Page 7 of Third Strike Smitten

“She says I’ll be on a plane tomorrow,” I tell her as we make our way toward the stadium parking lot.

“Sounds fun.” She bumps her shoulder with mine, her eyes growing huge and practically dazzling with excitement. “What if it’s with the Lagers?”

I burst out a loud cackle. “Oh, God. Can you even imagine? Doubt it though. She would’ve said so and besides, I’ve never done a team flight before. It’s probably some rich general manager or owner of a team who owns the plane. She didn’t even say that it’s someone from Portland. I may just be on the crew going to pick someone up. She’s sending me an email.”

“Can’t wait to hear the details. You want to grab dinner downtown?”

“Of course. You know I can’t cook to save my life.”

When we reach Tara’s car, I fold myself into the passenger seat, my hips stiff from the stadium seats, and click my seatbelt into place. And when my phone dings alerting me to an incoming email from my boss, I quickly open the app so I can see my next assignment.

“Holy…fucking…shit,” I breathe, the words barely making it out of my mouth.

Tara’s foot freezes on the brake, the car half-backed out of the spot. “What? What is it?”

I can’t answer right away. I just stare at the screen, the glow of it lighting up the dark car, Betsy’s email sitting there like a lit fuse. My face is hot. The kind of hot that starts at the back of your neck and crawls forward.

“Isla.” Tara snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Girl. Spit it out.”

I turn my head slowly toward her. “I’m spending the rest of the season with the Portland Lagers.”

The look on Tara’s face goes through about four different emotions before landing on pure, unbridled delight. Then she throws her head back and absolutely loses it. She has the kind of cackle that fogs up car windows. “Of course you are.”

I look back down at my phone. Killian Haynes’s strikeout plays on a loop somewhere in the back of my mind, along with that mesmerizing stare cutting across the field.

Oh fuck.

3

KILLIAN

Harper’s text stares back at me like a warning shot.

Harper

You need to loosen up, Killian. The front office is noticing your tension on the mound. They’re worried you’re burning out.

I toss my phone onto my brother’s guest bed and run my hands through my hair. I came in here when my agent started texting me in case she needed to call me. The team’s heading to Chicago tomorrow for a three-game series against the Wildcats, and the last thing I need is her telling me to “loosen up” when I’m trying to focus on the next start.

I pick up the phone again, thumbs hovering over the screen for a beat too long. She’s not wrong, but I’m not about to admit that to her. I don’t need my agent to be giving me tips on squelching my anxiety on the mound.

Me

I don’t have time for hobbies. I have a season to finish. I have to stay focused.

Harper

That’s exactly the problem, Killian. You’re wound so tight these days you’re going to snap, and when you do, it won’t be pretty. I don’t want a phone call in the middle of the night that I have a mess to clean up because of your behavior off the field.

Me

Then put your phone on silent.

I roll my shoulders, feeling that familiar tension creeping up my neck. Harper’s been my agent since I was drafted, and she knows me better than most people. Too well, sometimes.

Harper

This isn’t the time for jokes, Haynes. Teams want players who can handle the pressure not ones who look like they’re about to have a panic attack on the mound, so let me spell this out for you. The reality of the situation is the front office would like to see you a little more mellow and team-centered instead of isolated and asshole-ish. And if you want to keep your contract and stay in Portland with your brothers, I suggest you find a way to recenter yourself.