Stealing Home (2 page)

Brown hair lightened by the sun, smooth skin darkened by it, a strong jaw, and hazel eyes that trended more toward the green end of the spectrum; Luke Archer was quite possibly the most attractive man I’d ever laid eyes on. According to
Sports Anonymous
’s random poll of five thousand women, he was
the
best-looking guy in professional sports today. The other few billion women on the planet would have agreed with that title, I assumed.

“Do you always take so long to answer a question?” Archer motioned at me, waiting.

“No,” I said, recalling the last question he’d asked me.
Snap out of it.
“I don’t think that you’re a . . . manwhore,” I whispered the last part.

I’d had enough experience with the rumor mill to be a sympathetic party to the target of so many. Being one of the first and only female athletic trainers in professional sports had opened me up to a hundred rumors when I’d been hired. All versions of them had to do with me fucking my way into the position.

“Good.” Archer nodded, seeming satisfied. “Because you certainly don’t seem like an idiot.”

“Thanks?”

He nodded again. “Welcome.”

That was when the pilot’s voice echoed through the team jet, running through his usual spiel. We were leaving Tampa and heading up to Chicago. Now that the season was in full swing, I lost track of the cities we were leaving and the ones we were heading toward. All of my attention was focused on the players and getting them through the season as injury-free as possible.

“I’m still waiting for that name, Doc.” Archer clicked his seat belt into place when one of the attendants stopped beside him, looking ready to strap it into place for him.

When she saw mine unfastened, all I got was a lifted brow and a pointed finger before she moved on to the next aisle.

“Oh, it’s okay. He’s not worth it.” I lifted my phone toward him before dropping it in the duffel bag I kept on hand at all times. Bandages, tape, painkillers, and a small cooler of ice packs were always at the ready whenever I was with the team. “Any guy who breaks up with someone via text message isn’t worth much.”

“Really? Over text?” Archer’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the reason the ass-kicking was invented. For those types of guys.”

I shrugged as the plane started to taxi down the runway, the interior lights dimming. “We haven’t even been together a month. Truthfully, it lasted longer than I thought it would. This kind of lifestyle”—I twirled my finger around the airplane—“makes it difficult to sustain a long-term relationship.”

“That’s why I’m not a fan of them.”

“Long-term relationships?”

“
Any
kind of relationship,” he said.

I nodded my understanding. The players had it worse than the team staff. At least in terms of having to question if a person was into them for who they were or because of their job, and the fame and money that came with it.

“I’m either practicing for a game, playing a game, recovering from a game, or fueling up and resting for a game. There’s not time for much else,” he said.

Leaning into my armrest, I realized how strange it was to be having such an easy conversation with Luke Archer. It felt natural, not forced. Most of the players would take a moment to chat with me about something game-related, but I was still the new kid on the block. I felt like I had to pass some test before they’d accept me as a member of the team.

Archer didn’t seem to be of the same mind though.

“Yeah, I know. It’s like you need to find someone who can just travel with you wherever you go, right?” I said, thinking how much easier it would to be in a relationship with someone I got to see on a daily basis without two computer screens.

“Exactly. Someone who understands the lifestyle. Appreciates the sacrifices you have to make.”

My head fell back into the headrest from the inertia of takeoff, but I could still feel Archer’s eyes on me. “Someone who understands that the job comes first. Someone who doesn’t get insecure or jealous or bent out of shape that they get the few precious minutes in between the job.”

When my head turned toward him again, I found Luke Archer staring at me with a kind of intensity I hadn’t seen aimed my way in a long time. My breath caught, and even though the strength of his stare threatened to overwhelm me, I held his gaze.

“Someone who understands the game. The commitment. The time. The sacrifice. Someone who’s as committed to it as you are.” One corner of his mouth twitched, carving a dimple into his cheek. “It’s not like you could ever expect to find a person like that sitting in the row across the aisle from you, right?”

“THEY’RE READY FOR you, Archer!” Coach Beckett hollered into the bowels of the locker room after shoving through the doors.

A chorus of whistles and catcalls circled the space, echoing off the concrete walls and metal lockers.

“I don’t know what
Sports Anonymous
wants with your ugly mug when they could have mine plastered across the cover instead,” Reynolds piped up above the din as Archer rose from the bench in front of his locker.

I was busy wrapping Hernandez’s ankle on the other side of the locker room, content to leave as much space between Archer and me as a confined space allowed. We hadn’t said much to each other after takeoff last night, but I could feel his gaze on me when he thought I wasn’t looking. By the time we’d touched down, the energy in the air between us was so strong, I felt like I could stick my finger out and be electrocuted by it.

“It’s because they actually want to sell magazines.” Archer flashed a wide smile at Reynolds as he headed for the doors. “And they’re not shooting for Halloween yet. I’ll let them know you’re interested when they’re ready to shoot the ghouls-and-goblins edition though.”

Reynolds snagged a towel from his locker and lobbed it across the room at Archer.

“The pretty boy of baseball. How bad does having to wear that title suck?” Reynolds shouted, which was followed by a few more whistles.

By now, I was used to the locker room banter and usually blocked it out. I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t today, but I guessed it had something to do with the subject the banter was focused on.

“Not too damn bad considering the pretty boy of baseball also happens to have the best batting average in the league.” Archer wagged his brows a few times before blowing an air kiss Reynolds’s way and shoving the door open.

“Archer!” Coach yelled.

Archer paused in the doorway. “Yeah, Coach?”

“Take a trainer with you.”

Shepherd snagged his duffel and jogged toward the door.

“It’s a photo shoot, Coach. I don’t think we need to worry about me pulling a muscle or spraining something.”

