhythm. His shoulders are relaxed, and his pitches are hitting their marks with deadly accuracy.

“Can you believe we get paid to do this?” Padrick asks, fanning himself with the game program. “I mean, sure, we have to serve these Neanderthals drinks at thirty thousand feet, but then we get to watch them play baseball. Best job ever.”

“Don’t let Haynes hear you call him a Neanderthal. His ego might not recover.” I laugh.

“Which one?” He gestures to our team’s star pitcher, Killian, and then to his brother, Bishop, the team’s catcher.