Stealing Home

by Nicole Williams

  “I’m sure I don’t have a clue.”

  “All I’m saying is that whatever you’re doing, keep it up, Allie.” Shepherd slid a little closer, his gaze dropping to where the V in my dress came together. “Archer stays this hot, I see a World Series win in our future.”

  The skin on the back of my neck tingled. From what he was saying, from how he was saying it, from the way he was looking at me. I wanted to play dumb and deny his veiled accusation, but I hadn’t approached anything in life by playing dumb and I wasn’t about to start with the likes of Shepherd.

  “Whatever you’re trying to say, Shepherd, spit it the hell out. My head’s swimming in too much champagne to figure out cryptic riddles.”

  Shepherd didn’t stop running his eyes over me, and with him getting closer, I could make out the glassiness in his eyes. He was marinating in more champagne than I was.

  “I’m saying that of all the Incentive Girls I’ve seen thrown at Archer, you’re the one who’s squeezed the best results out of our boy. Or should I say fucked the best results out of him.” Shepherd’s head tipped, his smile eclipsing into one that made me shiver.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “And you must be such a slut in bed, you might actually get to hang around for a second season. Most of the girls the team brings on only last a year, but you”—he whistled, shaking his head—“you just might be this generation’s Marilyn.”

  Setting my glass down, I put some space between us. “At this point in your depravity, I think it’s a good thing I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, please. Marilyn Monroe? Joe DiMaggio? Why do you think he became the legend he is today?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Because he was a great ball player?”

  “Made great because he got to look forward to a fine piece of ass crawling over his cock every night.”

  His words hit me like someone had just slapped me across the cheek. Whatever sexual harassment policies the team had drawn up, Shepherd was breaking just about every single one of them.

  “You are an asshole.”

  “Oh, please. That woman couldn’t act to save her soul. But servicing dick—she could have taken home the Academy Award.”

  Anger coursed through me, mixing with the alcohol. It was a volatile combination. “I wasn’t calling you an asshole because of what you’re accusing Marilyn Monroe of. I was and still am calling you an asshole because of what you’re accusing me of.” Nevermind the fact that DiMaggio and Monroe hadn’t even met until after he’d retired from baseball. Clearly, Shepherd wasn’t up on his baseball trivia like I was.

  Shepherd exchanged his empty glass for the one I’d left unfinished on the counter. “What? Are you not servicing Luke Archer’s dick?”

  My stomach turned over. How did he know? How had he found out?

  “Don’t worry, Allie. Your valiant Archer didn’t fuck and tell or anything.” He drained my glass in a single sip. “It was just implied in your contract when you were brought on.”

  “I was brought on as an athletic trainer. Athletic trainer. The same exact job as the one you have.” When I realized my hands were starting to shake, I wound them behind my back. I didn’t want him to see me rattled. I didn’t want to confirm his suspicions.

  “Yes, you were brought on as an ‘athletic trainer.’” He snorted. “Just like the girl last season was brought on as a ‘physical therapist,’ and the one before her as a ‘dietitian,’ and the one Archer’s first season as a ‘guest reporter.’”

  The room started to close in on me. I had no reason to believe what Shepherd was saying; just like I had no reason to disbelieve what he was saying. He might have been an asshole, but he was a drunk one right now and couldn’t have just pulled all of that out of his ass if it wasn’t true. Or could he?

  God, my head hurt.

  “Oh please, don’t be so naïve.” Shepherd dropped his hand on my shoulder and gave me a little shake like he was trying to break me out of shock. “How do you think a team attracts a player like Archer and keeps a player like him? It sure as shit isn’t with just heaps of cash. But it’s not exactly like the Shock can put a traveling hooker on the payroll, so they’ve found legal ways around it.”

  I shrugged out from beneath his hand, my eyes searching the room for Archer. He was still in the same place, but he was watching me. When he noticed the look on my face, his brows drew together. His eyes narrowed when he saw Shepherd so close.

  It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Whatever I did or didn’t know about Luke, I knew he was a decent person. A good man. Someone like that wouldn’t condone or expect the team to hire some new woman every year to be his personal traveling fuck toy. Shepherd was full of shit.

  “God, what is the matter with you?” Peeling my eyes from Archer, who looked close to tearing across the room for me, I crossed my arms at Shepherd. “Are you intimidated by me or something? Worried I’m going to take your position as lead trainer?”

