Stealing Home (5 page)

“And?” He took the water bottle from me, waiting.

Looking at him from this close was hard. Seeing him shirtless again made me remember the way his body had felt against mine during that impromptu photo shoot. The way his hard planes accepted my soft curves. The way his arms felt around me, tucking me close to him like nothing could get past him. God. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with him. Not with a player on the very team I was working for.

“And it will require lots more thought,” I said, picking up his bottle and holding it out for him with a raised eyebrow. Gauging how long he’d been running and how much he was sweating, he needed to down a couple of liters to restore his fluid levels. I needed to make sure he got some electrolytes in him too.

“Anything I can do to help sway your decision?” Archer looked down at me while he sucked on his water bottle. He gave me a
happy now?
look when he handed it back, almost empty.

“Yeah. Explain why you ignored me for months, then when you decided to notice me, you pretty much came on so strong it was like I was the last woman on the planet and the fate of it rested on our ability to procreate.” I headed back to the water cooler, thankful for the added space between us.

He’d been guarding his looks around me when others were around, but now that we alone, he was staring at me like he knew me as intimately as two people could know one another. He didn’t blink once, his long strides strumming along the treadmill. His muscled shoulders lifted. “I go after what I want. I don’t leave you guessing. Or wondering. With me, you get what you see. You know what I want. Who I am.”

When I handed him the fresh water bottle, he drank a few more sips before squirting a stream onto his head. I backed up into the wall behind me. Distance seemed like a good thing when Luke Archer was looking at me the way he was, saying the things he was, sweating and breathing hard the way he was.

“And you want . . .
me?”
I said, needing the words spelled out.

He didn’t pause. His stride didn’t lose a beat. “I do.”

My heart felt like it was climbing into my throat. “Why?”

His gaze pinned me to the wall. “Because you know the demands of this lifestyle. You’re as committed to your job as I am to mine. You’re as interested in keeping this quiet as I am.” He motioned at me like I was living proof of his confession. “I respect you as a trainer and a human being. And, most importantly of all, I am attracted to you in a way that makes it hard to breathe when you’re close.” That was when he paused to take a breath. “I want you in a way that makes rolling into bed every night without fantasizing about crawling over your body impossible. That’s
why
.” He let that settle in the air, never looking away. “I can’t promise you forever. I can’t promise any length of time actually, but I can promise honesty and commitment. The rest, I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“And sex.” My eyebrow lifted. “You can promise me that too, right?”

A tipped smile slid into place. “I can absolutely promise you that.”

“Glad that’s all cleared up,” I muttered, wondering if anything was or if everything was just more confusing now. Was he suggesting a sex-only relationship? A no-strings-attached one? Was he hinting at maybe more?

Did I care?

My answer to that question was unsettling. So I shuffled it to the back of my mind.

“This schedule—this life . . . it would be nice to have someone to climb into bed with at night.” His shoulders lifted as he kept clipping along. “To share private moments with. The same person. A person I trust.”

I knew all too well what he meant. Ours was a lonely life. One filled with endless tasks, long hours, and hundreds of people . . . yet still impossibly lonely. It would be wonderful to have one person I could trust to share intimacy with. A person I could wrap my body around at the end of a long day and pretend that life was more than schedules and commitments.

“This is a strange arrangement,” I said after a minute.

He was cooling down and needed to get some more fluids, electrolytes, and rest before tomorrow’s game. The thing was, I didn’t trust myself to go back to his room and follow up on those items. We hadn’t even crossed a line yet and already I was letting my feelings for him get in the way of my job.

I couldn’t do that. No matter where Luke Archer and I wound up, I couldn’t let my feelings for him get in the way of my job.

“This is a strange life that we live,” he replied, punching the treadmill to a stop. “When you make your decision, you know where to find me. You know where I stand. Let me know when you figure out where you do.”

“No pressure, right?”

He stopped wiping off his face, his eyes darkening as he stepped off the treadmill and moved toward me. “Depending on your answer, there’ll be plenty of pressure. In all the right places. Whenever you need it. Whenever you want it.”

My legs squeezed together. “You really don’t leave anything open to interpretation, do you?”

“No.” His head shook. “Don’t let the fear of striking out hold you back.”

My tongue went into the side of my cheek. “I think Mr. Ruth was referring to baseball, not dating.”

His dimple sunk into his cheek. “Maybe he was, but that’s the principle Mr. Archer applies to all facets of his life.” Backing away from me, he snagged his shirt off a barbell and took another sip from his water bottle. He was keeping true to his word—letting me figure this out without him pressuring me . . . yet.

The promise or threat or whatever it was made my pulse race. I could only imagine how much Luke Archer could pressure the hell out of me.

“Archer,” I called before he slipped through the door. My job first. That was the way this had to work, no matter what my decision.

“Yeah, yeah, Doc. I’ll down a couple electrolyte tabs and get some rest.” He froze in the doorway, glancing back at me still pinned to the wall. “Unless you’ve made up your mind and have something else in mind for my bed tonight.”

Lifting my hand, I waved. “Sweet dreams, Archer.”

THIS GAME WAS going to come down to the last inning. I hated games like these. The players loved games like these though.

There was so much adrenaline and testosterone shooting through the dugout, we would be in trouble if someone lit a match. This energy was that explosive.

By the top of the fourth inning, two fights had already been broken up—one started by Reynolds when he claimed the shortstop from the Rays blew him an air-kiss after Reynolds tried to steal third, and the second when Garfield, the catcher, threw down with a player who got walked but decided to “accidentally” sail his bat into Garfield’s chest pad.

Archer had sprinted from his position at first base to try to break it up and managed to get taken to the ground when a few players from the Rays fired out of their dugout, assuming he was joining forces with Garfield.

