Stealing Home (3 page)

Luke Archer was a god in this world—it was easy to forget when he was walking beside me with his hands in his pockets and talking about apartments.

“Plus”—Archer shrugged, slowing down as we got closer—“you know.”

“I
don’t
know.”

He exhaled through his nose. “
Plus
I don’t want to live in some big house by myself. My sisters still live in our family home north of San Diego, and I don’t want to come ‘home’ to no one. Until I have someone waiting for me, my apartment works just great.”

His pace picked back up again, and this time it seemed like he wanted to put some distance between us. I could have told him I felt the same. I could have told him that that was the reason I was living in my own apartment back in San Diego. I could have told him, but something about the way Luke Archer looked at me made me wonder if keeping the private parts of our lives to ourselves was better.

I couldn’t get involved with another player. Definitely not one on the very same team I worked for. People already talked shit about how I’d gotten here. If it got out that I was sleeping with the star of the team, no one would ever take me seriously again. My credibility as a damn good athletic trainer would be stamped out by the assumption that I did my best work on my back.

No. I couldn’t get involved with a player.

One like Luke Archer especially.

THIS WASN’T THE type of photo shoot I was imagining. This was the hot baseball player equivalent of the
Sports Anonymous
swimsuit edition.

Thanks to my line of work, I’d seen more than my fair share of half to mostly to fully naked men. I didn’t even blink when the full monty processional rolled out of the showers after a game. But for some reason, seeing Archer shirtless from a good twenty feet away was threatening to put me into cardiac arrest.

I’d never worked with him before, since Shepherd oversaw him, but when Archer had emerged from the dressing room a few minutes after being sent in there, I was relieved I hadn’t. Holding onto my removed professionalism would have been impossible while working with Archer.

There were plenty of good bodies in this sport. Plenty of good bodies I’d had my hands all over. A good body didn’t turn my head anymore. They’d become commonplace and everyday.

But Luke Archer . . . his body went beyond good and fell somewhere in the realm of unreal.

Muscles bulged from his shoulders down to his forearms, veins drawing jagged patterns down his arms. His chest was wide, narrowing into a stomach that was so cut, I found myself wondering how many women had fantasized about running their tongues down the canyons tapering into his pants.

The baseball pants they’d stuffed him in were at least two sizes too small, showcasing the ideal ballplayer’s round ass, along with something just as prominent around front.

Shit
. Checking out Luke Archer’s package was not okay.

Other than the too-small pants, they’d provided him with a royal blue belt to match his stirrups, a flashy pair of Nike cleats, and they’d kept his team cap settled on his head, hooding his eyes just enough. I wished they’d turned it around because Archer’s eyes held in the same theme as his body—unreal.

He had a baseball bat braced behind his neck, his arms curved around the back of it, while the photographer snapped photo after photo. How many variants of the exact same pose did they need?

“How am I looking over there, Doc?” Archer kept his eyes on the camera, managing to move his lips just enough to speak. From the number of billboards, magazines, and articles I’d seen him in, he probably had lots of experience honing the skill.

Taming my stare, I swallowed and shrugged. “Like you’re the pretty boy of baseball for a reason.”

His careful expression fell, his eyes cutting to the back of the room where I was hovering against the wall, pretending not to eye-molest him like the rest of the women in the room were. And some of the men.

“Ouch, Doc. You got anything in that magic bag of yours to fix a bruised ego?”

“An ego your size?” I fired back. “Not likely.”

“Double ouch.” He spun the bat over his head, watching me.

“But I do have a tin of eye black.” I shoved off the wall, unzipping my bag. I dug around inside for it. “That should be up to the task of dirtying up a pretty face.”

No one stopped me as I moved in front of the cameras toward him. The photographer quit firing photos like he’d poured milk over his speed pills for breakfast to see what I was up to.

“My face is not pretty.” Archer juggled the bat from hand to hand, almost smirking at me as I moved closer. “It’s rugged.”

After unscrewing the tin, I dragged my fingers in the eye black and paused before lifting them to his face. When I got a “go ahead” hand twirl from the photographer and a couple others from
Sports Anonymous
, I drew a streak down the side of his face. He didn’t blink as he watched me draw another line down the other cheek. Dipping my fingers in again, I swirled even more on before painting a thick streak down the side of his neck.

I kept my attention on what I was doing instead of
who
I was doing it to. I focused on moving my fingers instead of what my fingers were moving against. The heat from his skin was transferring into the pads of my fingers, cresting over my body from his chest.

What am I doing?
I was an athletic trainer, not a body paint expert.

Then I spun his cap around so his eyes could be seen better. Eyes like those should not be shadowed by anything.

“There,” I said, almost a whisper. “Now you’re rugged.” For the first time since I touched him, I glanced up to find him studying me.

His pupils were dilated, his breaths coming faster through his just parted lips. “You missed a spot.”

Grabbing my hand, his fingers laced through mine as he swirled both of our fingers through the tin. Guiding my hand back to him, he settled our fingers on his chest, drawing a thick line diagonally across it. I didn’t miss the pace of his heart as my fingers skimmed over it. It was going faster than normal, but not quite as fast as mine.

