Stealing Home (14 page)

Couldn’t sleep last night. Maybe I’ll sleep better tonight knowing you’re in this.

It was signed 'Archer' in big bold letters, which seemed like a strange way to sign a person’s name. Checking around to make sure I wasn’t about to lift a racy scrap of lingerie out of the box in front of any neighbors, I pulled the ribbon free and opened the box.

The same big, bold letters stared at me from within the box, right above the number eleven, stitched on a Shock jersey. Lingerie—Luke Archer style.

Pulling it out, I let the jersey unfold in front of me. I wanted to put it on now. I wanted to wear it for the game today, like thousands of other fans who would be wearing Archer’s number eleven on their backs.

I wanted what I couldn’t have.

Letting out a sigh, I folded the jersey back up and set the box inside my apartment before I locked the door and headed to the stadium. For now, I’d have to leave Luke Archer to the fans.

I was the first one in the locker room, not that that was a first. I knew who would be the second to arrive. Luke always showed up way before the rest of the players. He had his ritual and routine before a game, although today’s routine would include another ice bath.

The moment his eyes landed on me when I emerged from the room we kept the ice tubs in, his face fell.

“Nice to see you too,” I greeted, trying to ignore the way my stomach was knotting from seeing him.

“You’re not wearing my jersey.”

“Did you actually think I would? Or that I could?”

“I guess not.” His shoulders sagged. He was pouting. Luke Archer pouted.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll be sure to wear it to bed tonight.”

His eyes darkened. “You know what would make me feel even better?” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “If it’s
all
you wore to bed tonight.”

I had to remind myself where I was and who would be arriving soon—the entire Shock brigade of players and staff.

“Deal,” I said, waving into the room where the bath was ready for him. “The bath’s ready whenever you are. Fifteen minutes in there, then we’ll hit you with a heat treatment.”

When he dropped his sports bag at the foot of his locker, hanging his cap up before tugging off his tee, I backed up a few steps.

Space seemed like a good thing right then.

“How’s your leg doing?” I asked, diverting my gaze when his fingers dropped to his jeans.

“Fantastic, thanks to your tender loving care.” His words were dripping insinuation.

“No pain?” I lifted a brow, doubtful. The kind of pull he’d sustained didn’t just go away as suddenly as it had happened.

“None.”

“Comfortable putting your weight on it?”

“I’m comfortable putting my weight on it, supporting someone else’s weight on it . . .” He made sure I was looking before he dropped his jeans. And shit. He was commando. And at full staff. More space between us seemed like an even better idea.

“How are your sisters?” I gave an innocent smile and waited.

His face fell. Other parts of his anatomy, not so much. “You’re cruel.”

“And you’ve got a date with a tub full of ice. Let me know when you’re out.” Snagging the clipboard from outside Coach’s office, I pretended to be focused on the line-up for the day as I headed into the supply room.

“Hey, Doc?”

I paused.

“Are you going to clear me to play today?”

My teeth worked that out on my lip for a moment before I turned to face him. This was what I’d been worried about with us. Or one of the things I’d been worried about. That I’d let my feelings for him get in the way of doing my job. As Allie, the woman in a relationship with him, I knew he wanted to play and had the grit and stamina to do so. It was a home game after a long stretch on the road, and his sisters would be in the stands, hoping to cheer on their big brother. Allie wanted him to play. Allie knew he could play.

The athletic trainer knew playing today was pushing it. The kind of pull he’d sustained generally required more rest, and the risk of him reinjuring it and putting him in even worse shape was a very real possibility. The athletic trainer felt conflicted. Part of her felt like sitting out another game would mitigate the risk, and another part knew Luke Archer was capable of more than just any other player.

I was in a difficult position, knowing I’d upset him and the rest of the team if I advised him to sit this one out too. I was in a difficult situation if I gave him the green light to play and he really messed up his leg.

“Before you say anything, I just want you to know that I’ve been thinking about what you said to me a few days ago in the shower room.”

“We didn’t say much from what I remember.” I clutched the clipboard to my chest, trying to ignore the fact that the man who knew how to do wonderful things to my body with his body was naked and ready fifteen feet in front of me.

“No, but what you did say left an impression.”

“Good to know you were listening.”

Archer folded his jeans and stuffed them inside his locker. “I want you to know that I respect that you have a job to do and that you can’t let us get in the way of that.” He waved his finger between us. “It’s your call, Doc. I’m not going to pressure you either way, and I’m not going to sulk if you tell the coach to bench me.” He let those words hang between us for a moment before grabbing a towel and heading back toward the tubs. “I’ve said what I needed to. I’ll be turning my
huevos
into ice cubes if you need me.”

“Big baby,” I muttered after him.

His chuckle echoed from the back room.

After that, players and staff slowly filtered into the locker room, the buzz zapping in the air from the thrill of a home game. Archer took care of timing himself in the bath and the heat compress that followed, leaving me time to tend to some of the other players.

“Eden!” Coach Beckett’s deep voice boomed through the locker room.

“Yeah, Coach?” I replied as I finished taping Robinson’s shoulder.

“In my office,” he shouted before storming back in there.

Coach’s temperament had taken me a while to get used to, but now I barely flinched when he hollered at me. That was just the way he worked. I didn’t doubt he hollered good night to his wife every night before crawling under the covers.

Stretching the last piece of tape over Robert’s shoulder, I jogged into Coach’s office, guessing I already knew what he wanted to talk to me about.

“Close the door,” he said, spreading his hands on his desk as I entered.

After closing the door, I moved in front of his desk and remained standing. Usually my meetings with Coach were too short to sit.

