27. Killian
KILLIAN
The mound feels like quicksand beneath my cleats, and every pitch I throw sinks me deeper.
Four innings in.
Three walks.
Seven hits.
A hit batter.
My ERA is climbing faster than a rocket, and I can’t seem to find the strike zone if it had a neon sign pointing to it.
“You’re flying open,” Coach Daniels shouts to me. “Trust your stuff, Haynes.”
Bishop would tell me I’m overthinking, but he knows better than to say that to me right now. He knows better than to say anything to me tonight, thank Christ.
It’s not that I’m overthinking. I’m just not thinking about the game at all. I’m only thinking about her. I’m thinking about Isla’s empty seat and the lack of bright red hair along the first baseline.
She was supposed to be here.
I really thought she would be here. That above all else, she would come to the last game of the season. Even if she didn’t stick around to see me afterwards, I expected to hear her usual razzing when I hit the mound.
But it’s been unusually, eerily, fucking painfully silent.
I checked my phone in the clubhouse just in case, but there was nothing.
No messages. No missed calls. Just the same blank screen that’s been staring back at me for several days.
That’s what’s destroying my focus. Not the opposing team’s lineup.
Not the pressure of making the playoffs.
Just the gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
Isla is gone.
She chose New York over me.
She chose fear over love.
And even though my teammates seem to feel positive about the whole thing, that maybe there’s a chance for us, I just don’t feel it.
She chose not to fight.
So why should I?
I wind up for the next pitch, my arm feeling like it’s moving through molasses. Bishop’s giving me a target low and away, but my body won’t cooperate. My release point is all wrong, and the ball sails high and inside, nearly taking the batter’s head off.
“Time!” the umpire calls as the batter steps out of the box, shooting me a dirty look. I don’t blame him. I’d be pissed too if someone nearly took my head off because they couldn’t get their shit together.
Bishop jogs out to the mound, mask pushed up on his forehead, concern etched across his face. “Kill,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “You gotta lock in, bro. We need this game. You’re going to get pulled.”
“Maybe it’s for the best.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t do this, Kill.
Don’t fucking do this right now. I know you’re hurting but we need you.
The team needs you. I need you. And when this game is over and we’re on to the fucking playoffs, Isla is going to need you to be in a good headspace so the two of you can work everything out. ”
I meet his stare under my ball cap, his words sinking into my soul.
I nod, unable to form words past the lump in my throat.
Bishop jogs back to home plate and gets back into his crouch, giving me a fresh target.
I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head.
I wind up again, focusing on Bishop’s glove, on the small white target he’s giving me.
This time, my release point feels right, and the ball snaps into his mitt with a satisfying pop.
“Strike!” the umpire calls.
The crowd erupts, and for the first time tonight, I feel something other than the crushing weight of Isla’s absence.
I find my rhythm, painting the corners of the strike zone with precision that’s been missing all game.
Three pitches later, the batter swings through a slider that drops off the table, and I’ve got my first strikeout of the night.
“Atta boy, Kill!” Bishop shouts as he throws the ball back to me.
I nod, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline that comes with a good pitch. Maybe Bishop’s right. Maybe I can salvage this game. Maybe I can salvage this season.
Maybe Isla will still be waiting when it’s all over.
I work through the next batter with renewed focus, mixing my pitches effectively.
A fastball inside, a curveball that hangs just long enough to entice a swing, and a changeup that disappears at the last second.
Three pitches, three strikes. The batter walks back to the dugout shaking his head, and for the first time tonight, I feel like myself again.
“That’s my brother!” Bishop calls out, his voice carrying across the diamond.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension ease from my neck. Two outs. Just one more and I’m out of this inning with minimal damage.
The next batter steps into the box, a lefty with a tendency to chase high fastballs.
Bishop sets up outside, but something tells me to go inside.
I shake him off once, then again, until he finally gives me the target I want.
I wind up and fire, painting the inside corner with a fastball that catches the batter looking.
“Strike one!”
The crowd roars, and I feel the energy shift. This is what I’ve been missing, that connection with the game, with my team, and with myself. Not thinking about Isla, not worrying about what she’s doing or where she is. Just pitching.
