21. Killian
KILLIAN
This bracelet is a mistake.
I stare at the small velvet box in my palm, my thumb tracing the edge of the lid. It’s not expensive, just a simple gold chain with a small baseball charm dangling from it. But the weight of it feels monumental, like I’m holding my own heart in my hand.
I’ve never given a woman jewelry before. Not because I couldn’t afford it, but because I’ve never wanted to. The women who’ve passed through my life have been temporary, forgettable. But Isla...Isla is different.
I snap the box shut and tuck it into my suit pocket just as I hear the bathroom door open.
“Killian? Can you help me with this back? I can’t quite reach—”
Her voice dies in her throat when she sees me. I know the feeling because I’m experiencing the exact same thing.
Fuck me.
She’s a knockout.
She stands in the doorway of my bedroom, the teal fabric catching the light like liquid silk, and I swear my heart stops beating for a solid three seconds.
The color is perfect—identical to the Lagers team colors—and it makes her hair look like fire against the cool blue-green.
The dress hugs every curve, the slit revealing just enough leg to make my mouth go dry.
“Holy shit, Kill. You clean up…” She swallows hard. “Nice. You look hot.”
I don’t answer her. Not because I don’t want to, but because I physically can’t.
Because I can’t stop looking at her.
“Killian?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re staring,” Isla says, a blush creeping up her neck.
“I’m memorizing,” I correct her, crossing the room in three strides. I take her hands in mine, pulling her toward me. “You look absolutely fucking stunning, Coach.”
Her face sparkles with a nervous energy. “The dress isn’t too much?”
“Are you kidding? No, it’s not too much. It’s fucking perfect.” I brush my thumb across her knuckles, feeling the slight tremor in her hands. “You’re perfect.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrays her. “You’re biased.”
When she turns and I catch a glimpse of the low-cut back with the corset ties I have to stop and take a breath again.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mumble. “Damn right I’m biased.
” I lean down, pressing my lips to the sensitive spot just below her ear.
“And I’m the goddamn luckiest bastard in this city tonight because I get to tie you into this dress…
” I tug at the ties and then create an elegant bow at the bottom of the corset and then slide my hands around the front of her, kissing her shoulder and teasing, “and then I’ll get to enjoy every fucking minute of helping you out of it. ”
A shiver runs through her body, and I feel it against my chest. The sound that escapes her lips is barely audible, but it sends heat straight to my groin.
“Killian,” she whimpers, her voice breathy. “We’re going to be late.”
“We’ve got time,” I hum against her neck, inhaling the scent of her perfume mixed with something uniquely Isla. My fingers trace the line of her hip bone through the thin fabric. “Besides, I haven’t even given you your gift yet.”
She turns in my arms, and I catch the surprise on her face. “What? You got me a gift?”
I reach into my pocket, pulling out the velvet box.
For as small as it is, it feels like it’s carrying the weight of my entire future.
“It’s not much,” I say, suddenly feeling nervous in a way I never have before.
Not even on the mound with bases loaded.
“But I saw it and thought it…thought you’d… well, maybe you’d like it.”
I hand Isla the box and she opens it, revealing the delicate gold bracelet with its tiny baseball charm. Her breath catches, and her hand flies to her mouth.
“Killian,” she breathes, her eyes glistening. “It’s beautiful.”
“It reminded me of us,” I say, my voice rougher than usual. “How we met. How baseball brought us together.”
Isla reaches out, her fingers trembling slightly as she touches the delicate chain. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to wear it tonight if you don’t—”
“Help me put it on?” She turns, offering me her wrist. “Of course I want to wear it.”
The clasp is small, and my hands are shaking more than I’d like to admit.
I’m a professional athlete with precise control over every pitch I throw, yet this tiny piece of jewelry has me fumbling like a teenager.
I fasten the clasp, my fingers brushing against the soft skin of her inner wrist. The gold looks perfect against her fair skin, the baseball charm catching the light.
When she finally looks up at me, a lone tear slips down her cheek, and I tenderly swipe it away with the pad of my thumb.
“It’s perfect,” she whispers, holding up her wrist to admire it. “Thank you, Killian.”
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my perfectly tailored suit. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” she says, her voice firm despite the emotion in her eyes. “It’s everything.”
