5. Killian
KILLIAN
The hotel room door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it, letting out a long breath. The silence after hours of noise feels almost deafening.
I should be exhausted. It’s nearly midnight, we’ve got another game tomorrow, and I’ve been drinking for the past three hours. But instead of the usual weight that settles on my shoulders after a day like this, I feel surprisingly lighter.
Isla Fallon.
Her laugh echoes in my head as I cross the room, tossing my key card onto the dresser and running a hand through my hair. I liked how her eyes had lit up when she talked about baseball. The way she called me out with a smirk, seeing right through my bullshit intrigues me more than I care to admit.
I strip off my shirt and throw it in the general direction of the laundry bag, missing by a solid foot.
Whatever. I’m too busy thinking about how Isla Fallon didn’t try to impress me.
Not once. She wasn’t fawning over who I am.
She just...treated me like a normal person, and for some weird reason, I don’t know what to do with that.
Nobody treats me like a normal person anymore.
Not fans, not reporters, not even most of my teammates.
They treat me like Killian Haynes, the pitcher, the headline, the contract.
But Isla? She treated me like I was just some friend of hers at a bar.
Some guy she could roast about his pitching form and his resting bitch face and the fact that I apparently look like a Victorian husband.
Whatever the fuck that really means.
I slip my glasses on, grab my phone, and drop onto the edge of the bed, scrolling mindlessly through my notifications.
Nothing important. A text from Bishop asking if I made it back to my room, which I ignore because he’ll see I’ve read it and figure I’m alive.
A few missed calls from numbers I don’t recognize, probably media requests I’ll deal with tomorrow.
There’s a follow-up text from Harper Meers reminding me to “loosen up,” which I also ignore. But then my team group chat lights up.
Bishop
So, are we just going to ignore the fact that Kill smiled more tonight than he has all season?
Brock
I counted FOUR actual smiles. Not smirks. Not that weird grimace thing he does. I saw full-on teeth.
Carter
Five. There was one when she called him a Victorian husband that was DEFINITELY a smile.
Jude
I’m still recovering from the “only the pretty ones” line. Isla Fallon is a national treasure.
Alaric
She roasted his pitching and his personality in the same night. I want her at my wedding…or maybe my funeral. Was she sent here from God himself?
Layton
I think we should start a petition to keep her on as our permanent flight attendant. My pitching has never been better.
Paxton
You don’t pitch, Layton.
Layton
Details.
I roll my eyes and type back quickly.
Me
Fuck all of you. I was being polite.
Bishop
Since when are you polite?
Me
Since when do you pay attention to my smiles you creepy asshole?
Brock
Since you never have any. Tonight was a whole event.
Alaric
Yeah. Like a solar eclipse.
Jude
I cried.
Me
You guys are full of shit. I’m always nice to women.
Carter
It’s true. But you’re usually looking for the fastest route to their hotel room.
Bishop
Fuck, is she with you right now? Is that why you didn’t answer my other text?
Me
What? No. Fuck you. She’s not with me. I have no idea where she is.
Bishop
You sure about that? Because you seem awfully defensive.
Me
I’m not defensive. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.
Brock
Sure, you are.
Carter
Night night, Killian. If my wall starts a rockin’, I won’t come a knockin’. Just ask her to keep it down so the rest of us can sleep.
Me
Hey douche donkey, don’t talk about her like that.
Bishop
Nah…Kill’s not being defensive at all.
I lock my phone and toss it onto the nightstand harder than necessary.
Assholes. Every single one of them. But as I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, I can’t help but replay the night in my head all over again.
Isla’s laugh. The way she’d leaned in when I said something that made her smile.
How I could catch a whiff of her strawberry-scented lotion when she got close enough.
How she didn’t flinch when I looked at her with my “don’t fuck with me” face.
The weird thing is, I actually did smile tonight. More than I have in months. And it wasn’t the forced, camera-ready smile I give to reporters. It was real. The kind that actually uses your face muscles.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Maybe she does have some weird voodoo effect on me.
I’m about to get up to brush my teeth when I hear a noise in the hallway.
It’s late—well past midnight—and the hotel is quiet enough that every sound travels.
At first I think it’s just someone heading to their room, but then I hear a frustrated grunt and the unmistakable sound of someone kicking something.
