Stealing Home

by Nicole Williams

  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.

  The crack of a ball connecting with a bat shook me from my reverie. The dugout exploded with noise again when Garfield sped to first base. Hernandez made it to second right before the ball sailed into the baseman’s mitt.

  “Come on, Archer!” Coach hollered as Archer stalked up to home plate. “Give ‘em hell, son!”

  My throat ran dry. Even when I swallowed, it didn’t help. The crowd was really heckling now that the best batter in the league was stepping up to the plate with two on base.

  Before he stepped into the box, he performed his ritual tapping of his cleats with his bat. Two taps on the left cleat. Three on the right. Then he rolled his shoulders a few time before stepping into the box and lowering into position.

  The pitcher shook his head at the signal the catcher had just flashed him. He nodded at the second signal.

  Archer drove pitchers up a wall because he didn’t have a weakness. He’d swing at every type of pitch. He’d connect with them all too. Whether he swung or not had more to do with what felt right when that ball was launching his way—at least, that’s what I’d heard him mention in an interview earlier in the season.

  As the pitcher wound up, everyone in the dugout, including myself, sucked in a breath. The ball moved so fast I barely noticed the white blur sail through the air before the crack of Archer’s bat connecting with it echoed through the stadium. The ball went high and deep. Everyone in the dugout stood up from the bench, and just when it looked like the ball was going to clear the fence, it clinked against the back of the fence and bounced deep into center field.

  Garfield was already rounding third base and Hernandez was closing in on home before the centerfielder made it to the ball. As a testament to Archer’s speed, even on a semi-injured leg, he was on his way to third before Garfield had barely passed it.

  Coach Beckett was beating the ground in front of the dugout, and the rest of the players looked like they were ready to charge the field.

  The third base coach waved Archer toward home, but it was a bad call. He should have stopped him. Archer had only made it halfway to home before the ball smacked into the catcher’s mitt.

  Archer lunged back to third, but not before the ball made it to the third baseman. He was caught in a hotbox, no sooner lunging for home before pivoting back for third.

  The players in the dugout were roaring. Coach Beckett’s shouts were drowned out by the noise. The whole time, I didn’t think I took a breath.

  Dust erupted around Archer’s cleats with every step, clouding up the air around him. When he turned back toward home, he waited for the third baseman to launch the ball to the catcher before switching directions and hauling back to third. Only because I was watching Archer’s face so intently did I see it—the flash of pain. No doubt brought on by the sudden twist in direction on the leg he’d been favoring for the past few innings.

  Diving, Archer’s arms wound around third base before the baseman’s glove brushed him with the ball that had just slapped into it. The crowd around the stadium was booing their guts out as the ump announced Archer safe. The scoreboard changed to put the Shock up by one at the top of the ninth.

  The dugout had turned into a clan of brutes beating their chests, grunting their approval, and adjusting their cups like they simply couldn’t not fondle themselves after that kind of play.

  I was already reaching for my bag and heading up the stairs before Archer stood. By the time the third base coach waved me over, I was only a few strides away.

  The leg he’d been favoring earlier was the same one he could barely apply any weight to now. The umps called a timeout in order to bring in a runner for Archer while the third base coach and I helped Archer off the field.

  His arms draped around our shoulders as he let us help him.

  “Don’t put any weight on it,” I ordered when I caught him trying to walk himself off.

  “I’m fine.” His fingers drilled into the outside of my shoulder as we moved him off the field. “I just tweaked a muscle or something.”

  “Or something,” I mumbled, shaking my head.

  Shepherd jogged up to take the third base coach’s place beside Archer.

  “Hey, don’t worry. This is all part of my plan,” Archer said.

  “Part of your plan to get carried off the field mid-season?” I whispered as Shepherd and the third base coach exchanged a few words.

  “Part of my plans to get my arms around you.”

  “You’ve got one arm around me.”

  “For now.” His arm tightened around me as his mouth lowered to my ear. “But something tells me the second will be wrapping around you soon enough.”

  “SHOULDN’T YOU BUY me dinner first or something?” Archer smirked at me when he lifted up onto his elbows as I tugged his sweats down his legs.

