Page 44 of Third Strike Smitten

I stare at the message for a moment before responding in my usual teasing tone.

Me

Wow, at least buy me dinner first.

Killian

I can promise you mozzarella sticks…and whatever ice cream Shepherd has in his freezer.

Me

That hardly constitutes a romantic dinner.

Killian

Seriously though. I need you. Can you come? Please?

I pause at his tone. Even through text, I can sense the tension radiating from his words. There’s a vulnerability that catches me off guard. Killian Haynes doesn’t ask for help and he doesn’t show weakness. The fact that he’s reaching out to me, even for something as simple as showing up, feels significant.

Me

Are you at the field? I can be there in 15.

Killian

Yeah. I’ll make sure you have access to the clubhouse. Just tell security your name. They’ll know you’re with me.

Me

Killian

Thank you Isla.

Me

Wait, do I need to wear something special? Dress up? Dress down?

Killian

I’m sure you’re perfect just as you are. Can you hurry?

Me

Coming!

I toss my phone onto the couch and stare at the half-folded laundry pile. My heart is doing something stupid and fluttery that I absolutely do not have time for. I should be annoyed. I should be questioning why I’m dropping everything to go to a baseball stadium because Killian Haynes texted me a few words and a please. Instead, I’m already pulling my hair into a messy ponytail and grabbing my keys off the hook by the door.

Twelve minutes later, I’m pulling into the stadium parking lot wondering if I’m going to find Killian crouched on a bathroom floor or sitting alone in a tub of ice. My stomach does somersaults that have nothing to do with the fact that I skipped lunch and everything to do with the star pitcher of the Portland Lagers telling me he needs me. The security guard at the players’ entrance checks my name and ID, then nods me through with a knowing smile.

“Second door on the left, Ms. Fallon,” he says, holding the door open for me. “That will lead you out to the bullpen. Mr. Haynes is expecting you.”

The hallway is cool and dim, the smell of leather and pine filling my nostrils as I follow his directions. I can hear the muffled sounds of the team practicing beyond the walls, the crack of a bat, the thud of a ball hitting a glove, someone shouting instructions. The energy is electric, even from behind closed doors. I go through the door leading me outside and find the bullpen easily enough. Some of the guys are tossing balls on the field. Some are in the batting cages, but Killian is standing outside the bullpen, his expression tight, his jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscles working beneath his skin as he talks to Carter Lewis. His hair is damp with sweat, his practice jersey clinging to his chest. Even from a distance it’s not hard to see that something is wrong. The easy confidence I’ve seen him carry around the team is gone, replaced by something that looks almost like panic.

When he spots me, his steps quicken. The tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease. If anything, it gets worse.

Fuck.

What happened?