The weight of those words hangs between us, heavy with meaning. I want so badly to acknowledge it but fear this is not the right time. She’s nervous enough about what she has to do tonight. The last thing I want to do is make it worse for her.
“Ready to face the masses?” I ask, offering her my arm.
She takes it, her fingers curling around my bicep. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The drive to the venue is quiet, filled with unspoken tension. Isla stares out the window, her fingers playing with the bracelet, twisting it around and around on her wrist. I can feel the nervous energy radiating off her, and I wish I could take it away.
“Hey,”
“Hmm?”
I reach over and take her hand, lacing my fingers through hers. “You’re going to be amazing tonight.”
She gives me a weak smile, her thumb tracing small circles on my palm. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I say with absolute certainty. “Because I know you, Isla. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.”
Her eyes glisten in the passing streetlights, and she squeezes my hand. “Thank you for being here with me tonight. I know you didn’t have to—”
“Stop,” I interrupt gently. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
And I mean that with my whole heart.
The venue comes into view, a modern glass building that’s been transformed for tonight’s event.
I can see the lights reflecting off the windows, the valets in their crisp uniforms, the first arrivals making their way inside.
My stomach tightens with anticipation, but not the anxious kind I’m used to.
This is different. This is about Isla, about being her support, her anchor.
And that job comes easily for me.
I pull up to the entrance and hand my keys to the valet, then circle around to open Isla’s door. She takes my offered hand, her grip firm despite the slight tremble I can feel in her fingers.
“You’ve got this,” I affirm as I help her out of the car. She takes a deep breath and wraps her fingers tightly around my bicep. “And I’ve got you.”
As we approach the entrance, I notice the way people’s heads turn.
It’s not just because I’m Killian Haynes, Portland Lagers’ star pitcher.
It’s because Isla is absolutely radiant, commanding attention without even trying.
The gold bracelet catches the light as she moves, a subtle reminder of what we share.
“Mr. Haynes!” A reporter materializes from nowhere, camera already flashing. “Can we get a photo of you and your date?”
“No, you may not,” I tell the cameraman. The crowd around us turns, looks of surprise and shock on their faces. “But you can get a photo of the amazing Isla Fallon and the man lucky enough to be her date.”
I pull Isla close to my side, my arm wrapped around her waist as we pose for a few shots. Isla’s smile grows more natural with each flash, and when the reporter asks about our relationship, I find myself saying things I never thought would come out of my mouth.
“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
The moment we step inside, the noise hits us—the murmur of conversations, the clink of glasses, the soft music playing in the background.
The room is filled with Portland’s elite, all dressed in their finest, mingling with drinks in hand.
I spot several familiar faces from the sports world, including the owners of the Portland Lagers and Portland Rush.
Isla’s hand tightens on my arm, her knuckles turning white. I lean down, my lips brushing her ear. “Breathe, Coach. I’ve got you, I promise.”
She nods, her breath coming out shaky. “I’m trying.”
I squeeze her hand, keeping my voice low and intimate. “Want me to tell you what I’m thinking about right now?”
“What?”
“I’m thinking about how that slit in your dress is going to be my undoing all night long.” I let my fingers brush against the exposed skin of her thigh. “I’m going to be counting down every second until I can peel this dress off you later.”
A small laugh escapes her, and I feel the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m keeping you distracted,” I correct her, pressing a kiss to her temple. “And it’s working, isn’t it?”
She nods, her lips curving into a genuine smile. “Yeah, it’s working.”
“Good.” I straighten up, scanning the room with practiced ease. “Now, let’s go work this room like the power couple we are.”
The next hour passes in a blur of introductions, handshakes, and small talk.
I navigate the social landscape with a confidence that surprises even me.
Usually, these events make my skin crawl—all that expectation, everyone watching for a misstep—but tonight is different.
Tonight, I’m not here for me. I’m here for Isla.
I introduce her to everyone we meet, my hand never leaving her body. “This is Isla Fallon,” I say each time, pride swelling in my chest when I see the way people respond to her warmth and intelligence.
When we reach the Lagers’ owner, Marcus Donovan, and his wife, I feel Isla tense beside me. Marcus is a formidable presence, tall, broad-shouldered, with a reputation for being brutally honest.