Page 93 of Third Strike Smitten

She studies me for a moment, those green eyes seeing way too much. “Okay,” she says softly, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

“I’m fine. I promise.” There’s my second lie.

She squeezes my hand one more time. “If you’re sure.”

I’m not sure.

I’m not sure about anything anymore.

20

ISLA

Something has shifted in Killian, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.

It’s the little things. The way he reaches for my hand now without thinking, lacing our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The way he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear when we’re sitting on the couch, his touch lingering just a beat too long. The way he kisses my forehead goodnight and then, instead of pulling away, presses his lips there for a moment longer, as if he’s memorizing the feel of my skin.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. God, I do. Every brush of his fingers against mine sends a flutter through me that I’m trying very hard to ignore.

It’s nice that he’s affectionate but in private…it wasn’t necessarily part of the deal.

The deal was simple: I help him clean up his image, he gets to keep his spot on the team. I have someone standing beside me when I give my speech, and we both walk away at the end of the season with no hard feelings. No strings. No complications. No messy, tangled emotions that leave you picking up pieces of yourself for months afterward.

But Killian hasn’t been following the script lately, and I’m starting to worry that neither have I.

I wish I could say I regret sleeping with him, but the fact of the matter is, I don’t. He’s everything I never knew I wanted in a lover.

Kind.

Affectionate.

He takes pride in pleasuring me.

He lets me tease him.

He laughs with me.

He’s fun in a way I never expected when I actually met him, and now that we’ve spent so much time together, I’m already starting to feel the emotions that come with having to give it all up in the end.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

The gala looms closer with each passing day, a dark cloud on my horizon. I’ve been practicing my speech in front of the mirror, watching my reflection mouth words about courage and survival that feel hollow even to me. Killian keeps asking if I want to rehearse with him, but I always find an excuse not to. How can I talk about moving forward when I don’t feel like I’ve moved that far forward at all? How can I talk about moving forward when I’m already dreading the end?

Tonight, we’re in Cedar Rapids, Iowa—Killian’s hometown—for a two-game series against the Cedar Rapids Huskers. The Lagers won game one tonight. Killian pitched a shutout, and even though we were the visiting team, the hometown crowd was on their feet. I watched from the stands, seated right next to Killian’s mom and dad, two of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Shepherd, Sutton, and Sebastian, were with us as well to watch the game, my heart swelling with pride even as it ached with something I refuse to name.

After the game, we met up with Killian and Bishop and stopped by his childhood home for a quick drink and some of his mom’s famous bakeless oatmeal cookies. Now, we’re in his dad’s car driving through streets that Killian navigates without GPS, his hands confident on the steering wheel as he points out landmarks from his childhood.

“That’s where Bishop and I got suspended for fighting in seventh grade,” he says, pointing to a modest brick school building. “And over there is the convenience store where Shep stole a candy bar when he was six because he thought the owner was mean to Mom.”

I laugh, imagining three identical boys causing chaos through these quiet streets. “Your poor mother.”

“She was a saint,” Killian agrees, a softness in his voice. “Still is. She put up with all four of us. I don’t know how she did it.”

I watch the way his profile is illuminated by passing streetlights, the happiness in his expression as he talks about his family. This is a different Killian than the one I first met; the cocky pitcher with the bad boy reputation. This Killian is vulnerable, open, showing me pieces of himself that I suspect few people get to see.

He turns down a narrow road, the headlights cutting through the darkness as we leave the city behind. The trees close in around us, creating a tunnel of shadows that feels almost intimate.

“Where are we going?” I ask, curious despite myself.