21. Killian #2
“Haynes,” Marcus greets me with a firm handshake. “Good to see you.” And then he shifts to Isla, appraising her with interest. “And this must be the woman who’s been keeping you out of trouble.”
“Marcus, this is Isla Fallon,” I say, my voice steady despite the slight tremor I feel from her body. “Isla, this is Marcus Donovan, owner of the Portland Lagers and Portland Rush.”
Isla extends her hand, her smile bright and confident despite the nerves I know are churning inside her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Donovan.”
“Please, call me Marcus.” He takes her hand, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you, Ms. Fallon.”
“All good things, I hope,” she replies with a laugh that sounds genuine, though I can feel her fingers digging slightly into my arm.
“Word around the clubhouse is that Killian hasn’t been able to shut up about you,” Marcus says, surprising me. “But I have to say, the photos don’t do you justice.”
His wife, Eleanor, a striking woman with silver-streaked hair, steps forward. “Don’t mind my husband, he’s terrible with compliments. I’m Eleanor Donovan.” She takes Isla’s hands in hers. “That dress is absolutely stunning on you.”
“Thank you,” Isla says, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “It’s such an honor to meet you both.”
“We’re looking forward to your speech tonight,” Eleanor continues. “The Step Forward Foundation is a very worthy cause.”
Isla’s face brightens at Eleanor’s words. “Thank you. It’s a cause that’s very close to my heart.”
Marcus clears his throat. “Haynes, I’d like a word with you if you don’t mind sparing a moment.”
“Of course,” I reply, glancing at Isla. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”
Isla nods, and Eleanor immediately steps in. “Come, dear. Let me introduce you to some of the other board members.”
As Marcus leads me away, I catch Isla’s eye one more time, giving her a subtle nod of encouragement. She smiles back, that beautiful, brave smile that squeezes my heart.
“The foundation does impressive work,” Marcus says once we’re out of earshot. “But I wanted to talk to you about something else.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Your girl for one,” Marcus says, his voice lower now. “She’s different from your usual...companions.”
I bristle slightly at his tone. “Isla isn’t a companion. She’s—”
“The real thing,” Marcus finishes for me. “I can see that, Haynes. I’ve been around this business long enough to know the difference between a publicity stunt and genuine connection.”
I swallow hard, unsure how to respond. The truth is, Marcus isn’t wrong. What started as a carefully orchestrated arrangement has evolved into something real, something that terrifies me more than any high-pressure game ever could.
“Your performance has improved significantly since she came into your life,” Marcus continues, his gaze sharp and assessing. “Your ERA is down, you’re more focused on the mound, and Coach tells me your attitude has done a complete one-eighty.”
I nod, keeping my expression neutral despite the pride swelling in my chest. “Yeah, well,” I shrug. “I guess Isla’s been good for me.”
“That’s an understatement.” Marcus takes a sip of his whiskey as he scans the crowd before returning his gaze to me. “I wanted to let you know personally that we’re extending your contract. Three more years with the Lagers, if you’re interested.”
The news hits me with a jolt. “Three more years?” I repeat, my voice coming out rougher than intended. My mind races, trying to process what this means.
Three more years in Portland.
Three more years with my brothers.
Three more years where Isla might—
“I’d be a fool not to lock you down,” Marcus continues, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “You’ve been the heart of this team for a while now, but lately? You’ve been the soul of it too. You and Isla both.” He chuckles. “It seems she’s good for the whole team.”
I swallow hard, my eyes instinctively finding Isla across the room. She’s deep in conversation with Eleanor and a group of women, her hands gesturing animatedly as she speaks. The gold bracelet I gave her catches the light with her every movement.
“Thank you, Marcus,” I manage to say, my gaze still fixed on her. “I appreciate the confidence.”
He follows my line of sight, a knowing smile playing at his lips. “She’s good for you, Haynes. Don’t fuck it up.”
Don’t fuck it up.
As if it’s that simple. As if I haven’t already complicated things beyond repair by falling in love with a woman who’s only supposed to be temporary.
