4. Isla
ISLA
“Your fastball has less zip than my grandmother’s wheelchair, Haynesy!”
I can’t help myself. The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them, and Padrick— my second flight attendant who I’ve dragged along to today’s game—covers his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“I can’t believe you just said that,” he hisses, peeking through his fingers at the field below us. “You’re going to get us kicked out.”
I grin, adjusting my Lagers cap. “Nah, they love this stuff. Keeps the players on their toes.”
It’s game one of the three-game series in Chicago, and Killian Haynes is on the mound, looking about as tense as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. His shoulders are practically touching his earlobes, and his jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised his teeth haven’t turned to powder.
“He looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm,” Padrick observes, taking a sip of his overpriced stadium beer.
“That’s because he is.” And it’s true. Killian looks like he’s carrying the weight of the entire franchise on those broad shoulders.
His dark brows are furrowed in concentration, and I can practically see the tension radiating off him from here.
I curve my hand around my mouth and shout, “Fun fact, Haynesy! Most people take a breath before pitching! Now throw that son of a bitch like your ex just posted engagement photos!”
There’s a low chuckle from the crowd around me as we watch Killian make his next pitch.
The pitch sails wide, a ball, and Killian turns to glare in my direction.
Even from here, I can see the storm brewing in his eyes.
I give him a cheerful wave, my grin stretching wider.
Something about getting under his skin excites me.
“Jesus, Isla,” Padrick whispers, tugging at my sleeve. “He’s looking right at you. And not in a ‘I’d like to buy you dinner’ kind of way.”
“Perfect,” I say, cupping my hands around my mouth again. “I see you looking, Haynesy! That’s called eye contact! Try it with your catcher sometime!”
The crowd around us erupts in laughter, and even Padrick can’t hold back his snort. I feel a rush of satisfaction watching Killian’s shoulders drop just a fraction, the tension easing from his posture.
“See?” I nudge Padrick with my elbow. “He needed that.”
On the field, Killian winds up again, and this time his pitch is sharp, cutting through the strike zone with precision. The batter swings and misses, and a small smile tugs at Killian’s lips as he turns toward our section.
“See?” I applaud, genuinely impressed. “When you stop overthinking, you become terrifying. I love that for us.”
“I can’t believe that’s actually working,” Padrick says, shaking his head in disbelief as Killian strikes out another batter.
Haynes glances my way again, and this time, instead of a glare, there’s a hint of something else in his expression.
Almost like he’s fighting a smile. He shakes his head slightly before turning back to face the next batter, but something in that look—just for me, I think—settles somewhere behind my sternum.
“Sometimes they just need to remember they’re playing a game.”
“I think you’re getting to him,” Padrick says, leaning in close. “But not in the way you think.”
“What do you mean?”
He gives me a knowing look. “That man is not annoyed by you, Isla. He’s intrigued.”
I roll my eyes but can’t deny the little flutter in my stomach at the thought. I mean there’s no denying the man is hot but I’m quite certain I’m not at all his type.
“Nah. He’s just amused by my wit.”
The next few innings pass in a blur of strikes, hits, and more playful heckling. By the fifth inning, the Lagers are up by two and Killian seems to have found his rhythm. His shoulders are relaxed, and his pitches are hitting their marks with deadly accuracy.
“Can you believe we get paid to do this?” Padrick asks, fanning himself with the game program. “I mean, sure, we have to serve these Neanderthals drinks at thirty thousand feet, but then we get to watch them play baseball. Best job ever.”
“Don’t let Haynes hear you call him a Neanderthal. His ego might not recover.” I laugh.
“Which one?” He gestures to our team’s star pitcher, Killian, and then to his brother, Bishop, the team’s catcher.
“Killian,” I tell him with a soft chuckle. “Though maybe Bishop too, for all I know. I don’t always hear much about Bishop, but it’s no secret that Killian Haynes has an ego the size of Texas.”
Padrick leans over and adds, “I hear he’s got something else the size of Texas too.”
I choke on my drink. “Padrick!”
“What? It’s true. I hear the guys talk when they’re on the plane.” He shrugs, sipping his overpriced beer. “Plus, look at the guy. That man has a backside that deserves its own Instagram account.” He sighs. “He’s the total package.”
I nudge his arm with my elbow. “Well, if you think that highly maybe you should slide into his DMs.”
