15. Killian #3
I land on a reality show about people trying to figure out who the murderer is among them. The contestants are already bickering about who gave someone the marble chalice that is obviously a telltale sign. “Perfect,” I say, setting the remote down. “Mindless entertainment.”
Isla laughs, the sound warming me from the inside out. “Oh, I love this show. Did you see the last season where the comedian cries at the end because he feels so bad for deceiving everyone?”
“Oh yeah! The guy who murdered his best friend. Yeah, that was brutal.”
We fall into an easy rhythm, eating and watching the show, occasionally commenting on the contestants’ poor decisions.
The tension from earlier slowly dissolves, replaced by something comfortable and familiar.
It feels like we’ve been doing this forever.
I’m hyperaware of Isla beside me, the warmth of her body, the way she tucks her feet under her thigh, the subtle scent of my soap on her skin.
She’s wearing my clothes, sitting in my bed, and the domesticity of it all hits me like a fastball.
“For what it’s worth,” I say during a commercial break, “I really do appreciate everything you did for me today.”
She turns to look at me, her beautiful green eyes soft in the dim light of the television. “What do you mean?”
“For the whiffle ball game. For... all of it.” I gesture vaguely, not sure how to articulate what I’m feeling. “You didn’t have to do that. Organize all those people, get Mackenzie to cater, convince my brothers to show up.”
“I wanted to.” She shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just orchestrate one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. “It was just for fun. It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she says, but I can see in her eyes that she knows it was more than that.
“Not to me.” I set my plate down on the nightstand and turn to face her fully. “You know that, right? What you did today... It meant something to me.”
Isla’s cheeks flush slightly, and she tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear. “I just wanted to give you a night where you could remember why you love baseball. Without all the pressure, you know? No rules. No impossible standards.”
“You did that and then some.” I reach for her hand without thinking, my fingers wrapping around hers. “I haven’t had that much fun playing in years, so thank you.”
She squeezes my hand back, her fingers warm against mine. “You’re welcome, Killian.”
The way she says my name—soft, almost reverent—makes my heart constrict.
I find myself studying her face, the way the television light plays across her features, highlighting the angry bruise on her cheek.
All this pain she went through today and yet she still finds the humor and the joy in life. She’s nothing short of amazing, really.
Once we’re done eating, I clear away the food and grab us both another bottle of water from the fridge.
We go back to watching our television, laughing over the show’s strategy and analyzing the diverse cast. We’re silent for a few minutes until the next commercial comes on and when it does, I turn to ask Isla how she’s feeling only to find her out cold, leaning against one of the pillows.
I stare at her for a moment, her lips slightly parted, her breathing a steady rhythm of deep sleep.
The angry purple bruise on her cheek causes more guilt to twist in my gut again.
But there’s something else there too, something warm and terrifying that I’m afraid to examine too closely.
She doesn’t stir when I reach over and gently brush a strand of hair from her forehead. Even with exhaustion etched into every line of her face, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “Come on, Coach,” I coo, sliding my arm behind her shoulders. “Let’s get you comfortable.”
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat but doesn’t wake as I reposition her down on the bed properly and pull the duvet from underneath her, tucking it around her shoulders.
She curls onto her side, facing me, one hand coming up to rest near her chin.
She looks so peaceful, so trusting, curled up in my bed wearing my clothes.
She’s perfect.
I move quietly around the room, turning off the television and most of the lights, leaving just the soft glow from the bathroom.
My body still hums with desire, but it’s tempered now by something more tender, more protective.
I watch her sleep from the other side of the bed and something inside me cracks open once again.
It’s not just guilt or attraction or gratitude.
It’s something deeper, something I’ve been trying to ignore since the moment I met her.
I care about her.
Not in the way I care about my brothers or my teammates. Not in the way I care about the game. This is different.
It’s also scary as hell.
I don’t know how to do feelings and I’ve never been very good at relationships, but where Isla is concerned…I think I wouldn’t mind trying.
“For you, Isla Fallon, I think I’d do just about anything.” I lean down and ever so softly kiss her temple.
“Good night, Coach.”