I throw another fastball, this time high and tight, and the batter swings through it. Two strikes. One pitch away from ending this inning.
“Strike three!” the umpire bellows, and I pump my fist as the batter tosses his bat in frustration.
I jog off the mound, my cleats crunching on the dirt, feeling a flicker of the old confidence returning. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can pitch my way through this game without completely falling apart.
The dugout greets me with backslaps and fist bumps. Carter shoves a water bottle into my hand, and I take a long swig, letting the cool liquid wash away some of the bitterness that’s been coating my throat.
“Nice recovery,” he mutters, keeping his voice low enough that only I can hear. “Keep it up.”
I nod, settling onto the bench and draping a towel around my neck.
The game continues around me, but my mind drifts back to Isla.
To the way she used to sit in the stands, her red hair standing out among the crowd, her smile bright enough to light up the entire field.
I’d always find her between pitches, a quick glance that centered me, reminded me of what I was playing for.
I lift my gaze to look for her where she usually sits but there’s an empty space next to Shepherd where she should be.
She didn’t come.
I was right.
She doesn’t care.
She’s gone for good.
We get through the seventh inning stretch and into the top of the eighth where I slip up and allow one double and one single hit.
Daniels tells me I can be done if I want to. That there’s no shame in getting pulled in the eighth, but I’ve gotten this far, and I want to win this thing with my team.
“Alright, Haynes. But another big mistake and I’m pulling you. We’re too close to let our pride get in the way tonight.”
“I hear you, Coach.”
Coach.
I close my eyes for just a second, long enough to see her.
Not the version of her that left. The version that used to watch me from the stands with her chin in her hand, completely unbothered by the noise around her, like she was watching something only she could see.
The version that called me an idiot when I deserved it and laughed at my terrible jokes when I didn’t deserve that either.
The version that smiled every single time I called her Coach.
“Help me finish this,” I breathe. “Please.”
I strike out the next batter but then there’s a double hit that gets one of the opposing players sliding into home and now they lead, five-four.
“Come on, Haynes,” I hear Adams call out behind me. “Stay on it.”
The crowd noise shifts as I turn to stare down the next batter.
Bishop signals a curveball but I shake him off.
He signals again and I give him the same response.
The batter adjusts his grip on the bat as Bishop changes to a slider, and I nod, gripping the ball tightly.
I’m just about to start my windup when a sound comes from somewhere near first base.
“TELL ME WHY…”
I freeze mid-motion, the ball nearly slipping from my fingers. My eyes dart to the crowd along the first baseline, searching frantically for the source of the sound.
A random guy sings in a terrible voice, “AIN’T NOTHIN’ BUT A HEARTACHE…”
Holy fucking shit.
She’s here?
She sings again as loudly as she can, her arms wide open, “TELL ME WHY...”
The words echo through the stadium, and for a moment, everything else fades away.
The crowd, the game, the pressure, none of it matters because there she is, standing in the front row, her beautiful red hair blowing in the breeze, her unforgettable green stare locked on me with an intensity that lights my soul on fire.
Sutton stands up and sings back, “AIN’T NOTHIN’ BUT A MISTAKE...”
The entire first base section erupts in song, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
“TELL ME WHY...”
The batter steps out of the box, looking confused as the stadium begins to vibrate with the Backstreet Boys’ anthem. Bishop stands from his crouch, turning to see what’s happening, and when he spots Isla, standing with Shepherd and Sebastian, his eyes widen before he breaks into a massive grin.
“I NEVER WANNA HEAR YOU SAY...”
The song builds, spreading through the crowd like wildfire. Second base joins in. Third base. The outfield. Soon, the entire stadium is singing, their voices merging into one thunderous chorus that shakes the very foundations of the ballpark.
“I WANT IT THAT WAY...”
The stadium organist picks up what Isla’s putting down and plays parts of the song right along with the crowd and I’m fucking flabbergasted and completely overwhelmed.
She came.
She’s here.
And that’s all that matters.
I don’t acknowledge that I see her other than the smile on my face, partially hidden under my cap, but fuck if I’m not appreciative of her gesture. I’m energized now and ready to finish this damn game.
“Let’s go, boys!”
The umpire steps out from behind the plate, looking bewildered. “Play ball!”