4. Isla #2
My eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, are you actually admitting I helped you?”
“I’m admitting you were...distracting,” he says, his voice dropping to that low rumble that causes flutters in my stomach. He steps forward and nonchalantly wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, Coach. Let me buy you a drink.”
I nearly choke on my own tongue. His arm is warm and solid around my shoulders, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, something reminiscent of leather and bad decisions all rolled into one.
Cedarwood with a hint of bourbon and something clean beneath it reminiscent of crisp white sheets.
I see the allure in Killian Haynes. He’s a whole vibe that could make my head spin if I’m not careful.
The other guys are watching us with matching grins, and Padrick looks like he might actually pass out from excitement.
“Killian, you really don’t have to—“ I start to protest, but he’s already steering me toward the hotel bar.
“You heard them,” he says, his voice low in my ear. “I owe you a drink.”
The hotel bar is dimly lit and surprisingly quiet for a post-game evening.
Killian guides me to a set of tables on the far side of the bar, his hand now on the small of my back as the rest of the guys fill in behind us.
When the waitress appears, Killian orders a beer and then motions to me saying, “And whatever my coach here desires.”
Heat rushing across my cheeks, I fight back a smile and tell her, “I’ll have the same. Thank you.”
“You gonna buy me a beer too, Haynesy?” Brock singsongs, smirking across the table.
“Not tonight, Pookie. I’m busy.”
Brock’s mouth drops open in mock offense as the rest of the table erupts in laughter. I catch Killian’s eye and find myself grinning back at him, surprised by how comfortable I feel in his presence.
“So,” he says, leaning closer, “how does a flight attendant become such an expert on pitching mechanics?”
I answer so quickly I barely register the words in my own head. “Years of watching you fail, mostly.”
He barks out a laugh. “Fair enough.”
“I’m kidding,” I admit. “I’ve always loved baseball. Grew up watching games with my dad.”
Something shifts in his expression, a softening around his eyes that makes him look younger, less guarded. “Yeah? What team?”
“I was born and raised in Portland so I’m a Lagers girl through and through. I’ve been a fan since I can remember.”
The waitress returns with our drinks, and I notice the way Killian thanks her, polite but distant. There’s something about the way he holds himself—confident but not cocky—that draws me in despite my better judgment.
He taps his beer with mine and then draws a long sip. Then he leans back on his chair, looking at me like he’s trying to figure me out.
“So, Grandma’s wheelchair, huh?”
I snort. “I’m sorry. It just sort of slips out sometimes. I don’t know how it happens.”
“I think what happens is you have no filter,” he says, but there’s no malice in his voice. Just amusement. “And for some ridiculous reason, it works for me.”
“Hmm.” I nod, considering his confession. “Maybe I should start charging for my services,” I say, taking a sip of my beer. “I hear pitching coaches make bank.”
“Yeah, but they mostly keep their mouths shut during games,” he counters, though there’s no bite to it. Just that same low rumble that makes my skin tingle.
“Where’s the fun in that?” I lean back in my chair, studying him. “Besides, if I kept my mouth shut, you’d still be up there looking like you’re trying to solve a quadratic equation with every pitch.”
He laughs—actually laughs—and the sound does something dangerous to my insides. “A quadratic equation? Seriously?”
“Do you know how difficult it is to roast someone using advanced mathematics?”
Brock nearly chokes on his beer across the table.
“Oh my God,” Brock wheezes beside me. “I love her.”
Killian shakes his head slowly, rubbing a hand across his mouth like he’s trying not to smile too hard. “You know, most people get nervous talking to professional athletes.”
I shrug. “Most professional athletes don’t pitch like they’re moments away from filing their taxes.”
That one gets a louder laugh out of him, deep and rough enough that heads turn from neighboring tables. His change in demeanor is interesting given who he is on the field versus off. He’s looser here.
Lighter.
And dare I say dangerously charming.
I don’t hate it at all, but there has to be something about him that makes him act the way he does on the mound because that guy is definitely not the one sitting next to me now.
“Okay,” he says, pointing at me with the neck of his beer bottle. “You keep talking like that and I’m gonna start thinking you actually enjoy tormenting me.”
“Oh, I definitely enjoy tormenting you.”
“Oh, my God.” Brock points dramatically between us. “Chemistry.”
“Shut up, Brock,” Killian mutters without taking his eyes off me.
“Aw.” Padrick presses a hand to his chest. “He defended her. They’re basically engaged.”
I choke on my beer as Killian groans. “Why are you people like this?”
“Because you’ve spent all spring glaring at everyone like a Victorian husband trapped in a loveless marriage,” Alaric deadpans from the end of the table. “This is a refreshing change.”
Killian flips him off without looking.
I bite back another smile. “Victorian husband is actually incredibly accurate.”
He shakes his head, glaring at me, amusement etched across his face. “Don’t encourage them.”
“Oh, I absolutely will.” I angle toward him slightly, studying him closer. “Come to think of it, you do have a very ‘don’t speak to me unless you have inherited land’ vibe.”
The table erupts.
Even Killian drops his head for a second, shoulders shaking with a quiet laugh before he looks back up at me. “Do you just sit around thinking of ways to insult people professionally?”
“No, professionally I smile and hand out pretzels. This is recreational.”
“I think that’s somehow worse.”
“It’s actually one of my greatest strengths.”
“According to who?”
“Me, of course.”
His eyes narrow slightly, but there’s warmth behind his gaze. Interest. Curiosity. Like he’s trying to figure out what to do with me.
And Honestly?
Same.
Because I’ve watched him pitch for years. I know the cocky interviews, the smug smirks, the headlines calling him baseball’s favorite bad boy. I know the version of him that everyone else sees.
And this guy right here?
He doesn’t seem like that guy at all.
“You’re doing it again,” I say before I can stop myself.
His brows pull together. “Doing what?”
“Thinking too hard.”
A quietness settles over the table for half a second. Not awkward. Just surprised.
Killian leans forward, his elbows resting on the table as his fingers trace the neck of his beer, his eyes fixed on mine. “You always analyze strangers this much?”
“Only the pretty ones.”
Brock slaps the table so hard the drinks rattle.
Padrick gasps dramatically beside me. “ISLA!”
“What?” I laugh, holding my hands up innocently. “He is objectively attractive. I’m not blind.”
Killian stares at me for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering across his face before he huffs out another laugh and shakes his head.
“You are genuinely insane.”
“And yet,” I say sweetly, lifting my beer toward him, “your ERA improves the second I start talking.”
His mouth twitches.
“Careful.” He grins. “You’re getting cocky now.”
I grin over the rim of my bottle as I shrug my shoulders. “I guess I learned from the best.”