9. Killian #2
"Wow! You clean up nice, Coach," I say, offering her my arm.
She laughs, the sound bright and warm in the evening air. "You don't look so bad yourself, Haynes." She hesitates before slipping her arm through mine. "So, where are you taking me? McDonald's drive-thru?"
I feign offense. "I have standards, thank you very much. And it's a surprise."
I walk her to my car—a black Range Rover that I had detailed this morning specifically for this occasion, which is information I will take to my grave—and open the passenger door for her.
She pauses, looking at the open door and then at me. "Did you just open my door?"
"I did."
"Voluntarily?"
"Don't make it weird."
She laughs and slides in, and I close the door behind her before rounding the front of the car. When I get in and start the engine, she's already looking around at the interior with that curious expression. I’m guessing she's cataloguing information she plans to use against me later.
"Nice car," she says.
"Thanks."
"Does it have a name?"
I glance at her sideways. "No."
"Liar. Everyone names their cars."
“What did you name yours?”
“His name is Cletus.”
I toss my head back in laughter. “Cletus? What the hell kind of name is Cletus?”
“A very respectable one, thank you very much,” she tells me while also laughing. “And also, I didn’t name him. Tara did.”
“Who’s Tara?”
“Tara Pichler, my roommate. She’s also a flight attendant but she flies commercial so we don’t see a ton of each other. We share the apartment. It works out well for us. Now, what’s her name?”
“Why do you assume my car has a female name?”
She shrugs. “Call it a hunch.”
I finally huff out an exasperated yet amused breath. "Alright, her name is Diane and we don't talk about her, alright? She’s shy."
“Whatever you say.” Isla dissolves into laughter, and I pull away from the curb feeling something I haven't felt before a date in a very long time.
Nervous.
Not the kind of nervous that crawls up my spine before a game, all sharp edges and self-doubt.
This is something else. Something quieter and somehow more unsettling.
Like standing on the mound in a stadium I've never pitched in before.
Everything looks familiar enough, but nothing is quite where I expect it to be.
"Diane," Isla repeats, testing the name like she's trying to decide if she approves. "Does Diane know she's your second favorite girl after baseball?"
"Diane doesn't ask questions," I say. "That's why we get along."
"Smart woman." She laughs again, and I feel the tension in my shoulders ease by about half.
This is the thing about Isla Fallon that I can't quite figure out.
She has this way of making everything feel lighter without even trying.
Without even meaning to. She just opens her mouth and suddenly the air in the room weighs less.
Or in this case, the air in Diane.
But we don't talk about Diane.
I merge onto the main road, the city lights beginning to blur past the windows. Isla turns to watch them, her elbow propped on the door, her chin resting in her palm. The green dress shifts against her knee when she crosses her legs and I keep my eyes on the road like my life depends on it.
Which, frankly, it might.
"You're not going to give me any hints?" she asks.
"Nope."
"What if I hate it?"
"You won't."
She hums. "That's a bold claim."
"I'm a bold guy."
"Bold," she repeats. "Right. Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you call it?"
She considers this for a moment, turning back to the window. "Delusional optimism."
"That's two words."
"And here I thought you were a pitcher, not an English teacher."
I laugh, and it surprises me a little. The easy way it comes out.
No performance in it. No audience. Just the two of us in the dark cab of Diane with the city sliding past the windows and Isla Fallon in a green dress making fun of me in that particular way she has that somehow never actually feels like an insult.
I pull up to the restaurant ten minutes later and hand the keys to the valet before coming around to open her door. When she steps out and looks up at the building, I watch her face carefully.
Her lips part. "Killian."
Ah hell. Her lips parted like they are and hearing her say my name all breathy and shit makes me really regret that no sex rule she insisted on. "Told you you'd like it."
She looks back at the restaurant, and I watch the soft glow of the entrance lighting catch the golden highlights in her hair. "It's Bellamy's," she says quietly.
"Yeah."
"Killian, this place has a three-month waitlist."
"I know."
She turns to look at me again, and there's something different in her expression now. Something a little more careful. "How did you get a reservation?"
I shrug, sliding my hands into my jacket pockets. "I called in a favor."
"What kind of favor?"
"The kind where I know a guy who knows a guy."