Padrick cringes and shakes his head. “Hell no. I mean, the man is hot as sin and I hear his dick is a pretty shade of pierced, but sadly he doesn’t play for my team.” He wags his brows and smirks as he takes another sip of his drink. “But you, on the other hand…”
I laugh at his insinuation. “Right. Okay. I’ll get right on that.”
“Yes! Get it girl! Ride that cowboy and then tell me every detail!”
I cover his mouth with my hand. “I was kidding! Totally kidding. I am not sleeping with Killian Haynes.”
“Why not?” he asks with playful curiosity. “You’re telling me if he came up here right now and offered himself up to you, you wouldn’t partake?”
I roll my eyes at Padrick’s ridiculous question. “That’s not even—“
“Because I think you would,” he continues, ignoring my protest. “And I think it would be fucking hot.”
“Padrick, stop.” I laugh, pushing his shoulder. “He’s a professional athlete. I’m his flight attendant. That’s an HR nightmare waiting to happen.”
He smirks at my answer and shakes his head. “Oh, you poor naive Isla.”
“What?”
“Did you forget that your life is no longer in commercial airline companies? You work the private corporate flights now, and they don’t care who fucks who as long as the job gets done.”
“Okay.” I concede. “But that doesn't mean the Lagers organization is okay with it. I would never jeopardize someone’s job like that. I’ve been watching Killian play for years. I respect his game way too much to get in the way of that. I’ll keep to heckling him into better pitches.”
After the game—a solid 5-2 victory for the Lagers—Padrick and I make our way back to the hotel where the team is staying. Within a couple hours the lobby is buzzing with players and staff, and I’m not even halfway across when I spot Brock Adams waving me down.
“Hey, Grandma’s wheelchair!” he calls out, his face breaking into a grin. “That was a good one.”
My cheeks warm as Brock approaches with two other players, Alaric Vos and Carter Lewis. “That was some of the best heckling we’ve heard yet.”
“Brock’s not kidding,” Alaric says with a shake of his head. “Haynesy hasn’t shut up about it since we left the clubhouse.”
“Is that so?” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret the eagerness in my voice.
“Don’t get too excited,” Carter says with a laugh. “It was mostly him grumbling about ‘that redheaded menace’ in the stands…as if he doesn’t know who you are.”
I grin, feeling a strange sense of pride. “So, I got under his skin? Mission accomplished.”
“You definitely did,” Brock confirms. “But in a good way. That last inning was his best all season.”
“Haynesy’s going to owe you a drink after that performance,” Carter adds with a wink. “You basically coached him through that game.”
I can’t help but laugh at the thought. “I don’t think Killian Haynes would ever admit he needed coaching from anyone, let alone a flight attendant who teases him from the stands.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Alaric says, his expression turning serious. “He was a different pitcher after your comments. We all saw it.”
Before I can respond, the elevator doors open and the man himself steps out.
Killian’s gaze darts quickly around the area before his eyes lock onto me, and when they do, my heart does this weird little stutter-step in my chest. He’s changed out of his uniform, obviously, and into dark jeans and a simple gray T-shirt that somehow makes him look even more dangerous than he did on the mound.
“Speak of the devil,” Padrick states, as Brock clears his throat loudly.
“Well, look who it is! The man of the hour.”
I feel a sudden rush of heat on my face. He’s got that look, the one that says he’s amused but trying not to show it. His dark hair is still slightly damp from the shower, and the gray T-shirt clings to his body in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
When he finally meets up with the group of us, he lifts a brow precariously and says, “Grandma’s wheelchair, huh?” His voice is low and rough. “Creative.”
I shrug, trying to play it cool even as my heart hammers against my ribs. “I aim to please.”
“Or annoy,” he corrects, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I bob my head, failing to hide my amusement. “Potato-potahto.”
The other players exchange glances, clearly enjoying this little standoff. Brock nudges Killian’s shoulder.
“You should buy her a drink, Haynes. She basically coached you through that game.”
Killian’s eyebrow arches. “Did she now?”
“I think it’s the least you could do,” Carter says, crossing his arms. “She put more effort into your pitching today than you did.”
Killian’s eyes narrow slightly, but I can tell he’s fighting a smile. “Is that so?”
“Don’t listen to them,” I say, waving a dismissive hand. “I was just having fun. No drink necessary.”
“Come on, Haynes,” Brock says, giving him a playful shove. “You wanted a drink anyway.”
Killian runs a hand through his damp hair, and I try not to stare at the way his bicep flexes with the movement. “Fine. One drink. But only because I found the ex’s photo comment to be exceptionally funny.”