Page 83 of Third Strike Smitten

Isla just grins, that infuriating, beautiful grin that makes the gold flecks in her eyes dance. “You do too sing, you big liar. Bishop was all too happy to tell us about High School Musical, remember? And besides, that’s the whole point, Haynesy. It’s called karaoke, not ‘American Idol.’ You’re supposed to be bad at it. It’s fun.”

She’s right. I did sing…in high school. Back when I didn’t care about public perception because the Haynes brothers were the kings of that place. And I do love karaoke in general but here? Now? In front of Isla?

No fucking thank you.

“Being publicly humiliated is your idea of fun? Color me shocked.”

She tugs on my hand, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so small. “It’s liberating! Doing something you’re terrible at in front of other people and not giving a single shit. Try it. You might like it.”

I scan the room, a pathetic attempt to find an escape route, but my teammates are useless. Brock is already egging her on, and Carter just shrugs, a smirk playing on his lips. Traitors, all of them.

“Fine,” I grumble, letting her pull me forward. A terrible idea blooms in my head. “But if I’m going down, you’re going down with me. You first. And I’m picking your song.”

Her eyes narrow, but the challenge is there. “Deal. Make it a good one.”

I lean over the ancient binder of songs, flipping through the plastic-sleeved pages until I find exactly what I’m looking for. I scribble the number down on a slip of paper and hand it to the guy running the machine with a smirk.

When the opening lines of “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls blast through the speakers, she erupts in laughter and then snatches the microphone, hops on stage, and launches into the song with zero shame.

And even less musical talent.

She’s off-key, she forgets half the words, substituting her own ridiculous ones, and her dancing is a spectacle of uncoordinated limbs. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful disaster I have ever heard. And I can’t look away.

She points at me during the “zig-a-zig-ah” part, winking like a complete lunatic, and I’m fucking smitten. I’m laughing, actually laughing, a real laugh that comes from my gut and not just a polite chuckle for the cameras. She’s so fucking beautiful up there. She’s a chaotic mess, and she doesn’t care. Not even a little.

The song ends with a roar of applause and whoops from the team. She takes a bow, nearly tripping over the cord, and bounces off the stage, her crimson hair flying. She lands in front of me, breathless and beaming.

“Well, that was…a choice.”

She laughs. “What’s the matter? You didn’t like it?”

“Like it?” I ask, biting back a wide smile. “No, I didn’t like it. I fucking loved it.”

She pushes up on her tiptoes and kisses me right there in front of everyone. “Your turn, Haynesy. No backing out.”

The opening chords of “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys has me rolling my eyes in amusement.

Of course she picked that one.

“Really?” I groan, but the protest is weak, half-hearted. The crack in my chest is widening, letting in a light I haven’t felt in years.

“Payback’s a bitch,” she says, clapping her hands. She pats my ass, a gesture I don’t mind at all, and says, “Now get up there and embarrass yourself properly.”

With much applause and encouragement from my teammates, I grip the mic, my palms a lot sweaty, and then open my mouth, my voice coming out as a hesitant croak that immediately cracks on the second word. Heat floods my neck because I’m pretty damn sure I sound like a wounded animal. A laugh bubbles up from the crowd, but it’s not mean. It’s the same kind of laughter that met Isla’s performance; warm, encouraging and part of the game.

I risk a glance at her and see that she’s beaming up at me, mouthing the words with exaggerated enthusiasm, her hands clapping in time. She’s not laughing at me. Nobody is.

They’re all laughing with me.

Isla is pulling me into her orbit of glorious, unselfconscious chaos, so I close my eyes. I stop trying to hit notes that were never within my reach and just fucking sing. I don’t need the words. Everyone knows them. I bellow the chorus, my voice cracking spectacularly on the high parts, and the team explodes around me. They’re singing along, shouting the words, raising their bottles. Carter is howling but cheering me on with a beer in hand, and even Bishop is clapping, a wide, surprised grin on his face.

I’m terrible. I mean, I sang in the high school choir, and I know I can hold a tune, but there’s no way I’m good at this, either way, I don’t care. The weight I usually carry on the mound, the constant pressure to be perfect, to be precise, it just…evaporates. There’s only the music, the laughter, and Isla’s bright, shining face, her hand clasped under her chin like I’m singing her a damn lullaby.

When the song finally ends, I’m breathless and grinning like an idiot, the mic still clutched in my hand. The bar erupts in cheers and whistles, and the guys are clapping me on the back so hard I nearly stumble off the tiny stage.

I find Isla in the crowd, her smile so wide it looks like it might split her face in two. She meets me at the edge of the stage and practically jumps into my arms.

“See?” she says, her voice an excited squeal right by my ear. Her breath is warm and smells like the cheap beer she’s been drinking all night. “Not so bad, was it?”