“With the way this season is shaping up for us to go to the big game, you are not allowed to take a piss without a trainer within arm’s reach, you hear me?” Coach pointed at Archer, his shit-kicking face drawing his forehead into folds. “I will bubble-wrap you myself if I have to, but I will not let anything happen to my clutch hitter.” Coach paused, but we all knew better than to argue when he was like this. He’d been a part of this game for fifty years and had the wins and pennants to prove it. “Understood?”

Archer nodded once. “Understood.”

Shepherd, who’d frozen in the middle of Coach’s tirade, went back into motion.

“But I get to pick who goes with me,” Archer announced. Even though I wasn’t looking at him, I could feel his eyes on me. “Doc? Whenever you’re done babying Hernandez, we’ve got a photo shoot to get to.”

I felt every eye in the locker room drift in my direction.

“Doc?” Shepherd said, his eyes narrowing on me. “Are you talking about Allie?”

I withheld the eye roll. It was common practice for everyone to refer to each other by last name—from the players to the coaching staff to the medical team. Shepherd refused to abide by that unsaid rule when it came to me though. Pretty sure it was his way of singling me out, since I wasn’t already singled out enough, being the one woman in the locker room with thirty to forty men. I knew Shepherd saw me as some kind of joke—like I had no place working in professional baseball. He was kind of a prick, but in this profession, I had plenty of those to deal with.

“Doc. Yeah.” Archer shrugged, tipping his head out the door when I looked up.

“She’s not a doctor.”

I glared across the room at Shepherd as I finished taping Hernandez’s ankle.

“She’s got her doctorate in sports medicine and busts her ass taking care of us every day, which is more than the actual team doctor who is . . .” Archer’s gaze circled the room, before landing on Shepherd. “Not here.”

The team doctor traveled with us and attended games, but he had a more lax schedule. He might have had more schooling, but at the end of the day, it was the trainers who saw to the bulk of the injuries, both preventing and treating them. The doctor was around to write prescriptions and consult with on more serious injuries.

“Coach, you good with this?” Shepherd asked, his hands settling on his hips.

“Oh, get off your high horse, Shepherd. If Archer wants Eden to go with him, fine. I’d feel the same way if I were in his shoes.”

“Because she’s the only woman around?” Shepherd fired back.

I kept biting my tongue. I was the only woman around, and it didn’t help that there was no mistaking my gender when a guy looked at me. I was on the petite size, which automatically made them all want to step in to help me get something down from a shelf or lift something that looked heavy. I was also on the curvy side, which meant their eyes were easily, and frequently, distracted. In an effort to combat my petite, curvy stature, I wore my light hair back in a ponytail and never wore makeup. It wasn’t like I was trying to be one of the guys—I was just trying to fit in a little easier.

Coach fired another warning look in Shepherd’s direction. “Because she’s damn good at her job.
That’s
why.”

Archer waved at me. “Doc? If you don’t mind? I’m in a hurry to get this over with.”

Patting Hernandez’s knee, I rose. He gave me a smile of thanks before I threw my duffel over my shoulder and jogged for the doors. Shepherd was glaring at me, but I ignored him. Archer was staring at me again, but I couldn’t ignore him so easily.

He was wearing a worn-in pair of jeans that stretched across his thighs and backside nicely, a basic T-shirt, and a team baseball cap. He held the door open for me and started to move down the long hall like he knew where we were going. Which I didn’t.

I spent my time in the locker room or the field. I wasn’t sure what this photo shoot was for, where it was being shot, or what was involved. Since the game was scheduled to start in a few hours, I guessed we weren’t going far, but who knew. The sponsorship deals these players got were insane, and for the top players, sponsorships could bring in more money than the paycheck they earned playing ball.

“So what are you sponsoring today? A sports drink, a cereal, or an insurance company?” I asked, having to take two steps to every one of his long strides. Archer was a good foot taller than me and fast.

“None of the above.” When he glanced back and noticed me rushing to keep up, he slowed his pace. “Today I’m shooting a spread for
Sports Anonymous.
Only a limited number of issues will be printed, and they’ll be auctioned off to benefit the children’s hospital back in San Diego.”

I knew the hospital he was talking about. During the off-season, when I had more than three minutes in a row of free time, I volunteered there. It was a facility that didn’t charge anything for families who couldn’t afford it and provided top-of-the-line care.

“And before you get too far in your estimation of how much they’re paying me to do this, I can give you the exact number.” Archer lifted his hand, his thumb and index finger joining to make a circle. “Zero dollars and zero cents.” He smiled, lifting the circle his fingers were making to his eye. He peered at me through it.

A laugh swept past my lips. “That’s refreshing. Not a lot of people do something without first thinking about what’s in it for them, you know?”

Archer stuffed his hands in his pockets, tipping his head at a crew of people up ahead who looked like they were expecting him. “The way I see it, I’m already living the dream. I get paid to do what I love.”

“You get paid
a lot
to do what you love,” I added. Last I’d heard, Archer was one of the top five paid players in the sport.

“I might be the only guy in this sport with hamburger tastes on a steak budget, but maybe one day I’ll go crazy and buy a house or something.”

My eyebrows came together. “You don’t have a house now?”

“I have an apartment back in San Diego. Nothing elaborate, but it works. We spend so much time on the road that having the kind of sprawling estates some of the guys have and only getting to enjoy it a few weeks out of the year seems like a big waste. Plus . . .” Archer’s speech came to a succinct end.

“Plus what?”

The crew of people at the end of the hall were opening up doors leading into a room, practically paving a runway for us.
Sports Anonymous
logos were plastered everywhere, from the carpet leading into the room, to the lanyards around people’s necks, to the stickers on the side of cameras that looked to be filming us as we moved closer.