24. Isla
ISLA
The email comes on a Tuesday morning, and I know before I even open it that it’s going to ruin everything.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with that familiar airline logo. I reach for it with fingers that feel oddly numb, my heart already sinking before I’ve read a single word.
Dear Ms. Fallon,
Thank you for your willingness to step in and take on a challenging flight assignment during a team member’s maternity leave. We are grateful for your time and efforts and for representing the company through your work with the Portland Lagers.
Please be advised that your contract with the Lagers will end on September 27th and your new assignment with Seabird Industries will begin on October 1st out of New York JFK Airport. I will send the details of this assignment in a second email.
Thank you again.
We hope you enjoyed your time with the Portland Lagers.
Betsy
Corporate Flight Coordinator
The words blur together as I read them again, and then a third time.
New York?
My stomach twists into knots so tight I can barely breathe. The 27th…that’s tomorrow. But there is no flight tomorrow. The Lagers play at home for their final game of the season in a few days, which means…my contract is technically over. October 1st is just five days away.
Five days until I’m supposed to walk away from Killian, from the relationship we’ve built over the last couple of months.
That was never supposed to be real.
I set the phone down carefully, like it might explode if I’m not gentle with it. The morning sunlight streams through Killian’s bedroom window, catching on the gold bracelet he gave me last month at the gala. The baseball charm winks at me, a tiny reminder of everything I’m about to lose.
“Shit,” I mutter to the empty room.
I should be happy. This is what I wanted. A clean break, a new assignment, a fresh start. No messy goodbyes, no complicated emotions, no risk of having my heart shattered into a million pieces when something inevitably goes wrong.
So why does the thought of leaving make me feel like I’m being torn in two?
Why does my heart feel like it’s shredding from the inside out?
The bed is still warm where Killian slept, the pillow still holding the impression of his head. I press my face into it, inhaling deeply. His scent—that mix of leather and something uniquely Killian—fills my lungs, and my eyes sting with tears I refuse to let fall.
“Get it together, Fallon,” I mutter to myself, pushing up from the bed. “This was always the plan. You knew this.”
Yeah, I knew this was coming, but somehow I still feel blindsided. Like I’ve been running full speed toward a cliff, and now that I’ve reached the edge, I can’t figure out how to stop.
The bathroom door opens, and Killian steps out, a towel slung low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to his skin. My heart stutters at the sight of him, the tattoos on his forearms, the way his abs tighten as he moves. He’s so beautiful.
“Morning, Coach,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep. “You’re up early.”
I quickly wipe my eyes and force a smile. “Just checking my email.”
He crosses the room, bending down to press a kiss to the top of my head. “Anything important?”
My throat tightens. This is it. This is the moment I have to tell him. “Killian, I—”
“Hold that thought,” he interrupts, straightening up. “I’ve got something to show you first.”
He disappears into the closet, and I hear the rustle of fabric before he emerges holding a small, wrapped box.
My stomach drops. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.
I was supposed to tell him about the email, and then we’d have a civil conversation about our arrangement coming to an end.
But instead, he’s standing there with a gift, looking at me with an expression I can’t read.
“Killian, I really need to—”
“Wait,” he says, his voice dropping to that low register that usually makes my knees weak. “Just...let me do this first before I chicken out.”
He crosses the room and sits beside me on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. The towel rides dangerously low on his hips, but I can’t focus on that right now. Not when he’s holding that box like it contains something precious.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he says, turning the package over in his hands. “And I know timing might not be perfect, but when is it ever, right?”
“Killian—”
“Just...open it.” He holds out the box, looking at me with the fondest of expressions.
My fingers tremble as I take the package. It’s heavier than I expected, wrapped in simple navy paper with no bow. I glance at Killian one more time, but he just nods encouragingly, his jaw tight with what looks like nervousness.
I carefully peel back the paper, revealing a plain black box beneath. My heart pounds as I lift the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of dark velvet, sits a key. Not just any key. A sleek, modern key with a small baseball charm attached to it, matching the one on my bracelet.
“What is this?”
Killian clears his throat, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the towel. “It’s a key to my apartment. Well, our apartment, if you want it to be.”