He trailed our joined hands lower, sketching a streak across his stomach. Then another down his stomach. All the way
down,
until the tips of my fingers brushed the nylon of his belt.

When a shiver trembled down my body, he didn’t miss it. Knitting his fingers tighter through mine, he grinned down at me.

“Yes, that’s perfect.” The photographer leaned back from his camera, examining Archer with a fist tucked beneath his chin. “I love it. Bidders will go nutso.” Then the photographer waved his finger between Archer and me. “And you know what I’d love even more? Her in your jersey.”

My head was already shaking as I started to step away.

Archer’s hand pulled me back to him. “I love that idea too. Doc in my jersey.” His gaze skimmed down me, lingering on my thighs. “In
only
my jersey.”

NOTHING BUT A couple pieces of underwear and a certain number 11 jersey with the name Archer stamped across the back were all I wore.

I still didn’t understand why I’d gone along with his crazy scheme, but I was pretty sure it had something to do with this shoot being for a charity that was near and dear to my heart . . . and the way Archer’s eyes had softened when he asked me for the tenth time. Although by then, he was more begging than requesting.

They were waiting for me. I could tell because it was quiet out in the main part of the room, other than the metallic ting of the baseball bat Archer was probably clinking against his cleats. The game was starting in two hours, and I still had a team to get loosened up and warmed up.

Closing my eyes, I psyched myself up as best as I could before slipping out from behind the curtain sectioning off the dressing room.

Everyone turned to look.

But it was Archer who was staring.

As I padded across the room, he turned so he was facing me, refusing to discipline his stare. His eyes roamed down me, lingering on where the bottom of his jersey brushed across my thighs. When he licked his lips, his stare unyielding, I felt the band of muscles circling my stomach tighten.

“I am never going to be able to look at that jersey the same way again,” he said.

I kept moving closer, slowing when I was a body's length away from him. My face was hopefully giving off an unaffected vibe, though everything behind it was the opposite.

“I’m going to need that back once you take it off.”

My vocal cords constricted, but not before I squeaked out one word. “Why?” I cleared my throat and tried again. “You’ve got two dozen of these things back in the locker room.”

“Yeah, but none of them have been bundled around your body. I want this one for tonight’s game.” He pinched the sleeve of the jersey, inching me closer. “It will bring me good luck.”

Luke Archer was fucking with me. I didn’t know why, but he was. I didn’t know his intentions, where his teasing originated from, or what he had in mind from here, but I knew I should back away instead of letting him pull me closer. I knew I should turn my back and go back to the way things were before Archer had turned his attention in my direction, but one could not simply turn and walk away when a man like him was looking at a woman like me the way he was.

It was a universal principle.

“If you don’t mind, we really need to get this shoot wrapped up before Coach Beckett storms in here and breaks another camera over my head.” The photographer came up behind me, dropping his hands to my shoulders as he positioned me in front of Archer.

“He replaced the last camera he broke of yours, right?” Archer asked, the smokiness clearing from his expression.

“Sure, yeah, but he can’t replace my sense of safety as easily.”

The photographer and Archer exchanged a look while I stayed quiet and let him position me. Coach Beckett was one of the best in the league. He was also one of the most hot-headed.

The photographer slid me to the side of Archer just enough that I wouldn’t be obscuring too much of his body, which no doubt would drive up the auction price. “Yeah, that’s nice.”

I didn’t know what they needed me here for—Archer sold himself just fine—but when the photographer nestled Archer’s bat behind my back, stationing Archer’s hands at the base and top of it, I knew escape wasn’t part of the plan. Not with the way Archer was drawing me closer to him, cinching the bat tighter against my back.

“Why don’t you put your hand right here on his chest, and tip your head just enough we get a profile of that stunning face?”

Before the objection could rise from my throat, Archer shook his head. “No, she doesn’t want her face showing.”

The photographer paused, giving us a curious look for a moment before wandering back to his camera. “Fine, fine. Whatever she’s comfortable with.”

“Thank you,” I whispered up at him, still not sure how I’d wound up in Luke Archer’s jersey and pressed up against his body, posing for a cover that would probably sell for thousands a pop.

“You’re welcome.” His bat tightened against me a little more, its cool touch seeping through the material of his jersey and the warmth of his skin creeping through the front of it. “But I’m pretty sure no one’s going to be able to recognize your hand, so assume the position.” His gaze dropped to his streaked chest.

My heart thudded against my sternum at the firmness in his voice. At the glint in his eyes. “When we’re done with this pose, I’m going to suggest a different one. Where you get to ‘assume the position’ of bending over and I pretend to shove this bat up your ass.”

Archer gave a low whistle. “Shit, Doc. If I’d have known you were into the kinky stuff, I would have found some way to get you in my arms with nothing but my jersey on sooner.”

When the photographer announced he was going to commence shooting, I turned my head away, focusing on the space just over Archer’s shoulder. “Because you knew I existed before last night, right?”

“I’ve known you’ve existed from the first day you walked out onto the diamond at spring practice.” He was back to barely moving his lips, managing to hold a sexy-as-hell smirk as he stared at the camera.