Page 65 of Third Strike Smitten

She tosses her head back in laughter, that bright sound carrying across the field, before she says, “You wish, big guy. You wish.”

Don’t I know it.

She winds up for her next pitch and the game continues like this. Easy, playful, completely different from the high-stakes baseball we’re all used to. I find myself actually enjoying being at second base, watching Isla pitch. She throws surprisingly well considering she’s never played professionally. She’s got a decent arm and a wicked curve on that whiffle ball that has even Bishop nodding in approval. Between pitches, she even keeps up a steady stream of heckling that has everyone in stitches.

“That’s okay, Brock. That swing had great personality!”

“Jude, you missed that one so badly I’m actually impressed!”

Jude takes a fucking bow. “Well, I do aim to please, Fallon. Thank you very much.”

My team is up at bat next, which means I get to stand in the dugout and just watch my girl.

My pretend girl. Whatever.

Watching her play the game I love…the game I sometimes forget that I love, is an unexpected joy, and I find myself gazing at her behind my sunglasses and wondering what other activities I might enjoy with Isla Fallon.

The next pitch is for Mackenzie. It comes in fast, and she connects with it, sending the ball sailing toward center field where Tara gets under it, loses it in the sun, and then trips over her own feet trying to recover. Mack cruises into first, grinning like she just won the World Series.

“That’a girl, Mack! Way to run it out!” Bishop cheers, clapping like a proud dad at a kindergarten recital.

Sebastian throws his arms up. “Dude. She is literally not on our team.”

“But she’s my friend.”

“I don’t care if she’s your therapist, man⁠—”

“Hey, we’re all inclusive here,” Isla calls out from the mound as she also claps for Mack’s single hit.

Mackenzie blows Bishop a kiss from first base as a thank you, and I look away before I have to process that.

My first time at bat, I easily knock that sucker out of the park but instead of immediately running the bases, I sprint to the mound, turn myself around, and instruct Isla to hop on piggyback style and then run the bases with her on my back. The sheer laughter coming from her as she shouts, “Go, Haynesy! Run it home! Take me home!” is now one of my favorite sounds in the whole damn world and a memory I will forever carry in my mind.

After an hour or two, who the hell knows…or cares, we’re all sweaty and laughing, completely caught up in the game, and I’m up again. I grab the red plastic bat from Shepherd and step up to the plate, feeling a strange mix of excitement and desire to impress Isla.

She’s standing on the mound with that playful smirk, twirling the ball between her fingers. “Ready to embarrass yourself, Haynesy?” she calls out.

“You wish, Coach.” I tap the bat against the plate, trying to find my rhythm. “I’ve been saving up all my best swings just for you.”

“Ooh, let’s see then.”

The first pitch comes in slow and I let it go, watching it sail past. “Uh oh. I think your arm is getting tired.”

“Nah. I’m just going easy on you,” she laughs, catching the ball from Carter.

The second pitch comes faster, and I swing, connecting with a satisfying crack of the bat that sends the ball flying hard to the right.

“Foul ball!” Brock calls.

When the ball gets back to Isla, she winds up one more time and I watch as it curves slightly, catching the evening light as it arcs toward me. For some reason I tell myself not to swing but my body does it anyway. The bat connects with a solid snap that sends the ball flying down the center of the field…right back toward the mound.

Time stops and my breath literally flies from my body when the ball rockets straight back at Isla’s face. I watch in horror as it smacks her square on the nose with a sickening thwack. Her hands fly to her face as she drops to her knees in the dirt.

“Oh fuck.” I shudder, the bat falling from my numb fingers.

The field goes silent.

Completely and utterly silent.