"That's not an answer."
"No," I agree. "But it's what you're getting. You ready?” I offer her my hand and she immediately looks down at it like it’s a foreign object that might bite her if she touches it. I watch as she swallows and then looks back up at me, her round eyes appearing suddenly nervous. “It’s just my hand, Coach,” I say softly, leaning into her so I can whisper in her ear. “And it’s just dinner.”
“Right.” She nods. “Yeah. I’m good.” She places her hand in mine and for the first time in my entire adult life, a peculiar warm fuzzy feeling shoots through my chest as I wrap my hand around her soft fingers.
“Good.” I take a breath and then, right before we walk to the door, tell her, “You really do look beautiful tonight, by the way.”
She doesn’t have the chance to be sarcastic or respond in any way because the ma?tre d' greets us at the door and leads us through the main dining room toward the table I reserved two days ago.
I may have called in a big favor. I may have also specifically requested the table near the window that overlooks the river, because if rumors are going to swirl—and they will, they already are—I want everyone who sees us to see me treating her right.
Isla takes it all in as we walk. The low lighting. The white tablecloths. The kind of quiet that costs money. I watch her eyes dart around the room and I find myself more interested in her reaction than in anything else happening in this restaurant.
I pull out her chair for her. She raises an eyebrow but sits down without comment, as she continues to scan the restaurant.
"Impressive," she says as the ma?tre d' hands us our menus. "I've never been here before."
"First time for everything," I reply, settling into my seat across from her. We take a moment to order drinks—whiskey for me, wine for her—and then order our meals before easily slipping into conversation.
"So, is this how you normally impress women? Fancy restaurants and smooth lines?"
Okay maybe not so easy.
I laugh, shaking my head. "Actually, no. I usually don't have to try this hard."
Her eyes narrow playfully. "Oh. Is that so?"
"Most women are impressed by the whole professional athlete thing and don’t give a damn about dinner. They’re more interested in dessert," I admit, leaning back in my chair. "But something tells me that wouldn't work on you."
"You'd be right." She glances down at her lap but I catch the slight smile playing at her lips. "I’m no cleat chaser if that’s what you’re wondering. I'm more impressed by a man who can carry on an actual conversation."
"Good thing I'm full of those."
“Okay then.” She leans forward slightly. “Tell me something nobody knows about you.”
I pick up my water glass, turning it slowly between my palms. "I was afraid of the dark until I was twelve."
She blinks. "Really?"
"Like, genuinely terrified. Bishop and Shepherd used to sleep with the bathroom light on for years because of me. They never told my parents and never teased me about it.”
I pause, surprised by how easily that memory came out. I don't usually share things like that, especially not on a first date.
"That's..." Isla's expression softens. "That's actually really sweet. About your brothers, I mean."
"Yeah, well, don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."
"Your secret's safe with me," she says, taking a sip of her wine. "Though I'm filing it away for future blackmail purposes."
"Of course you are." I laugh, feeling more at ease than I expected. "Your turn. Something nobody knows about you."
She taps her finger against her wine glass, considering. "I can recite the entire script of The Goonies from memory."
"Bullshit."
"Not bullshit." She straightens in her chair. "I once won fifty bucks from my college roommate by doing the entire final scene, including all the sound effects."
"Okay, I'm going to need proof of this at some point."
"Maybe if you're lucky," she says with a smile that makes my stomach do something weird.
Our appetizers arrive, and we continue chatting as we eat.
I find myself telling her about my first professional game, how I threw up in the bathroom before taking the mound.
She tells me about her first time flying as a flight attendant, how she spilled an entire tray of drinks on a CEO who later wrote her a glowing recommendation.
"So, he wasn't mad?" I ask, surprised.
"Apparently I looked so horrified that he felt bad for me," she laughs. "He said it was the most genuine reaction he'd seen from anyone in years."
"Sounds like you've always been good at cutting through bullshit."
"Natural talent, I guess," she says with a wink.
As our main courses arrive, I notice Isla shifting in her seat, a subtle movement that I've come to recognize as her trying to get comfortable. I wonder if her leg is bothering her, the one with the limp she tries so hard to hide.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Fine," she says quickly, but I catch the slight wince when she adjusts her position again.