10. Isla
ISLA
The thing about going viral is that nobody warns you how weird it feels to see your own face on a gossip website while you’re eating cereal in your pajamas.
I’m sitting cross-legged on my couch, spoon halfway to my mouth, staring at my laptop screen at a photo I didn’t know was being taken.
It’s from Bellamy’s a few nights ago. Killian and I at the window table, the river glittering behind us in the background.
His head is tilted toward mine and I’m laughing at something he said.
The headline reads: Lagers’ Star Pitcher Killian Haynes Finally Off the Market? Mystery Redhead Has Our Attention.
“Mystery redhead,” I say out loud to nobody. “Fantastic.”
I click away from the article before I can read any further, because the comments section is a place I have absolutely no business going.
I know this about myself. I have the self-preservation instincts of someone who has survived worse than a gossip blog, and I’m not about to let a bunch of strangers on the internet ruin my morning cereal.
My phone buzzes on the cushion beside me.
Tara
MYSTERY REDHEAD. I CANNOT. I AM DECEASED.
Then, three seconds later it buzzes again.
Tara
Also, you look gorgeous. But also, I’m deceased.
I’m typing back when another message comes through, but it’s not from Tara this time.
Killian
You’ve seen it.
It’s not a question.
Me
Mystery redhead is a strong choice of words. I have a name.
Killian
To be fair, they don’t know your name yet.
Me
Yet.
Killian
Yet. You okay?
I stare at the two words for longer than I should. There’s something about the way he asks it—no preamble, no spin, just the question sitting there plainly—that catches me somewhere behind my sternum.
Me
I’m fine. I don’t mind being linked to you. I just wasn’t expecting the photo.
Killian
Linked to me hmm? Are you secretly one of those clingy types?
Me
In your dreams, Haynesy.
Killian
For the record, I didn’t know someone was taking pictures. I’m sorry.
Me
It’s fine. Really. The photo is actually nice. You look good.
Killian
You look better.
I stare at the message, a warmth spreading through my chest that I immediately try to suppress.
This is fake.
We’re pretending.
That’s the whole point.
Me
So, what now? Do we just...let this happen?
Killian
Pretty much. Let the rumor mill do its thing. It’ll help sell the whole “I’m settling down” narrative. The front office is having a meeting today, so hopefully enough of them have seen it too and will talk about us.
Me
Right. The narrative.
I set my phone down and take another bite of cereal, but my appetite has disappeared.
Seeing our photo splashed across a gossip site makes this whole arrangement feel more real than it did when we were sitting across from each other at Bellamy’s.
Inside and over the phone, we’re just two people pretending to be into one another.
But, out there, in the real world, we look like a real couple.
We look happy. Comfortable. Like we belong together.
Killian
Gotta hit the bullpen with Hop. Talk later.
Me
Good luck (you know…if you even need luck...which you probably don’t. Maybe pretend I didn’t say that)
Killian
Isla Fallon wishing me luck instead of telling me I pitch slower than her grandma? I will never forget this.
Me
LOL okay smartass.
A few hours later, I’m folding laundry when my phone buzzes again. It’s a text from Killian, and something about the way it comes through—four little words—grabs my attention.
Killian
I need you Isla.
I stare at the message for a moment before responding in my usual teasing tone.
Me
Wow, at least buy me dinner first.
Killian
I can promise you mozzarella sticks…and whatever ice cream Shepherd has in his freezer.
Me
That hardly constitutes a romantic dinner.
Killian
Seriously though. I need you. Can you come? Please?
I pause at his tone. Even through text, I can sense the tension radiating from his words.
There’s a vulnerability that catches me off guard.
Killian Haynes doesn’t ask for help and he doesn’t show weakness.
The fact that he’s reaching out to me, even for something as simple as showing up, feels significant.
Me
Are you at the field? I can be there in 15.
Killian
Yeah. I’ll make sure you have access to the clubhouse. Just tell security your name. They’ll know you’re with me.
Me
Killian
Thank you Isla.
Me
Wait, do I need to wear something special? Dress up? Dress down?
Killian
I’m sure you’re perfect just as you are. Can you hurry?
Me
Coming!
I toss my phone onto the couch and stare at the half-folded laundry pile.
My heart is doing something stupid and fluttery that I absolutely do not have time for.
