17. Killian
KILLIAN
Three wins in a row, my best stretch of the season by a mile, and my reward is the fiery-haired chaos currently trying to drag me toward the small, brightly lit stage in the corner.
“Absolutely not,” I tell her, my voice flat, digging my heels into the sticky floor. “I don’t sing.”
Isla just grins, that infuriating, beautiful grin that makes the gold flecks in her eyes dance.
“You do too sing, you big liar. Bishop was all too happy to tell us about High School Musical, remember? And besides, that’s the whole point, Haynesy.
It’s called karaoke, not ‘American Idol.’ You’re supposed to be bad at it. It’s fun.”
She’s right. I did sing…in high school. Back when I didn’t care about public perception because the Haynes brothers were the kings of that place. And I do love karaoke in general but here? Now? In front of Isla?
No fucking thank you.
“Being publicly humiliated is your idea of fun? Color me shocked.”
She tugs on my hand, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so small. “It’s liberating! Doing something you’re terrible at in front of other people and not giving a single shit. Try it. You might like it.”
I scan the room, a pathetic attempt to find an escape route, but my teammates are useless. Brock is already egging her on, and Carter just shrugs, a smirk playing on his lips. Traitors, all of them.
“Fine,” I grumble, letting her pull me forward. A terrible idea blooms in my head. “But if I’m going down, you’re going down with me. You first. And I’m picking your song.”
Her eyes narrow, but the challenge is there. “Deal. Make it a good one.”
I lean over the ancient binder of songs, flipping through the plastic-sleeved pages until I find exactly what I’m looking for. I scribble the number down on a slip of paper and hand it to the guy running the machine with a smirk.
When the opening lines of “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls blast through the speakers, she erupts in laughter and then snatches the microphone, hops on stage, and launches into the song with zero shame.
And even less musical talent.
She’s off-key, she forgets half the words, substituting her own ridiculous ones, and her dancing is a spectacle of uncoordinated limbs. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful disaster I have ever heard. And I can’t look away.
She points at me during the “zig-a-zig-ah” part, winking like a complete lunatic, and I’m fucking smitten.
I’m laughing, actually laughing, a real laugh that comes from my gut and not just a polite chuckle for the cameras.
She’s so fucking beautiful up there. She’s a chaotic mess, and she doesn’t care. Not even a little.
The song ends with a roar of applause and whoops from the team. She takes a bow, nearly tripping over the cord, and bounces off the stage, her crimson hair flying. She lands in front of me, breathless and beaming.
“Well, that was…a choice.”
She laughs. “What’s the matter? You didn’t like it?”
“Like it?” I ask, biting back a wide smile. “No, I didn’t like it. I fucking loved it.”
She pushes up on her tiptoes and kisses me right there in front of everyone. “Your turn, Haynesy. No backing out.”
The opening chords of “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys has me rolling my eyes in amusement.
Of course she picked that one.
“Really?” I groan, but the protest is weak, half-hearted. The crack in my chest is widening, letting in a light I haven’t felt in years.
“Payback’s a bitch,” she says, clapping her hands. She pats my ass, a gesture I don’t mind at all, and says, “Now get up there and embarrass yourself properly.”
With much applause and encouragement from my teammates, I grip the mic, my palms a lot sweaty, and then open my mouth, my voice coming out as a hesitant croak that immediately cracks on the second word.
Heat floods my neck because I’m pretty damn sure I sound like a wounded animal.
A laugh bubbles up from the crowd, but it’s not mean.
It’s the same kind of laughter that met Isla’s performance; warm, encouraging and part of the game.
I risk a glance at her and see that she’s beaming up at me, mouthing the words with exaggerated enthusiasm, her hands clapping in time. She’s not laughing at me. Nobody is.
They’re all laughing with me.
Isla is pulling me into her orbit of glorious, unselfconscious chaos, so I close my eyes.
I stop trying to hit notes that were never within my reach and just fucking sing.
I don’t need the words. Everyone knows them.
I bellow the chorus, my voice cracking spectacularly on the high parts, and the team explodes around me.
They’re singing along, shouting the words, raising their bottles.
Carter is howling but cheering me on with a beer in hand, and even Bishop is clapping, a wide, surprised grin on his face.
I’m terrible. I mean, I sang in the high school choir, and I know I can hold a tune, but there’s no way I’m good at this, either way, I don’t care.
