2. Isla
ISLA
“You’re going to give that guy a complex,” my friend Tara says to me as she tosses a few Cracker Jacks into the air and catches them in her mouth.
“No way, I’m helping!” I laugh, adjusting my baseball cap.
“Did you see him before? All stiff and overthinking every pitch. Now look at him. Besides, he looked like he needed someone to cut through all that pressure he was putting on himself,” I add, taking a sip of my beer.
“Pitchers are such head cases. Sometimes these guys need to remember they’re playing a game, not performing brain surgery. ”
Not that he needs my help. The man is a professional athlete, after all.
But there was something about the way his shoulders loosened after my comments, like he’d been holding his breath underwater and finally surfaced.
I thought I even caught a hint of a smile out there and that’s rare for Killian Haynes.
Tara raises an eyebrow at me. “To them it is brain surgery. If they don’t play well they don’t make the millions, and some of these guys are getting paid more money than we could ever see in a lifetime. Lucky bastards,” she mutters.
“Right.” I nod, sipping my beer. “Which is why it’s my duty as a baseball fan to help them get out of their heads so they can do their jobs lest they become poor and homeless like the rest of us.”
Tara rolls her eyes and laughs. “Girl, you are so not homeless. Just because you spend more time in the air than on land does not mean you’re a homeless bitch. It probably means you should never own a dog though…or plants.”
I don’t respond because she’s my best friend and knows exactly why I choose to spend my time in the clouds instead of on the roads.
And she’s not wrong. I’m not homeless. We have a small apartment together close to the airport.
It’s not much, but we don’t need much. We’re rarely ever home and when we are it’s only long enough to do laundry and eat real food before we’re taking off again.
Tara and I have been friends since we attended school together to become flight attendants.
Our first big job was working together for Patriot Airlines, the largest commercial airline in the country, but where Tara stayed on, I jumped to a private corporate company.
Now I go wherever the airline is contracted to go.
I’ve been on planes with celebrities, billionaires, and all kinds of rich corporate leaders wining and dining their newest clients.
Knowing not to push the issue of being at home, Tara changes the subject, gesturing to the Lagers dugout. “What would you do if he found out who you were and approached you about your heckling?”
I laugh, nearly choking on my drink. “Approach me? Please. He’s Killian Haynes. He probably has women throwing themselves at him after every game. Why would he care about some random girl in the stands playfully giving him a hard time?”
“Because you’re not just some random girl,” Tara says, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “You’re a sexy redheaded temptress. And because I saw the way he looked at you after that strikeout. Dude was definitely interested.”
“Interested in shutting me up, maybe.” I chuckle trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach at the memory of his eyes meeting mine across the field.
“Or maybe he was just appreciating my efforts for helping him out. What would be the point in anything else? (A) I’m not his type, and (B) I’m rarely in the same spot for more than twenty-four hours. ”
“The point is fun,” Tara says, drawing out the last word. “You know that thing you used to be all about before you decided to live like a nomad with commitment issues?”
“Hey, I don’t have commitment issues. I just prefer to keep things simple.” I gesture toward the field where the players are warming up for the next inning. “That’s why baseball is perfect. You show up, you enjoy the game, and then you go home. No strings, no expectations.”
The crowd roars when Brock Adams hits a double, and I can’t help but feel a little pride in my hometown team. “Besides, I’m not exactly in the market for a baseball player…or anyone for that matter.”
“Why not a baseball player?” she asks, befuddled. “Strong arms, thick thighs, hella-tight bodies. There’s no way they’re not all sporting six-pack abs and with their athlete stamina, they can probably fuck for days.”
“Interesting observation.” I nod. “But they’re also all the same. Cocky, self-absorbed, athletic man-divas who are way too used to getting what they want.”
“Okay but just—“ Tara grabs my arm. “Imagine being married to one of those guys out there. Or even just sleeping with one, because if Killian Haynes saw me leaving the stadium after the game and asked me for a quick fuck in the back of his car, I would absolutely say yes.”
I laugh at the desperation in her voice.
“And I would do what all best friends do and happily listen to you tell me every wild detail of your newfound sex life.” I grin and pass her an exaggerated eye roll.
Even as I say the words though, I quickly picture in my head a sexy Killian Haynes backing me up against a wall and kissing me as his hands roam freely over my needy body. I shift in my seat, at the thought.
Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be all bad.
I’m no prude.
I’d probably say yes just as fast as Tara would, but I’d razz him the whole time and that idea makes me smile.
The rest of the game passes in a blur of cheers, home runs, and more playful heckling—though I’m careful not to single out Killian again. The Lagers end up winning 7-4, and as we file out with the crowd, I feel that familiar post-game high that comes from a good baseball experience.
“So, when’s your next flight and where are you heading?” I ask Tara as we wait for people to trickle out of our row before climbing the stairs out of the stadium.
“Thursday. Portland to Chicago to Cleveland. I think I end my night in Atlanta if the schedule actually works out. What about you?”
Just as I’m about to answer her, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. When I pull it out, I see a message from my boss.
Betsy
Isla, I’ve got an immediate opening for a semi-long-term gig. Would be roughly four to five months or so unless they make the playoffs. I’ve got someone going on maternity leave a little sooner than expected.
“Playoffs?” I mumble, staring at my phone.
“What about playoffs?” Tara asks.
“Sorry,” I gesture to my text message. “It’s my boss.”
I type back a quick response.
Me
Sure. Wherever you need me.
“It sounds like I’m traveling with a sports team of some sort. Betsy just asked if I could take a gig to cover for someone on maternity leave.
Betsy
Perfect. I’ll email you all the details. You’ll be on a plane tomorrow morning.
Me
Sounds good. Thanks.
“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.