  “Tell you what,” I replied after I gave one last pull, freeing the dark gray sweats from him. After handing him a towel, I waited for him to drape it over his lap. Instead he curled it up and tossed it across the hotel room. “How about I draw you a nice, soothing, relaxing bath? Full of ice.”

  As I came around the side of his bed, it took all of my concentration to focus on the compress I needed to unwrap instead of what was resting just a little higher. At least he had underwear on, but it wasn’t like they provided much coverage. Especially when what was tucked inside them looked about ready to burst free.

  And dammit. I’d looked. From the way I could feel him watching me, he knew I’d looked too.

  “Another ice bath. Sounds perfect. Since my balls aren’t already blue enough.” Archer spread his legs open farther as I reached down to unwind the compress circling his upper right thigh.

  “Yeah, well, that’s what you get for not listening to the recommendation of your athletic trainer to take it easy.” I unwound the bandage slowly, not wanting to further inflame the area. “Every three hours, we’ll alternate fifteen minutes of ice and heat.”

  “Yay.” He cleared his throat when my fingers brushed his inner thigh as I unwound the last of the compress Shepherd had wrapped back in the locker room after his first ice bath. “Since you got to decide on the ice option, how about I decide on the heat option?”

  From the low notes in his voice, I knew exactly what he meant. “The plan is to calm the tear. Not further aggravate it.”

  “Okay. I can work with that.” When I exhaled, he added, “I’ve got ideas.”

  “Ideas that involve what you have in mind and not using your groin muscles?” My gaze wandered back to that part of his anatomy. Right before moving onto a different part of it. Holy shit. Something about knowing he wanted me and wasn’t concerned with hiding that desire made me dizzy. “Good luck with that.”

  Archer watched me as I disappeared into the bathroom to turn off the water filling the tub. “Never underestimate the ingenuity of a desperate man.”

  After testing the temperature of the bath, I grabbed one more bag of ice and dumped it in. I’d arranged to have four new bags arrive every few hours through the night so I could mitigate the damage Archer’s pulled groin muscle would have on his season.

  The team doctor had done an exam in the locker room and assured Coach Beckett that with aggressive care these first twenty-four hours, Archer should be able to play the game in New Orleans three days from now.

  From my own exam, I knew the doctor was giving Coach a serious case of lip service. The only way Archer would be able to play the Shock’s next game was if we injected him with every illegal substance in this sport and on the market in general. It was a class two pull—no amount of walking off would fix this in a couple days’ time.

  “Are you hungry, Doc?” Archer called from the other room.

  “That depends on the context of that question.”

  His laugh carried into the bathroom. “You know me too well. However,
in this instance, I’m referring to hunger as in for food. The room service type specifically. I can order something for us so we can eat once you’re done cryogenically freezing my gonads.”

  Wandering back into his room, I dried off my hands with a towel. “Hey, this isn’t my fault—I warned you to take it easy.”

  I ceremoniously waved my arms toward the bathroom, feeling nervous. I’d given so many ice baths I could have filled an entire ocean with them, but this one was different. It was for Luke Archer. In his hotel room instead of the locker room. Plus, back there, the entire coaching and medical staff had been present, pow-wowing a plan of treatment. No one else was here now though.

  Just me. Just him. And a locked door.

  Shepherd had crapped a brick when Archer requested that I attend to him through the night, right before the suspicious look that shadowed his face insinuated the very thing I was trying to avoid. If someone on the team was already suspicious that something was going on between Archer and me and we hadn’t even done anything, what chance did we have of no one finding out when and if we actually did?

  “Dinner?” Archer waved the room service menu at me.

  “I’ll order it for us. We need to get you in the tub before you get any more swollen.”

  Archer’s gaze swept down his body, landing on the very part of him I was trying not to inspect. “I can think of something to help with the ‘swelling.’”

  Crossing my arms, I gave him an unfazed look. “I’m here to see to your leg. Not your dick.”

  “I think that by taking care of one, you’ll be taking care of the other.”

  “True. Ice baths are up to the task of tending to torn muscles and swollen dicks. So let’s get started.”

  Archer lay stretched out in bed for another minute, calling my bluff, but when I made no move to throw myself at him, he sighed. “The ice bath it is.”

  “Good choice.” Rushing to him when he started to climb off the bed, I positioned myself under his arm to keep him from putting any weight on the injured leg.