“I won’t,” I say, though I’m not sure I believe myself.
After dinner, Isla is introduced to the crowd and given a warm reception. Before she stands and makes her way to the podium, I lean over, kiss her temple, and whisper in her ear, “I believe in you, Coach. Knock’em dead.”
She gives me a nervous glance so I stand to help pull back her chair, and once she’s on her feet, I kiss her once more and vow, “And when your speech is over, I’ll spend the rest of this night with my face between your legs until you’re coming so hard you forget your own name.”
That puts some color into her cheeks and a wide smile on her face as I escort her to the front of the room. The crowd applauds as she makes her way up the steps of the stage, her limp only slightly evident as she walks to the podium.
“Good evening,” she starts as she sets her iPad on the podium in front of her and then looks out at the crowd. There’s so much pride in my soul for her right now I can’t help but tear up just looking at her.
My girl.
My Isla.
“My name is Isla Fallon, and eight years ago, I died for thirty-seven seconds. The doctors told me I was lucky. My family told me I was brave. Strangers told me I was strong. But the truth is I don’t feel any of those things right now.
The truth is, I feel like a fraud standing up here, pretending to have some profound wisdom about survival when most days I’m just trying to figure out how to keep moving forward. ”
She clears her throat. “People hear my story and they imagine courage. They imagine determination. They imagine some movie-worthy moment where I looked death in the face and decided to fight.” She shakes her head. “But that's not how it happened.
The crowd becomes eerily quiet as they listen to Isla speak.
“On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, as I was driving back to college with my dad, a car hydroplaned and crossed the center line, pushing my car off the road and down a hill where I remained for nearly two days. Before I had even realized what was happening, there was metal hitting metal and glass exploding everywhere.” Isla shrugs as she looks out at the crowd sitting captivated by her every word.
You could hear a pin drop in here right now.
“One second I was laughing with my dad about a song on the radio and the next…I couldn’t feel my legs.”
An audible gasp comes from the guests as they listen to Isla’s story. And my stomach churns at the mere thought of her being in pain and being afraid.
“I remember the smell of gasoline,” she tells us. “And I remember screaming at the top of my lungs for help but nobody would answer.”
Fuck.
“I remember looking over at my father and not understanding why he wasn’t asking me if I was okay.”
Isla glances down. The quick swipe at her cheek tells me she’s crying. “And I remember him telling me he loves me more than all the stars in the sky before he took his last breath.”
She sniffles as the room sits in silence, several people reaching for tissues or holding hands with the person next to them.
“That's the part people don't like to talk about,” Isla says into the microphone, standing a bit taller now.
“The part where survival isn't beautiful because it’s anything but. It's ugly and it’s terrifying and it’s lonely.
It's lying in a hospital bed wishing you could trade places with someone who didn't get the chance to come home and it's waking up every morning and wondering why you were the one who lived.”
Oh, Isla.
God, how I wish I could run up there and hold her while she talks.
“While my friends were hanging out and enjoying college life, I was learning how to sit up by myself again. While everyone else was planning their futures and post-graduation plans, I was celebrating the fact that I could wiggle my toes. The first time I stood up after the accident, I made it three steps before I collapsed.”
“Three steps.”
“I had spent over twenty years learning how to walk and suddenly I had to learn all over again…
and I hated every second of it. I hated the pain.
I hated that I needed help just to go to the bathroom.
I hated feeling broken, and there were days I wanted to quit.
Days I looked at the mountain in front of me and thought, I can't do this.
I can't live like this. I can't be this person.”
Fuck, do I know that feeling all too well.
“But every time I fell, someone from this hospital picked me back up. Every time I doubted myself, someone believed for me until I could believe in myself, for myself. That is what The Step Forward Foundation gave me. It wasn’t a miracle…
and it wasn’t a cure,” she says, shaking her head again.
“What they gave me was something so much more valuable.
They gave me hope. They gave me permission to take one more step.
And then another and then another, until eventually, those three steps became ten.
And ten became a hundred and a hundred became a life I never thought I'd get back. "