Page 122 of Third Strike Smitten

Carter finally speaks up first. “And what if she’s trying to do that right fucking now?”

The resistance band goes slack in my hands. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if she’s sitting somewhere right now, trying to figure out how to tell you she’s staying?” he continues, his voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “What if she’s scared shitless, but she’s still holding onto that key because it means something to her?”

I shake my head, doubtful. “She would have said something by now.”

“Would she?” Bishop asks, stopping me in my tracks. “Or would she be afraid of saying anything now because you literally walked out on her?”

“I—”

“You didn’t want to hear it, Kill. You weren’t brave enough to see the conversation through, so you got mad and left her sitting there alone in your apartment. She was alone. The one thing she’s afraid of being and you left her there. Because you were afraid.”

The accusation stings because it’s true. I left before she could reject me. I took away her chance to choose because I was too afraid of what her choice might be.

The silence in the clubhouse feels heavy, suffocating. My teammates stare at me, waiting for some kind of response, but I can’t form the words. Bishop’s accusation is an undeniable truth.

I left her alone.

I left Isla—the woman who told me she was afraid of losing everything—sitting by herself in my apartment after I’d just poured my heart out to her.

“Fuck,” I swear, dropping the resistance band. It hits the floor with a dull thud that echoes in the quiet room.

Carter steps closer, his expression uncharacteristically gentle. “She didn’t walk away from you, Kill. You walked away from her.”

My throat tightens painfully. “I told her I wouldn’t chase her.”

“Because you were scared,” Bishop says, not unkindly. “Same as her.”

I try to block out the image of Isla’s face when I said those words. The hurt in her eyes. The way her shoulders slumped like I’d physically pushed her away.

“I need to call her,” I mutter, reaching for my phone in my back pocket.

Bishop puts his hand on my wrist, stopping me. “Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet?“

“You’re going to fuck it up if you call her right now,” Bishop says, his voice low and steady. “You need to think about what you’re going to say—don’t just react.”

I pull my hand back from my pocket, frustration bubbling in my chest. “I need to talk to her, Hop. I need to fix this.”

“You also need to pitch a winning game so we can get ourselves into the playoffs,” Carter reminds me, his tone firm. “The team needs you focused on that first.”

“Fuck the team,” I mutter, though the words taste bitter in my mouth and I don’t mean them at all. “I need to find Isla.”

Brock laughs. “You can do both, dumbass. Pitch your game, then go find your girl. Besides, there’s no way she’s not coming to the game. She’s been at almost every one.”

Alaric nods in agreement. “Brock is right. The season’s not over yet, Kill. We need you locked in for tomorrow. In the meantime, you’re giving Isla space to figure out what she truly wants. Just keep reminding yourself she has your key. She has it. She didn’t leave it. It’s with her.”

I stare at the floor, my mind racing. They’re right. I have a responsibility to the team, to my brothers, to myself. But the thought of Isla being somewhere out there, thinking I don’t care enough to fight for her, makes me feel like absolute shit.

“Fine,” I finally say, though the word feels like sandpaper in my throat. “I’ll pitch tomorrow. But after that, I’m going after her.”

Bishop nods, a hint of approval in his eyes. “That’s all we’re asking. One game. Then you can go be the lovesick idiot we all know you are.”

“Thanks for the support,” I mutter, but there’s no real bite to it.

Carter claps me on the shoulder—the good one—and squeezes. “We’ve got your back, Haynes. Always have.”