The room tilts slightly, and I have to steady myself with one hand on the mattress. “Our apartment?”
“I know this is probably too much, too soon,” he says, his words coming out in a rush. “But I can’t keep pretending that what we have is temporary. I want you here, Isla. Not as a guest or a visitor, but as someone who belongs here. With me.”
Tears blur my vision, and I blink rapidly, trying to keep them at bay. The key catches the morning light, winking at me like it’s mocking my pain.
“Killian, I...” My voice breaks, and I have to swallow hard before continuing. “I got an email this morning.”
His expression shifts immediately, the soft hope in his eyes hardening into something guarded. “What email?”
I set the box down carefully on the bed between us, my fingers still trembling. “From the airline.”
“Okay.” He tilts his head. “What did it say?”
“It says my contract with the Lagers ends tomorrow. Technically today since you don’t fly again for the season.”
“What about the postseason?” He asks immediately.
“If there is a postseason,” I start, “Then I guess Kristan will be back. Her maternity leave must be over. I have to move on.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Killian, we knew this was going to happen. My contract with the Lagers was never permanent.”
He stands from the bed and slowly paces the room, water still dripping from his hair. “Okay, so…so where do you go next? It’s not like we won’t see each other.”
“The next company I fly with is based out of New York,” I say softly. “And I start October 1st.”
All his breath nearly leaves his body. “Ocoto…October 1st?” He rubs at his chest. “That’s in like…a few days.”
The silence that follows is fucking deafening. I can hear the distant hum of the traffic outside Killian’s windows but it’s as if everything else has gone still.
“New York,” he repeats, his voice flat as he mulls over what I’ve told him. He stops pacing and turns to face me. My stomach drops at the look on his face. It’s not anger, it’s worse. It’s the look of someone who’s been sucker punched but is trying desperately not to show it.
“So that’s it then?” he asks, his voice carefully controlled. “You’re just...going?”
The key sits between us on the bed, a tiny, gleaming symbol of everything I’m about to throw away. My fingers itch to pick it up, to hold it tight and never let go.
But I can’t.
I can’t do this to him.
To us.
“It’s my job, Killian,” I say, hating how clinical I sound. “This was always the plan.”
He lets out a harsh laugh. “The plan. Right.” He runs a hand through his wet hair, sending droplets scattering across the floor. “And what about us? Was that part of the plan too? Or was I just a convenient distraction until something better came along?”
The words hit me like a physical blow. “That’s not fair,” I chide, my voice cracking. “You know that’s not what this was.”
“Then what was it, Isla? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I just handed you my fucking heart on a silver platter and you’re about to walk away with it.”
The accusation stings because there’s truth in it. I am running. I’ve always been running. But hearing him say it out loud makes it impossible to deny. The tears I’ve been fighting back spill over, tracking hot paths down my cheeks.
“That’s not fair,” I repeat, my voice rebelling against me.
“Life isn’t fucking fair, Coach.” He paces again, his movements agitated, desperate. “But I thought we were building something real here. I thought you felt the same way I do.”
“I do feel the same way,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. The words hang in the air between us, raw and unfiltered.
“Then say it,” he begs me. “Tell me you love me, Isla. Be honest for once in your damn life and just fucking say it.”
“I love you, Killian!” I exclaim, my voice louder as it rises in pitch. “Is that what you want to hear? Because I do. I do love you.”
Killian stops mid-stride, his gaze locking onto mine with more intensity than I’ve seen in him. “Then why are you leaving?”
“Because I have to!” The words come out harsher and louder than I intend, my voice cracking under the weight of everything I’m feeling.
“Because if I stay, I’ll lose you eventually anyway.
Something will happen—an injury, a trade, a car accident—and I’ll be left picking up the pieces of my heart again.
I can’t do that, Killian. I won’t survive that pain twice.
“So, you’re running,” he says. “You’re running because you’re scared.”
“I’m not running,” I lie, even as my chest constricts with the weight of it. “I’m doing what I’ve always done. What I’m good at. This is my job, Killian.”
“Being a flight attendant?” He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Or leaving before things get too real? Convenient that you can hop on a plane and just fly away from anything that ails you.”
The words hit me like a slap, my eyes stinging with more tears,