14. Isla
ISLA
Getting hit in the face with a whiffle ball hurts way more than you’d expect from something that weighs about as much as a cotton ball.
I press Killian’s shirt harder against my nose as Diane rumbles beneath us, the streetlights painting stripes across the dashboard in rhythmic, hypnotic intervals.
My head is throbbing in time with my heartbeat, and the swelling above my cheekbone has already begun to feel like a small, angry animal trying to escape my face.
Killian hasn’t spoken since we left the park.
He’s been driving with both hands at ten and two like he’s taking a road test, his jaw so tight I can see the muscles working beneath his skin even in the dim light.
His bare chest rises and falls with measured breaths, the kind of breathing I recognize because it’s the same kind I’ve done on multiple occasions.
He’s escalating internally.
“Killian.”
His eyes flick to me for half a second before returning to the road. “Yeah?”
“You know I’ve been hit by a car, right?”
He blinks and the muscle in his jaw stops moving. “What?”
“Twice, technically.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, the silence stretching between us, filled only with the hum of Diane’s engine and the faint sound of some indie rock station Killian turned on low.
“Twice?” he repeats, his voice dropping to something low and incredulous. “You’ve been hit by a car twice?”
“Yeah.” I shift the shirt slightly, checking if the bleeding has stopped. “First time was a fender bender with some guy in a sedan when I was sixteen. Second time was an SUV that put me in the hospital for months.”
Killian’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles going white in the passing headlights. “Jesus Christ, Isla.”
“I know. I have terrible luck with vehicles.” I try to keep my voice light, even though my face is throbbing like a second heartbeat. “The sedan was a hit-and-run. The SUV was...well, you know about that one.”
“And you’re telling me this why?” He sounds like he’s trying very hard not to shout.
“Because a whiffle ball isn’t making my top ten, most hurtful moments, Killian.” I turn slightly in my seat to face him, wincing at the movement. “I’ve survived worse than this. Much worse.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his jaw working again. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head, the catastrophic thinking that I know all too well.
“You’re spiraling,” I say softly, my hand instinctively moving across his thigh as I try to soothe him. “And I don’t want you to spiral over me.”
His muscles tense beneath my palm, but he doesn’t push my hand away. Instead, his breathing changes, becomes more deliberate, more controlled.
“I’m not spiraling,” he says, though his voice betrays him. “I’m processing.”
“Killian.” I squeeze his thigh gently. “You’ve been driving like you’re afraid Diane might explode if you go over thirty-five.”
That earns me a small exhale that might be a laugh if it weren’t so strangled. “I just—” He stops, swallows hard. “I hate myself for hurting you.”
“You didn’t hurt me. The ball did.”
“I made you bleed.” His voice cracks on the word, and a knot forms in my throat at his vulnerability. “Your face is swollen. Sebastian thinks your nose might be broken. Please don’t pretend like it’s not my fault.”
“Sebastian is a trainer for a football team, not an ER doctor.” I shift in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn’t make my face throb. “And even if it is broken—which I’m pretty sure it’s not—it’s not the end of the world. I’ve been wanting a nose job anyway.”
I take pride in the smile that appears on his face even if it’s a fleeting one. He shakes his head and glances at me with the most helpless expression on his face. “Your ability to make light of this is unbelievable.”
“It’s not unbelievable. It’s survival.” I adjust the ice pack against my nose, wincing as the cold hits my swollen skin. “When you’ve been through the worst, everything else feels manageable by comparison. If you can’t laugh about it, it will just consume you.”
Killian’s hands tighten on the steering wheel again. “That’s not...that’s not how it works, Isla. Just because something worse happened doesn’t mean this doesn’t matter.”
“I didn’t say it doesn’t matter.” I reach over and place my hand on his forearm, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. “I’m just saying it’s not the catastrophe your brain is making it out to be.”
He glances at me, his hazel eyes catching the streetlight, gold flecks bright against the green. “You don’t know what my brain is doing.”