  His head fell back, and a laugh spilled past his lips. “Oh, yeah. That’s it. I’m truly intimidated by your ability to use your pussy.” My eyes widened, but he didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Please, what did you really think? That you were hired on because you were the best candidate for the job? This is baseball. It’s a boys’ club. The only cunts allowed in are the ones who know how to spread ‘em and bed ‘em.”

  At my side, my hand twitched. The pull to slap him right in the middle of this charity ball was so appealing, I could taste it, but Luke was watching me again. I couldn’t give him a reason to come barreling over here and confirm Shepherd’s accusations. “You truly are a heinous person.”

  Shepherd feigned insult. “You misunderstand why I’m bringing this up. It isn’t to insult you—it’s to congratulate you.” He clapped a few times at me. “You’ve done your job better than any of the ones who came before. Keep up the good work. Who knows? You might even get a little bonus at the end of the season—with your marching orders.”

  I didn’t realize I’d been backing away from him until he cocked his brow at me. I was not going to be intimidated by someone like Shepherd. I was not going to let him think he could fire off some random threats and I’d lose all manner of composure and decorum.

  “The wires in your head? Uncross them. Or exorcise the demon you’ve been possessed by. Or have your meds adjusted. And don’t talk to me again unless it’s about something work related.” I didn’t blink as I spoke, moving closer with every word and making sure he saw the seriousness on my face. I turned to leave once that slapping urge took me over again.

  “Has he told you about the little boy yet?” Shepherd’s voice carried after me. “The one Incentive Girl Number One got knocked up with his first season?”

  My feet froze in the middle of my next step. My heart froze with it.

  AFTER THE BALL, I went home and got drunk like I’d never gotten drunk before. I shut off my phone, turned off the lights, and drank my way through the neck and shoulders of a nice bottle of bourbon.

  It seemed like a good idea at the time. The next morning made me question if it wasn’t the worst idea instead.

  My phone I kept off, knowing what would happen when I powered it back on and found all of his missed calls and texts. I’d call him back. I’d let him explain what Shepherd had said. I’d let his explanation cloud my reason. I’d let myself become the very person I was afraid of becoming again—the girl who exchanged what she wanted to be true for the actual truth.

  The team was scheduled to fly out later that afternoon, and I was dreading the flight. Not just because I’d have to see Archer, but I’d have to face Shepherd again too. Have to face the whole team. How many of them thought the same thing Shepherd did—that I was just number eleven’s new fuck girl?

  After downing a few aspirins and a few liters of water to rehydrate myself, I slid in front of my laptop and got to work. My apartment got good light early in the day, but I had to close the blinds to keep my head from splitting op
en. Plus, the dark fit my mood, given the content of my research.

  Type Luke Archer’s name into a search engine and thousands of pages of baseball related pictures and stats would pop up. That wasn’t what I was searching for. Type “Luke Archer’s love interests” into the same search engine, and the whole tone of the pictures and articles changed.

  From high school dance photos to candid snapshots taken at college parties with some girl he was caught talking with, the photos made him seem like some playboy who had had a different girl for every night of his existence since puberty. The propaganda wasn’t what I was interested in either though.

  Adjusting my search, I found what I was looking for—the guest reporter who’d followed the Shock three seasons ago. Her name was Callie Monahan, and at the time, she’d been a reporter for a big national station. She was about my age, had gone to a good school, and had seemed to be rising in her career, but for the past few years, there wasn’t much of anything about her. She didn’t work for the same national station—or any station for that matter.

  I couldn’t find any direct links between her and Luke—at least, not at first. It wasn’t until I was scrolling through some of the images of Callie that I found one that made my body go numb. It was a photo some fan had taken at a team dinner. Everyone from Coach to the players to the support staff to the guest reporter was in it.

  Luke and Callie weren’t sitting by each other. They weren’t even sitting on the same side of the table. It wasn’t their proximity to one another that told me what I needed to know—it was how clearly aware they both were of where the other one was. While everyone else was looking at the camera, Luke and Callie were looking at each other. It had probably only been a fraction of a moment, but it had been frozen in time and made public for anyone to see.

  The wheels of my computer chair rolled closer as I leaned in to study the photo. My ears were ringing like I’d just been knocked over the head with a brick. It wasn’t just that the two of them were looking at each other; it was the way he was looking at her. It was familiar. Achingly familiar. The set of his brow, the tip of his smile, the intensity in his eyes—it was the way Luke looked at me.

  It was the same way he’d looked at her.

