Third Strike Smitten (Next Play #2)

Prologue

KILLIAN

The first thing I do before every game is check that the bathroom stall lock is engaged.

Not my pitching grip.

Not the scouting report.

Not the weather.

The lock.

Because nothing says "professional athlete at the top of his game" quite like having a panic attack in a public restroom.

I lean forward; palms braced against my knees as I try to suck air into lungs that have apparently forgotten how to function.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

It should be simple…but it isn’t.

My chest feels too tight. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs hard enough that I'm convinced it can be heard through concrete and any minute now the team is going to come running in here wondering about the loud thumping sound.

Thirty minutes.

I've got thirty minutes before first pitch.

Thirty minutes before thirty thousand people expect me to be the guy on the billboard.

The guy on the posters.

The guy reporters call an ace.

The guy everyone assumes has his shit together.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push away the negative thoughts instead focusing on the things I can control, but the thoughts come anyway, flooding my brain like a broken dam.

The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like every scout who ever said I wasn’t durable enough, wasn’t mentally tough enough… wasn’t enough. Period.

You gave up three runs last outing.

Your slider's been flat for two weeks.

The front office is watching.

Bishop's counting on you.

The team is counting on you.

“Killian.”

The lock rattles and I freeze. My entire body goes rigid, every muscle tensing as if I've been caught doing something illegal instead of just…

falling apart. Because God forbid anyone see Killian Haynes—the guy who smirks through post-game interviews and flirts with sideline reporters like it's his second job—struggle with something as mundane as breathing.

I already know who it is. Maybe if I stay quiet Bishop will think I’m not in here. Maybe he'll assume I'm already on the field, already the version of me that doesn't need to be rescued from a bathroom.

The lock rattles again, more insistent this time.

"Open the door, Kill."

"It's occupied," I manage, my voice coming out rough and embarrassingly thin.

"Nice try." Bishop's voice is low, steady and calm, but leaves no room for argument. "I've been doing this since we were nine. Open up."

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and exhale shakily. Of course he found me. Bishop always finds me. He's been finding me since that first Little League game when I threw up behind the dugout because I was so nervous about playing.

“Thirty seconds and I’m calling maintenance.”

The thing about Bishop is that he doesn't negotiate.

Never has. Even as kids, when Shepherd and I would try to talk our way out of trouble, Bishop would just stand there with his arms crossed and that look, the one that says he's already counted to ten and you've used up all your chances. Knowing his threats aren’t empty, I reach over and turn the lock to open.

The door swings inward and there he is, my catcher, my brother, my personal human alarm clock for when I'm spiraling.

Bishop fills the doorway with his broad shoulders, already in his gear from the waist down, his Lagers jersey hanging open over a compression shirt.

His expression isn't pitying, which is the only reason I don't immediately slam the door shut again.

It's just… Bishop. Steady. Unimpressed with my dramatics.

"You okay?"

The answer should be easy, but instead I stare at the floor tiles and say nothing. A comfortable silence stretches between us, the bathroom suddenly feeling smaller, the fluorescent lights harsher against the white tile. He leans against the sink, arms crossed, and just...waits.

I hate that he waits. I hate that he knows exactly how this works, that if he pushes, I'll shut down completely. So, he gives me space, knowing that somehow his mere presence helps me.

"My slider's flat. My fastball's been off. I'm going to—"

"You're going to do what you always do," Bishop interrupts. "Pitch."

I let out a shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one everyone's watching."

Bishop laughs. "Oh, you think nobody's watching me?" He raises an eyebrow. "Bro, I don’t know if you know this, but I'm the one who has to catch whatever you throw. If you miss the zone, I'm the one who looks like an idiot trying to frame it."

The corner of my mouth twitches despite everything. That's Bishop, cutting through the bullshit with humor, that somehow makes me feel less alone.

I meet his eyes in the mirror. "What if our plan sucks?"

He shrugs. "Then we make a new one. Together.

" He pushes off the counter and stands beside me, our reflections side by side, identical faces with completely different expressions.

His gaze falls to his watch and then he tells me, “Fifteen minutes. We have fifteen minutes to focus. You can do this. We can do this.”

I take a deep breath, letting his words settle over me like a familiar blanket. Fifteen minutes. I can handle fifteen minutes.

"Fine." I straighten up, rolling my shoulders back. "But if I blow this game, I'm blaming you."

Bishop smirks. "That's the Killian I know." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a protein bar. "Eat this. You skipped lunch again."

I take it, unwrapping it with fingers that are finally steady. "How'd you know?"

"Because you always skip a meal before starts." He watches me take a bite. "And because Shepherd texted me."

I choke slightly on the protein bar. "What?"

He smirks, his arms crossed over his chest. "Said you looked like hell in your pre-game selfie."

"Fuckin’ traitor."