“Don’t I?” I raise an eyebrow, then immediately regret it as pain shoots through my face. “Ow. Okay, note to self: no eyebrow raises for a while.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escapes him. “See? You’re hurt and you’re still trying to make me feel better.”
“I’m just trying to make you see reality,” I correct him.
“One mistake doesn’t mean disaster. One imperfect swing doesn’t mean catastrophe.
One bad outcome doesn’t mean the world ends.
” I turn back around in my seat when Killian pulls into the parking garage of his apartment building.
“That’s what tonight was supposed to be about.
Reminding you how much you enjoy the game…
playing without pressure. Just…having fun no matter how good or bad we all were out there. ”
He pulls into his spot and puts the car into park before glancing at me, surprise flickering across his features. “How did you—”
“I pay attention, Killian,” I say softly, bringing my hand back to his thigh. “I notice things about you.”
He shifts in his seat to look at me and for a moment, the parking garage falls away. “You notice things about me,” he repeats, his voice barely audible.
I nod. “I notice that you hold your breath sometimes before you pitch and that you clench your jaw when you’re trying not to show how anxious you are.
I notice that you hold yourself to impossible standards.
That you track every mistake like it’s the end of the world.
That you’ve convinced yourself perfection is the only option. ”
Killian’s gaze drops to where my hand rests on his thigh. “That’s...a lot of noticing.”
“I’m a people person,” I say with a small shrug. “It’s kind of my thing.”
“And what else have you noticed?” he asks, his voice low and rough in the quiet of the car.
I hesitate, suddenly aware of how close we are in the confined space. The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat fills my nostrils, and I’m hyper-aware of the warmth of his body beneath my palm.
“I notice you’re not at all the man you allow the public to believe.
For all the women you supposedly have at your beck and call, you haven’t flirted with a woman even once in the times I’ve been around you.
I notice that you enjoy being with your brothers and your teammates.
They’re like an entire family of people who love you for who you are, and you appreciate that more than they could ever realize.
And I notice you’re harder on yourself than anyone else could ever be,” I say carefully.
He doesn’t deny any of what I just said. Instead, he reaches over and gently brushes a strand of hair from my swollen cheek. His touch is feather-light, barely there, but it sends shivers down my spine.
“Your face is getting worse,” he says, his voice guilt-ridden as his fingers trace the swelling. “We should get you upstairs and put some proper ice on it.”
“Probably,” I agree, but I don’t move. Neither does he.
The silence between us stretches, filled with something electric and unspoken.
His hand moves from my cheek to cup the back of my neck, his thumb tracing small circles against my skin.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and I’m not sure if it’s from the injury or from the way he’s looking at me.
Like he wants to kiss me but he’s not sure if he should.
“Killian,” I whimper, my voice barely audible in the confined space of the car.
He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, his thumb continues its gentle circles against my skin, and his gaze drops to my lips. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
“I know you’re trying to be fine, but I see how much pain you’re really in.” He shakes his head. “I…I just need to take care of you tonight. I need to know you’re okay.”
Something about the way he says it—vulnerable, bordering on desperate—makes me forget to protest. “Okay, Killian,” I say, feeling a bit of a relief that I won’t be sitting at home in pain tonight by myself. “I won’t argue with you.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath, and I see some of the tension leave his shoulders. “Thank you,” he says, his voice filled with relief.
Killian opens his door and comes around to my side, opening it before I can even reach for the handle. He helps me out, his arm sliding around my waist to steady me as my head swims for a moment.
“You good?” he asks, his face close to mine.
“Yeah, just a little dizzy.” I lean into him, savoring the warmth of his bare skin against my arm. “Probably just dehydrated.”
“I’ve got plenty of electrolytes upstairs.
” He keeps his arm firmly around me as we make our way to the elevator.
The parking garage is quiet except for the distant hum of machinery and our footsteps echoing off the concrete walls.
When we reach the elevator, he presses the button and then turns to face me, his expression serious.
“Promise me if you start to feel worse, you’ll tell me. ”
“Cross my heart,” I say, making the motion with my finger. The elevator dings, and we step inside. The mirrored walls reflect our image back at us, me with my swollen face and Killian’s shirt pressed against my nose, him shirtless with his arm protectively around me.