Another thump rattles through the wall. Metal by the sound of it.
I’m on my feet before I’ve decided to move, fishing a clean T-shirt out of my bag, and then crossing to the door.
Someone out there is clearly having a rough night.
I can hear them muttering, low and frustrated, punctuated by another solid bang.
I shove my key card into the pocket of my shorts and step out into the hallway, trying to determine exactly where the sound is coming from. Finally, I reach the alcove where the ice machine and two vending machines sit, and there she is.
Isla Fallon.
She’s dressed in a pair of black leggings and an oversized Lagers sweatshirt that hangs off her shoulder, and unless there’s another type of garment magic going on that I don’t recognize, I’m pretty damn sure she’s not wearing a bra.
Her pretty red hair is piled into a messy bun now, and she’s barefoot which strikes me as odd for a hotel hallway.
Does she not know how dirty hotel floors can be?
She’s jabbing at the machine’s buttons with more force than necessary, her face scrunched in concentration.
“I swear to all the gods if this thing steals my sour cream and onion chips, I’m becoming a supervillain,” she mutters, kicking the machine with her bare foot. “Ouch!”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “Pretty sure threatening hotel property already qualifies,” I say, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed.
Isla whirls around, her eyes wide for a split second before recognition sets in. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Disappointed?”
“No. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, and since when do you wear glasses?” She turns back to the machine, jabbing at the buttons again.
“Uh…evenings mostly. I don’t like having contacts in longer than I have to.”
“Hmm.”
“You don’t like them?” I find a tiny bit of amusement in her assessment.
“No, they’re…nice. Just surprised me is all. What are you doing out here?”
“Listening to someone assault a vending machine outside my door. Thought I might need to call security.”
She huffs, gesturing to the apparent evil machine in front of her. “This bastard stole my dollar. And my pride.”
“Your dollar?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s what has you arguing with a vending machine at midnight?”
“It’s the principle.” She kicks it again, softer this time. “I put in my dollar, pressed D7, and now it won’t give me my chips. I mean, if it’s trying to tell me I don’t need chips this late at night, it could at least be a gentleman and give me my money back.”
I step up beside her, close enough to catch that strawberry scent again, and examine the machine.
The display shows her selection, but the spiral hasn’t turned to drop the bag.
“Did you try the kick method?” I demonstrate with a gentle nudge of my foot against the machine’s side.
“Sometimes it just needs a little motivation.”
She peers down at her foot. “The forthcoming bruise on my big toe says yes.”
“Yeah, but you did it wrong. You have to kick it with purpose, not anger.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Absolutely.” I give the machine another nudge, slightly harder this time. “Anger is emotional. Purpose is tactical.”
She lets out a surprised laugh. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe.” The machine groans and the spiral finally turns dropping the intended bag of chips into the pickup tray. I lean down and retrieve her snack, holding it up in front of her. “Your chips, madam.”
“Thank you, kind sir.” She takes the bag with a small bow, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Your tactical vending machine kicking skills are impressive.”
“Years of practice.” I lean against the machine, suddenly not wanting to go back to my room just yet. “So, midnight snack run, huh?”
“I was hungry.” She tears open the bag and pops one into her mouth. “Mmm. The fruits of victory.” She tips it toward me. “Want one?”
I take a chip, surprised by the casual gesture. “Thanks.”
We stand there for a moment in comfortable silence, the only sound the crunch of our chips. She shifts her weight slightly and leans against the wall. I catch her rubbing her hip absentmindedly and for just a split second, I think about what it would be like to have those hips in my grasp.
“Nice sweatshirt,” I say, nodding toward the Lagers logo on her chest. “That’s the old classic logo. Before my time.”
She looks down and laughs. “Oh, this? Yeah, it was a gift from my dad back in high school. It’s kind of my go-to sweatshirt.” She shakes her head. “He’d be so excited if he knew what I was doing now.”
I note the past tense but ask anyway. “He’s not in the picture?”
Her face pales almost as if she forgot I don’t already know her story. She clears her throat and gives her head a tiny shake. “Uh, no. He died eight years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” That’s all I say about the matter because I’m not about to pry into her life at midnight in the middle of a hotel hallway.
