Page 94 of Third Strike Smitten

“Somewhere special,” he says simply, his focus on the road. “Somewhere that means a lot to me.”

The road opens up to a clearing, and Killian pulls the car to a stop. In the moonlight, I can make out the shape of a baseball diamond beyond the chain-link fence, as well as the dugouts and the bleachers.

A high school field, abandoned for the night.

“This is where I fell in love with baseball,” Killian says, cutting the engine. The sudden silence feels weighted, significant. “I played here all four years of high school. My dad used to bring me here every Saturday morning,” Killian continues, his voice softening with nostalgia. “He’d hit grounders to me until my hands were raw. Said I had the best hands he’d ever seen on a kid my age.”

I watch him, fascinated by this glimpse into his past. “Were you always a pitcher?”

He shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “Started at shortstop. But moved to the mound my third year of Little League when our pitcher broke his arm.” He turns to me, his eyes catching the moonlight.

Before I can say anything else, Killian is out of his dad’s car, coming around to open my door an easy grace in the way he moves. He takes my hand, helping me out, and we walk toward the field together. He guides me to the pitcher’s mound and stops at the center, turning in a slow circle, taking it all in.

“But…this is where I learned what it felt like to stand on a mound and feel like I was exactly where I was supposed to be…where I really started to care,” he says, his voice breathy as he reminisces. “I used to drive out here in the middle of the night.”

“You did?”

He nods. “Mhmm. I’d sneak out of the house when I couldn’t sleep. When the game was getting too much in my head. When the negative feelings would creep in a little close.” He looks at me, his expression open in a way that makes my heart stutter. “I’d stand right here and just... breathe.”

I step closer to him, drawn by the raw honesty in his voice. “What did it feel like?”

“Like I could finally take a full breath,” Killian says, his voice soft in the stillness. “When I was out here by myself all the noise in my head just...stopped. It was the only place where I felt completely at peace. I could talk to the mound…tell it anything and I wouldn’t feel judged for it.”

I look around at the empty field, trying to imagine teenage Killian standing here under the stars, finding solace in this place. The moonlight casts everything in silver, transforming the ordinary baseball diamond into something magical.

“It’s beautiful. In a way that goes beyond the physical.”

Killian turns to me, his eyes finding mine in the darkness. “I wanted to share this with you,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “This part of me. The part that existed before the pressure, before the expectations.”

Something shifts in my chest, a feeling I’ve been trying to ignore for weeks now. “Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely audible over the crickets singing in the grass.

He takes my hand, leading me off the mound toward the outfield. We walk in comfortable silence until Killian stops and lowers himself to the ground, pulling me down with him.

“Look up,” he tells me.

I tilt my head back and my breath catches in my throat.

“Oh, my God. Killian, it’s…”

“Perfect, isn’t it?” he asks, finishing my sentence for me. “The stars are always better out here,” he explains, staring up at the sky with me. “No city lights to drown them out.”

The stars seem to multiply with each passing second; tiny pinpricks of light scattered across the velvet sky like diamond dust. I’ve never seen so many stars in my life.

“It’s like we’re in a planetarium,” I mutter, not wanting to break the spell of this moment.

Killian’s hand finds mine, his fingers intertwining with my own. “Better than any planetarium,” he points out. “This is real.”

“It’s breathtaking.”

We lie there in comfortable silence, our shoulders barely touching, our hands linked between us. The night air is warm against my skin, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass and something sweet I can’t identify. Crickets serenade us from the edges of the field, their rhythmic chirping creating a natural soundtrack to this perfect moment.

I trace the constellations with my eyes, remembering the names my father taught me when I was little. Orion’s Belt. The Big Dipper. Cassiopeia. The memories flood back, bittersweet and sharp.

“My father used to take me stargazing when I was little,” I tell Killian. “We didn’t even have to go anywhere. We lived out in the country so our backyard was the perfect spot. We’d spread a blanket in the yard and he’d point out each constellation, telling me the stories behind each one. He always said the stars were the lights of guardian angels watching over us.” My voice catches in my throat. “And that one day he would be a star watching over me.”

I’m grateful for the darkness that hides the sudden moisture in my eyes. I haven’t thought about those nights with my father in years, haven’t allowed myself to remember how happy and safe I felt in those moments. How lucky I was.

Killian turns his head toward me, his voice comforting. “Sounds like he was a great dad.”