“Yikes, we look terrible,” I tell him, eyeing our reflection.
He chuckles. “Speak for yourself, Coach. I look sexy as fuck right now. You're the one who looks like you went ten rounds with Mike Tyson.”
“Is that what we’re naming the whiffle ball?” I lean my head against his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline from the accident is wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep tiredness that makes my legs feel like jelly.
The elevator dings and we step into Killian’s hallway.
The plush carpet muffles our footsteps as we make our way to his door.
I’m suddenly very aware of how intimate this feels, just the two of us in the quiet hallway, me in his arms, heading to his apartment at night.
His place is exactly as I remember it, sleek, modern, and somehow still feeling like it belongs in a magazine rather than being someone’s home.
The city lights begin to twinkle through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft glow across the dark space.
Despite the emptiness of the place, the view really is spectacular.
“Come on,” Killian says, guiding me. “Let’s see what the damage is now that we’re home.
” He leads me to the kitchen where he easily lifts me onto the counter, so I’m sitting at his height.
“Let me look,” he says softly, his fingers wrapping around my wrist as he slowly draws the soaked shirt away from my face.
I wince as the cold air hits my raw skin, but I keep my eyes on him, watching as his expression shifts from concern to something deeper, more pained.
His thumb traces the edge of the swelling on my cheekbone, feather-light, careful not to hurt me. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “Isla, I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” I reply, catching his hand in mine. “It was an accident.”
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers intertwine with mine, his grip firm but gentle. “The bleeding has mostly stopped,” he says, his eyes still fixed on my face. “But your cheek is swelling pretty badly. And your nose...” He trails off, his jaw tightening.
“What about my nose?” I ask, suddenly nervous.
“It’s...it looks okay, actually.” His thumb brushes across the bridge of my nose, sending shivers down my spine despite the pain. “It’s not crooked or anything. I think Seb was wrong about it being broken.”
“See? Not the end of the world.” I try to smile, but it pulls at my swollen cheek, making me wince. “Ow. Okay, no smiling either. Noted.”
Killian doesn’t laugh at my joke this time. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a clean dish towel, running it under cold water before gently pressing it against my nose. The coolness feels divine against my throbbing skin.
“Hold this here,” he instructs, guiding my hand to the towel. “I’m going to get some ice.”
“Actually, before you do that, do you think…I mean…would it be possible to get a shower? I can feel that there’s blood on my face and neck and honestly washing off the sweat from the day would be nice.”
“Yeah, of course.” He cringes. “Except my shower head is one of those rain-type shower heads. The pressure is nice but if it hits your face at all…”
“Shit, I didn’t think about that.”
We stare at each other as if waiting for the other to come up with a genius idea.
Finally, Killian releases a breath and says, “Why don’t I just help you?
You can cover your face with your hands so the water doesn’t hit that area, and I’ll wash your hair and your…
” he glances down my body. “Well, whatever you need help with.”
I stare at him for a moment, my brain struggling to process what he just said. “You want to help me shower?”
The tips of his ears turn pink, but his expression remains serious.
“Look, I know it sounds all kinds of fucked up, but I promise you this isn’t some twisted way of trying to get into your pants.
We’re both adults here. I’m not suggesting anything inappropriate,” he says, holding up his hands.
“I just want you to feel better. I get that it was an accident but that doesn’t negate the fact that it’s my fault you’re in this predicament. ”
I consider this for a moment. The thought of Killian seeing me naked sends a confusing mix of panic and something warm through me. But the alternative—trying to shower alone while still a little dizzy, a lot exhausted, and in pain—doesn’t seem much better.
“If you’re that worried, you can keep your bra and panties on if you want. It’ll be just like you’re wearing a bikini. Then once you’re clean we can get you some more ice and maybe some food if you’re up for it.”
“Alright,” I finally say, sliding off the counter with his hand on my waist to steady me. “But you keep your eyes to yourself.”
The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly before he winks and mumbles, “No promises, Coach.”