Page 13 of Third Strike Smitten

“Killian,” I tell him with a soft chuckle. “Though maybe Bishop too, for all I know. I don’t always hear much about Bishop, but it’s no secret that Killian Haynes has an ego the size of Texas.”

Padrick leans over and adds, “I hear he’s got something else the size of Texas too.”

I choke on my drink. “Padrick!”

“What? It’s true. I hear the guys talk when they’re on the plane.” He shrugs, sipping his overpriced beer. “Plus, look at the guy. That man has a backside that deserves its own Instagram account.” He sighs. “He’s the total package.”

I nudge his arm with my elbow. “Well, if you think that highly maybe you should slide into his DMs.”

Padrick cringes and shakes his head. “Hell no. I mean, the man is hot as sin and I hear his dick is a pretty shade of pierced, but sadly he doesn’t play for my team.” He wags his brows and smirks as he takes another sip of his drink. “But you, on the other hand…”

I laugh at his insinuation. “Right. Okay. I’ll get right on that.”

“Yes! Get it girl! Ride that cowboy and then tell me every detail!”

I cover his mouth with my hand. “I was kidding! Totally kidding. I am not sleeping with Killian Haynes.”

“Why not?” he asks with playful curiosity. “You’re telling me if he came up here right now and offered himself up to you, you wouldn’t partake?”

I roll my eyes at Padrick’s ridiculous question. “That’s not even⁠—“

“Because I think you would,” he continues, ignoring my protest. “And I think it would be fucking hot.”

“Padrick, stop.” I laugh, pushing his shoulder. “He’s a professional athlete. I’m his flight attendant. That’s an HR nightmare waiting to happen.”

He smirks at my answer and shakes his head. “Oh, you poor naive Isla.”

“What?”

“Did you forget that your life is no longer in commercial airline companies? You work the private corporate flights now, and they don’t care who fucks who as long as the job gets done.”

“Okay.” I concede. “But that doesn't mean the Lagers organization is okay with it. I would never jeopardize someone’s job like that. I’ve been watching Killian play for years. I respect his game way too much to get in the way of that. I’ll keep to heckling him into better pitches.”

After the game—a solid 5-2 victory for the Lagers—Padrick and I make our way back to the hotel where the team is staying. Within a couple hours the lobby is buzzing with players and staff, and I’m not even halfway across when I spot Brock Adams waving me down.

“Hey, Grandma’s wheelchair!” he calls out, his face breaking into a grin. “That was a good one.”

My cheeks warm as Brock approaches with two other players, Alaric Vos and Carter Lewis. “That was some of the best heckling we’ve heard yet.”

“Brock’s not kidding,” Alaric says with a shake of his head. “Haynesy hasn’t shut up about it since we left the clubhouse.”

“Is that so?” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret the eagerness in my voice.

“Don’t get too excited,” Carter says with a laugh. “It was mostly him grumbling about ‘that redheaded menace’ in the stands…as if he doesn’t know who you are.”

I grin, feeling a strange sense of pride. “So, I got under his skin? Mission accomplished.”

“You definitely did,” Brock confirms. “But in a good way. That last inning was his best all season.”

“Haynesy’s going to owe you a drink after that performance,” Carter adds with a wink. “You basically coached him through that game.”

I can’t help but laugh at the thought. “I don’t think Killian Haynes would ever admit he needed coaching from anyone, let alone a flight attendant who teases him from the stands.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Alaric says, his expression turning serious. “He was a different pitcher after your comments. We all saw it.”

Before I can respond, the elevator doors open and the man himself steps out. Killian’s gaze darts quickly around the area before his eyes lock onto me, and when they do, my heart does this weird little stutter-step in my chest. He’s changed out of his uniform, obviously, and into dark jeans and a simple gray T-shirt that somehow makes him look even more dangerous than he did on the mound.

“Speak of the devil,” Padrick states, as Brock clears his throat loudly.