The weight I usually carry on the mound, the constant pressure to be perfect, to be precise, it just…
evaporates. There’s only the music, the laughter, and Isla’s bright, shining face, her hand clasped under her chin like I’m singing her a damn lullaby.
When the song finally ends, I’m breathless and grinning like an idiot, the mic still clutched in my hand. The bar erupts in cheers and whistles, and the guys are clapping me on the back so hard I nearly stumble off the tiny stage.
I find Isla in the crowd, her smile so wide it looks like it might split her face in two. She meets me at the edge of the stage and practically jumps into my arms.
“See?” she says, her voice an excited squeal right by my ear. Her breath is warm and smells like the cheap beer she’s been drinking all night. “Not so bad, was it?”
“I haven’t sung like that in ages. Pretty sure it was a fucking travesty,” I tell her, but I can’t wipe the stupid grin off my face.
“You loved it,” she counters, her eyes dropping to my mouth. “Admit it.”
Before I can answer, she’s dragging me back toward our table, her hand finding mine and lacing our fingers together. The contact sends a jolt straight up my arm, and I don’t pull away. I just let her lead me through the crowd, past the strangers and their exaggerated thumbs-up and high-fives.
“That was pretty fucking good, Haynes!” Jude compliments with a pat on the back when we reach our table. We’re squeezed into seats packed tightly together, and when I notice someone has taken one of our chairs, I sit down in an empty one and pull Isla onto my lap. “You’re a natural performer.”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “Pretty sure I sounded like a dying cat.” My protest is hollow. I can still feel the ghost of a smile on my face because fuck it, that felt good.
“Maybe.” Isla shrugs her shoulders, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “But you were my dying cat. And you looked sexy as fuck up there.”
Her words hit me right in the center of my chest.
Happy.
Is that what this feeling is?
This lightness, this lack of a knot in my stomach? I take a long pull from my beer just to have something to do with my hands.
“It’s just too bad dying cats aren’t very good in bed.”
Several jaws drop around the table, the guys chuckling at Isla’s teasing. She’s so amused with herself because that comment is pure Isla; bold, teasing, designed to get a rise out of me.
And it works.
A different kind of heat floods my system, low and insistent. A slow grin spreads across my face as I lean in close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“That’s a dangerous accusation to make, Fallon. You sure you want to test that theory?”
Her laugh is a low, throaty sound that goes straight to my groin. “Oh, I’m sure. I’m just calling it like I see it. All that swagger on the field and on stage has to be compensating for something, right?”
I tighten my arm around her waist, pulling her more firmly against me on my lap. I can feel the heat of her through her shorts, the soft curve of her ass a perfect fit against me. “You know what they say about assumptions.”
“I do,” she says, turning her head so her mouth is inches from mine. Her breath is warm and sweet. “But I’m more of a hands-on researcher.”
The guys are whooping now, the conversation at the table completely derailed by our flirtation.
“Is that so?”
She grins but only answers with a sound. “Mmm.” Her head tilts to the side as she studies me, and then she asks, “Tell me, Haynesy, all those women you slept with before…are you the reason they don’t come back or…” her voice changes to a sympathetic tone. “Are you the reason they don’t come back.”
Bishop bursts out in laughter. “Definitely the latter. Don’t let him fool you.”
“I read in the tabloids that he’s a ’two-pump chump,’” Jude adds with a shit-eating grin, raising his beer in a mock toast. “His record is sixty-three seconds, but don’t ask me how I know.”
Carter leans across the table, his expression mock serious. “Nah, nah, it’s the talking. He gives a play-by-play commentary. ‘And the pitcher sets, checks the runner...oh, he’s going for the fastball!’”
The whole table howls with laughter. I feel my ears burn, but I’m grinning too, because Isla’s body is shaking with silent laughter against mine, and relishing in her joy is better than any fucking pitch I’ve ever made.
“He’s a cuddler,” Bishop deadpans from across the table, not even looking up from his phone. “Like, aggressively so. Won’t let you go. It’s suffocating. Oh, and you better leave a light on.”
“Dude! I was six and you promised you would never tell!” I shout at him in amusement.
“Yeah, we promised we’d never tell Mom and Dad,” he answers with a laugh. “I never promised shit about these guys or Isla.”
“Don’t forget he calls his dick ‘The Commissioner,’” Paxton finishes, howling as he delivers the final blow. “Thinks it’s running the whole damn show.”
Isla turns her face into my neck, her laughter muffled against my skin. I can feel the heat of her breath, the vibration of her giggles. “The Commissioner, huh?”