“Archer. Is he playing tonight or not?”

My mind raced, as conflicted now as it had been earlier. I knew he’d be asking and I knew I’d be expected to give him an answer. I just wasn’t sure what that answer was yet.

“No bullshit either, Eden. If Archer can play, he plays. If he can’t, his ass will stay on that bench. I want it straight.” Coach’s cleats echoed through the office when he shifted his weight.

My mind undulated from one answer to the other. Could Archer play? Yes, he could.
Should
Archer play? That was a trickier answer.

“He can play.” My voice sounded smaller than I wanted to, so I gave it another try. “He can play.”

Coach was quiet for a minute, his eyes challenging me, giving me a chance to retract my statement. When I didn’t, his finger lifted at me. “If my star player reinjures himself and puts him out for the season, it’s going to be your ass on the line, Eden. You understand?”

I swallowed, nodding. “I understand.”

THE SHOCK HAD dominated all night long. Fielding, batting, running, scoring—they’d owned the game against the Seattle Sharks, proving why they were the favorite to win the Series this year.

After the loss to New Orleans, the team needed this win. The energy in the dugout had been overwhelming, largely due to one number eleven being elated he was back to playing the sport he loved.

When Coach had told Archer he was on for tonight, he’d run a circle around the locker room, high-fiving every member of the team and staff. He saved me for last, managing to give my hand a little squeeze in passing.

We were at the top of the ninth with only one out left to pretty much win the game since we were up eight runs, and I was thinking about finally relaxing. The whole night I’d been watching Archer’s every move, looking for any signs of him favoring his right leg, but all of the worry and vigilance had been for nothing.

Archer was moving just fine, clipping around the bases at his usual speed, fielding balls with no signs of pain or injury. I’d made the right call. He’d told me he was ready, I’d assessed he was, and I’d made a good call.

I knew not every aspect of my job had guarantees and certainties, but I couldn’t take the pressure off of myself.

The Sharks’ batter had just earned his second strike, and the guys in the dugout were holding their breaths, ready to celebrate. The next pitch Watson threw, the batter connected with, sending a whizzing line drive right between first and second.

From the dugout, it looked like the right fielder would have to field it, but Archer blurred into motion, making a sharp turn to get to it before leaping into the air. The ball whacked into his mitt right before he went crashing to the ground, a billow of dust erupting around him.

The game was over—the Shock had won.

I wasn’t sure who went wilder: the crowd or the team. The players left in the dugout rushed the field while the crestfallen Sharks trudged off of it. The coaching staff was clapping each other’s backs while the medical staff was giving our usual sighs of relief that the game was over and every player who’d walked onto the field was able to walk off of it.

That was when my gaze drifted toward first base, where Archer was being righted by a herd of his fellow players, shouting their
Hell yeah’s
and clapping him on the shoulder. No one else seemed to notice, but I did. The subtle flash of pain pull at his face when he started walking off the field with his teammates. The set of his jaw when he put weight on his right leg with each step.

Shit
. Slinging my bag over my body, I rushed out of the dugout and onto the field. The players passed me with celebration on their faces, nudging my shoulders as I passed them. No one seemed to notice that one of their players was in pain.

When Archer saw me loping toward him, his eyes darted toward the dugout, where Coach was. I didn’t miss the relief that washed over his face with whatever he saw.

Squeezing between him and Watson, my eyes locked on his.

“I’m fine,” he said under his breath.

“Liar,” I whispered back, moving to put my shoulder under his arm to help him off the field.

“No, don’t.” He gave an almost indiscreet shake of his head. “Coach—I don’t want him to know.”

“Afraid he’s going to yell at you?” The noise was so loud in the stadium, I had to put my mouth right outside his ear for him to hear me.

Archer’s jaw set a little more. “I don’t care if he yells at me—I’m used to it. I don’t like the idea of him yelling at you though.”

I huffed, matching his every step off the field with one of my own. “I can take it.”

“I can’t.”

If he thought Coach would have something to yell at me over, that meant he’d hurt his leg. Again. For all I knew, he’d pulled it all over again.

“Don’t,” he said under his breath when I moved to support some of his weight again.

“Dammit, Luke, this is my job.”

“Exactly, and I want to make sure you still have one tomorrow.” He tipped his chin just enough as we moved toward Coach. He was watching us now.

“How bad is it?”

“Not bad.” When I started to exhale, he added, “Really.”

“Is that why I can see beads of sweat forming on your forehead?”

The faintest of smiles crept into place. “I just finished playing nine innings. Sweat usually comes with the game.”

“Are those nine innings the same reason you look ready to crack a few molars from the way you’re grinding your jaw?”

Coach was still watching us, his brow furrowed just enough to give away that he suspected something was up. Picking up on the same, Luke’s strides became stronger, his gait less uneven.

“How bad? Really?” I asked.

“Not bad. Just a little mad.”

I guessed he was lying or at least under-exaggerating. I guessed that had he been anyone else, he would have been curled up in a ball on the ground, crying for a painkiller that would knock out a Thoroughbred.

That was when his gaze wandered to the stands, centering on one of the front rows, where three girls were flailing their arms like they were trying to hail a cab in New York during rush hour. If he hadn’t told me he had three little sisters, I would have figured it out from one look at them. They were all mini girl versions of Luke: light brown hair, big expressive eyes, and the same wide smiles.

“Fan club?” I asked when he returned the arm flailing motion.

“The feeling’s mutual.”

His sisters were winding their way to the fence, waving him over, totally decked out with Shock gear from foam fingers to shoelaces.