“Thanks,” she whispers. The softness of her tone stabs at my heart and I’m hating myself for asking. Trying to save the moment and change the subject, I dip my hand into her bag of chips and steal one more, popping it into my mouth. “So, how long have you been a flight attendant?”
That seems to pull her out of her moment of reverie. “About six years now. Started with commercial flights but moved to private charters not too long ago. Which is how I ended up with the Lagers gig,” she continues. “Kind of a dream assignment, actually.”
“Yeah? You like flying with a bunch of baseball players?”
She crunches another chip thoughtfully. “Honestly? It beats the alternative. Last year I was flying with a hedge fund CEO who couldn’t remember my name for three straight months. Called me ‘Isabelle’ every single flight.”
I laugh. “That’s rough.”
“Right? At least you guys actually have personalities.” She pauses, then adds with a smirk, “Well, most of you, anyway.”
“Oh, is that supposed to be a dig? So, I don’t have a personality now? Did you not see me kick the machine like a fucking hero?”
She laughs. “Okay, so maybe you’ve got a little personality.”
I wipe a hand down my face, shaking my head. “You know, you might be the first person to ever say that some part of me is little. I don’t usually hear that from women.” I glance up at her. “In fact, you know, most people are a little intimidated when they first meet me.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Should I be?”
“Uh...” I chuckle at her sheer confidence. “I guess I don’t know how to answer that.”
She shifts her weight again, a subtle movement, and I wonder if she’s uncomfortable. “You okay?”
“Hmm? Oh yeah. Just a little stiff.”
“Injury?”
She takes a slow deep breath before she answers, “Something like that.” She smiles at me but it’s not like the smile she had earlier this evening.
I know this look. It’s the smile and nod routine someone gives when they don’t want to talk about something.
I know the look because I do the same thing every time I’m in front of a damn camera.
“Well, I should”I hitch my thumb over my shoulder—“let you eat your midnight snack in peace.”
She nods, looking almost relieved. “Yeah, thanks for the help with the chips.”
“Anytime.” I push off the wall and watch as she starts to walk back to her room.
My gaze zeros in on the slight limp in her step and I wonder if there isn’t more to her supposed injury than meets the eye.
I know I should just go back to my room and forget about this midnight encounter, but I hesitate. “Hey, Isla?”
She stops and turns back, meeting my eye. “Yeah?”
“What happens after baseball season?”
She shrugs, that casual gesture I’m starting to recognize as her go-to for deflecting. “Another plane. Another city.”
The simplicity of her answer sits weirdly with me. It’s not that she said anything wrong, but there’s something in the way she said it, like she’s been rehearsing that line for years.
“Just like that?” I ask.
“Just like that.” She pops another chip into her mouth, crunching loudly. “That’s the job, right? Always moving.”
Okay, I should go. I should definitely go back to my room and stop standing in this hallway. But I don’t.
“I think somewhere along the way baseball stopped being fun.”
What the fuck am I saying?
And why am I saying it to her?
The words hang between us. I watch her face for the moment she decides I’m unhinged, or worse, pathetic.
That I’m just some overpaid athlete in a hotel hallway complaining about his dream job to a woman he barely knows.
But Isla doesn’t laugh or step back. She just studies me for a moment, her head tilting almost imperceptibly, like she’s recalibrating something.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I get that.”
And I almost wish she hadn’t said it that way.
It would be easier if she’d brushed it off, but the way she says it—quiet and certain, like she means it—lands somewhere I wasn’t expecting.
I don’t talk about this kind of stuff. Not with Bishop, not with Shepherd or Sebastian. Not even with my actual coach.
She takes another step toward her room, then pauses, turning back to face me one more time. Her green eyes catch the dim hallway light, and for a second, I think she’s going to say something else about baseball or fun or whatever the hell I just dumped on her.
Instead, she gives me a small smile. “Hey, Haynesy?”
I look up, meeting her gaze. “Yeah?”
“You smiled more tonight.”
And before I can even form a response—before I can tell her she’s wrong or make some sarcastic comment to deflect—she disappears into her room, the door clicking shut behind her.
I stand alone in the hallway, staring at the empty space where she just was, the echo of her words hanging in the air.
You smiled more tonight.
And I mumble to myself, “Yeah. I think you might have something to do with that.“