I should be annoyed. I should be questioning why I’m dropping everything to go to a baseball stadium because Killian Haynes texted me a few words and a please.
Instead, I’m already pulling my hair into a messy ponytail and grabbing my keys off the hook by the door.
Twelve minutes later, I’m pulling into the stadium parking lot wondering if I’m going to find Killian crouched on a bathroom floor or sitting alone in a tub of ice.
My stomach does somersaults that have nothing to do with the fact that I skipped lunch and everything to do with the star pitcher of the Portland Lagers telling me he needs me.
The security guard at the players’ entrance checks my name and ID, then nods me through with a knowing smile.
“Second door on the left, Ms. Fallon,” he says, holding the door open for me. “That will lead you out to the bullpen. Mr. Haynes is expecting you.”
The hallway is cool and dim, the smell of leather and pine filling my nostrils as I follow his directions.
I can hear the muffled sounds of the team practicing beyond the walls, the crack of a bat, the thud of a ball hitting a glove, someone shouting instructions.
The energy is electric, even from behind closed doors.
I go through the door leading me outside and find the bullpen easily enough.
Some of the guys are tossing balls on the field.
Some are in the batting cages, but Killian is standing outside the bullpen, his expression tight, his jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscles working beneath his skin as he talks to Carter Lewis.
His hair is damp with sweat, his practice jersey clinging to his chest. Even from a distance it’s not hard to see that something is wrong.
The easy confidence I’ve seen him carry around the team is gone, replaced by something that looks almost like panic.
When he spots me, his steps quicken. The tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease. If anything, it gets worse.
Fuck.
What happened?
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice light as he approaches. “You okay?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His face is dark with something I can’t quite read as I hear him say from a few feet away, “Just please fucking trust me.” His voice is rough and the vulnerability in his eyes makes me want to hug him and tell him it’s all going to be alright.
Except I don’t know what’s going on to be able to promise him that.
Before I can respond to him, though, Killian closes the distance between us and kisses me.
And it’s not just a quick hello kiss. His lips are warm and insistent, one hand wrapping around my waist and the other coming up to cradle the back of my head.
The kiss is not at all what I expected. It’s not the gentle, tentative press of lips I imagined for our first public display.
This is desperate, almost frantic, like he’s trying to anchor himself to something solid.
My brain short-circuits and every coherent thought in my head evaporates the second his mouth moves against mine.
Jesus Christ, he’s a good kisser.
Annoyingly, stupidly, unfairly good.
The kind of good that makes your toes curl inside your sneakers, and your hand find the fabric of his practice jersey without permission.
I’m gripping the front of his shirt like I’m the one who needed an anchor and somewhere in the back of my mind, the part that’s still functioning at partial capacity, I know there are people watching.
And maybe that’s the point.
I also know that knowing something and feeling something are two entirely different things, and right now what I feel is completely, catastrophically melted.
When Killian finally pulls back, just barely, his forehead drops to mine the way it does in movies you’re not supposed to cry at but definitely do anyway.
“Breathe with me, Coach,” he begs, so low only I can hear it. His chest rises and falls as quickly as mine does. “And please don’t look at me like you’ve never been kissed before. People are watching.”
Right.
People are watching.
“To be fair, Mr. Haynes,” I whisper to him, feeling the heat in my cheeks sink in. “Being kissed, and being kissed by Killian Haynes, star pitcher for the Portland Lagers, are two very different things.”
I feel his body start to relax as he takes a deep breath and lets it out, trying to give me a timid smile along the way.
I smooth my hand up his muscular arm, trying to keep my face neutral. “You okay?”
“No.” His hazel eyes lift and meet mine in a stare filled with what I can only describe as fear of the unknown. “But with you here, maybe I will be.”
I try to steady my breathing as I pull back slightly, my hand still resting on his arm. The panic on his face is real, raw, and completely at odds with the confident man I’ve come to know.
“What happened?” I ask quietly.
Killian glances around, his jaw tight. “Not here,” he murmurs. “Too many ears.”
I nod, understanding immediately. Whatever has him this rattled isn’t something he wants broadcasted across the bullpen. I slide my hand down to his, threading our fingers together in what I hope looks like a casual, loving gesture rather than the lifeline I’m offering him.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Where do you want to go?”