We’d be lucky to leave the field with everyone on their own two feet instead of sprawled out on a parade of stretchers.

“Hey.” Archer slid next to me on the bench after jogging into the dugout at the end of top of the ninth.

“Hey,” I replied, trying to ignore that same mix of sweat and man closing in around me when he slid closer. Along with it came the hint of grass and leather. It should have been offensive, but it was the opposite. I loved this sport and everything that came with it—the scents included.

“So how do you like playing football?” I asked, keeping a straight face.

“Please, football players have it easy with all that padding and protection. I’m going to look like I got tuned up by a tire iron tomorrow.” He turned his forearms over, and I could already make out a few bruises breaking to the surface.

“You want something for the pain?” I reached down for my duffel bag.

“Do I ever want something for the pain?”

“Fine.” I tucked the bag back under the bench. The bruises weren’t bad—he’d survive.

“But I wouldn’t mind a nice deep-tissue massage later. Let’s say ten o’clock. My room. Clothing optional.” He kept his voice quiet, smirking at the field as the Rays threw a few warm-up balls.

“No pressure,” I said under my breath.

His smirk grew. “No pressure.”

When Coach paced down the dugout past us, Archer casually shifted farther down the bench from me, his smirk fading.

“We’re one down, boys. One down.” Coach snarled at the scoreboard while Hernandez slid on his batting helmet and took a few practice swings out on the grass. “We’re going to finish this game two up, you hear me? We’re not going to tie. We’re not going to win by one run. We’re going to win by two.”

A chorus of grunts of agreement echoed through the dugout.

“Let’s remind these clowns they have no right to consider themselves baseball players. Let’s show these damn pussy Rays that the Shock is made up of gods and legends.” Coach snarled into the outfield next, like the sight of the Rays made him violent. “We don’t just play ball, boys. We. Win. Ball.”

Another echo of shouts fired around me, Archer being the loudest. The sound of him grunting and hollering beside me made me feel things in places I should not have been feeling when I was trapped in a dugout with a mess of stinky, angry ball players.

When Hernandez moved up to the plate, the team cheered him on while most of the Rays’ crowd started heckling him.

Garfield was on deck, and Archer was in the hole.

“I want to steal home.” Archer scooted back closer to me once Coach’s and the other players’ attention was on Hernandez stepping up to the plate.

“No one steals home anymore.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

His arm was brushing against mine, messing with my head. “Doesn’t mean it should be done either.”

“We need a run. We need a big play.” He sucked in a breath when Hernandez swung at the pitch . . . and missed. Strike one. “If Hernandez and Garfield can get on base and I hit a double or a triple, we’ll be in good shape.”

“Or you could just hit one of those homerun things you’re setting records for. That could work.” I glanced at him from the corners of my eyes.

He shook his head at me.

“Stealing home plate?” I repeated, realizing he was serious. “It’s like a one-in-a-thousand shot you’ll pull it off.”

“Never tell me the odds. It only makes me want to do it more.” His jaw ground when Hernandez chalked up another swing and a miss.

“Play it safe. I know you’re favoring your right leg.” My gaze dropped to his leg running down the length of mine. “I don’t know what you did to it, but I know it’s hurting. Don’t risk hurting it any more.” When his jaw set a little, I sighed. “Am I going to have to tell Coach?”

“I just twisted it weird. It’s fine. A little ice and rest and I’ll be good.”

“Is this when you tell me you’re going to walk it off?”

It wasn’t affecting his performance much, but he’d need speed and luck to steal home. With the way he was favoring his leg, speed was not in his corner tonight.

“No. This is when I
show
you I’m going to walk it off. Right after I add another point to our side of the scoreboard when I steal home.”

When Shepherd glanced down the bench, I reached into my duffel so it looked like I had a reason to be having a conversation with the star player. Instead of the real reason we were having a conversation.

“Don’t steal home,” I said once Shepherd’s attention went back to the game. When Archer sighed, I added, “Not as in not ever. Just wait until the time’s right. When you know you’ll be successful.”

He looked ready to argue when pitch number three sailed at Hernandez and he connected with the ball, sending a whizzing line-drive into left field. Hernandez turned on the jets and hauled to first base, making it right before the ball smacked into the first baseman’s glove.

The dugout let loose with a round of whistles and cheers.

“I’m on deck.”

“Good luck.” I nudged his leg with mine as he stood.

“Hey, I’ve got my lucky shirt on. I’m all set.” He slid off his ball cap and sailed it into my lap.

“Yeah, but it’s been washed a few times since I was in it. Not sure how much luck’s left in it.”

“I’m feeling pretty damn lucky.” He pinched at the shirt before slipping a batting helmet onto his head. “But don’t worry. I fully plan on having my jersey draped around your body again soon.”

My eyes wandered down the dugout. No one was watching—they were too busy holding their breaths as Garfield sauntered up to the plate.

“Don’t steal home.”

“Make me a better offer, and I’ll consider it.” He paused for a heartbeat, challenging me with his eyes. When my lips stayed sealed, he climbed the steps out of the dugout. “Home plate it is.”

Archer grabbed his bat from the rack, lowered into hitting position, and took a couple of practice swings. Even over the roar of the stadium, I could hear the air displaced from the power of his swing. All measure of lightness had faded from his expression—that iron resolve took its place. He had mastered a level of focus most of the guys in the game hadn’t come close to yet.

While everyone watched Garfield at the plate, I watched Archer. I examined the way he held himself, the way he moved his body. Every movement was intentional. The way he commanded his body on the baseball field led me to imagine how he could control it in bed. It was impossible to conclude he’d be a sloppy, flailing lover who couldn’t please his lover if the end of a revolver was drilled into his temple.