Page 20 of Third Strike Smitten

I take a chip, surprised by the casual gesture. “Thanks.”

We stand there for a moment in comfortable silence, the only sound the crunch of our chips. She shifts her weight slightly and leans against the wall. I catch her rubbing her hip absentmindedly and for just a split second, I think about what it would be like to have those hips in my grasp.

“Nice sweatshirt,” I say, nodding toward the Lagers logo on her chest. “That’s the old classic logo. Before my time.”

She looks down and laughs. “Oh, this? Yeah, it was a gift from my dad back in high school. It’s kind of my go-to sweatshirt.” She shakes her head. “He’d be so excited if he knew what I was doing now.”

I note the past tense but ask anyway. “He’s not in the picture?”

Her face pales almost as if she forgot I don’t already know her story. She clears her throat and gives her head a tiny shake. “Uh, no. He died eight years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” That’s all I say about the matter because I’m not about to pry into her life at midnight in the middle of a hotel hallway.

“Thanks,” she whispers. The softness of her tone stabs at my heart and I’m hating myself for asking. Trying to save the moment and change the subject, I dip my hand into her bag of chips and steal one more, popping it into my mouth. “So, how long have you been a flight attendant?”

That seems to pull her out of her moment of reverie. “About six years now. Started with commercial flights but moved to private charters not too long ago. Which is how I ended up with the Lagers gig,” she continues. “Kind of a dream assignment, actually.”

“Yeah? You like flying with a bunch of baseball players?”

She crunches another chip thoughtfully. “Honestly? It beats the alternative. Last year I was flying with a hedge fund CEO who couldn’t remember my name for three straight months. Called me ‘Isabelle’ every single flight.”

I laugh. “That’s rough.”

“Right? At least you guys actually have personalities.” She pauses, then adds with a smirk, “Well, most of you, anyway.”

“Oh, is that supposed to be a dig? So, I don’t have a personality now? Did you not see me kick the machine like a fucking hero?”

She laughs. “Okay, so maybe you’ve got a little personality.”

I wipe a hand down my face, shaking my head. “You know, you might be the first person to ever say that some part of me is little. I don’t usually hear that from women.” I glance up at her. “In fact, you know, most people are a little intimidated when they first meet me.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Should I be?”

“Uh...” I chuckle at her sheer confidence. “I guess I don’t know how to answer that.”

She shifts her weight again, a subtle movement, and I wonder if she’s uncomfortable. “You okay?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah. Just a little stiff.”

“Injury?”

She takes a slow deep breath before she answers, “Something like that.” She smiles at me but it’s not like the smile she had earlier this evening. I know this look. It’s the smile and nod routine someone gives when they don’t want to talk about something. I know the look because I do the same thing every time I’m in front of a damn camera.

“Well, I should”I hitch my thumb over my shoulder—“let you eat your midnight snack in peace.”

She nods, looking almost relieved. “Yeah, thanks for the help with the chips.”

“Anytime.” I push off the wall and watch as she starts to walk back to her room. My gaze zeros in on the slight limp in her step and I wonder if there isn’t more to her supposed injury than meets the eye. I know I should just go back to my room and forget about this midnight encounter, but I hesitate. “Hey, Isla?”

She stops and turns back, meeting my eye. “Yeah?”

“What happens after baseball season?”

She shrugs, that casual gesture I’m starting to recognize as her go-to for deflecting. “Another plane. Another city.”

The simplicity of her answer sits weirdly with me. It’s not that she said anything wrong, but there’s something in the way she said it, like she’s been rehearsing that line for years.

“Just like that?” I ask.