  Jealousy was taking root, but I didn’t let it grow. Luke had a right to a past. He had a right to look at some other woman with care and concern. He had history with this woman, but that wasn’t why I was taped to my laptop when I could have used the extra hour of sleep. The women in his past weren’t what concerned me—it was how they’d become a part of his life.

  I needed to see if Shepherd’s story had any credibility, because if it did, what did that say about why I’d been hired, why Luke had come into my life, and what the future of my career looked like?

  I guessed I knew what it would say—I just wasn’t sure I was ready to hear it.

  Scrolling through the last images of Callie, I couldn’t find any of her and Luke together. They’d been careful, just as we’d been. But in the last few images, I found yet another familiar face. This one was familiar because of the photo propped on Luke’s dresser.

  It was the same baby in Callie’s arms, taken at about the same time as Luke’s photo, judging by the age of the baby. The caption read nothing more than “Callie Monahan and son,” but I knew.

  He wasn’t just her son. With those eyes and that mouth, I knew who the father was.

  My chest started heaving from my breathing. Why hadn’t he told me? Why would Luke keep something so big from the woman he was seeing . . . unless he had no intention of “seeing” her past the expiration of the season? Unless seeing was code word for using. Girlfriend code word for fuck toy.

  My fingers curled into the armrests of the chair. I’d seen enough—I should just let this settle in before I went any further down this vortex. Before I could control what was happening, I typed something else into the search engine. Something about the Shock’s team dietician two seasons ago.

  That hole in my stomach stretched wider. Another young woman who’d only stayed a season.

  My fingers flew across the keyboard again. Typing in Shock’s physical therapy team for the season last year, I scrolled through the images until I found the one I was searching for. Same exact thing. Young woman. One season.

  For a minute I just stared at her picture, shock rendering me motionless. When the shock receded just enough to let comprehension in, I noticed something.

  She had blond hair, brown eyes, and was on the petite side. Scanning back to the team dietician, same story. I didn’t need to go back to Callie’s photos to confirm the same thing.

  Luke Archer had a type, and it seemed the team had been catering to his preferences ever since he’d signed on. He had a type. Blond, brown-eyed, petite, and willing to crawl into bed with him.

  That was when the room began to spin again, though it wasn’t from the alcohol—it was from a harsh dose of reality setting in. The Shock hadn’t hired me on merit and talent alone, like I’d believed. They hadn’t hired the three women before me on any of that either.

  I’d been brought on for one reason and one reason only—to keep Luke Archer happy and swinging for the fences. Blood rolled to a boil in my veins, anger masking the pain.

  He was about to get a dose of harsh reality himself.

  CLIMBING ABOARD THE team plane that afternoon took every ounce of courage I had at my disposal. I’d talked myself into resigning mid-season a hundred times already—and I’d talked myself out of it a hundred times. Despite feeling like a joke being here, I knew to up and leave in the middle of a team’s season would look bad. Any hopes I had for continuing my career in professional sports would be dashed. I didn’t want one season to define the rest of my career, so I told myself to suck it up and finish the season strong. I reminded myself that these kinds of trials were what made people stronger and that by the end of this, I would be made of steel.

  Convincing myself to finish the season was easy. Or, easier. Convincing myself that I didn’t have feelings for Luke Archer was not. It should have been. After everything I’d learned in the past twenty-four hours, accepting that anything I had or did feel for him had all been based on a giant ruse should have been simple.

  It wasn’t though. When I thought about Luke, I still felt things for him. I still felt my stomach tighten when I thought of the way he looked at me. I still felt that surge of hope for when I’d get to see him next. I still felt that sense of peace and belonging when I thought about him.

  I hated myself for all of it. I despised myself for still caring about some man who’d lied to me and betrayed me. That was okay though, I convinced myself, because I could make hate work. Hate kept the fire of anger burning—I would have been in more trouble if I’d forgiven myself for my weakness.

  As I stepped inside the cabin, I’d never been so aware of my expression and making sure the one I’d practiced in the mirror earlier stayed in place. Most of the team was already on board, buckled into their seats with their headphones on. Some of them already looked asleep, some were looking at the windows, and some were playing on their phones. But one was looking up, straight at me.

  My lungs strained when I felt his stare on me. He didn’t know I knew. He was still looking at me like I meant something—like I was special. He was good at that. I supposed he had to be. None of us had known why we’d been hired—not the real reason. It wasn’t like he could just be an ass and we’d beg him to fuck us sideways all season. Luke had to look at us like that. He had to make each of us feel special. He had to do that so we would all give him what he wanted without making it seem like some carefully crafted plan built to keep the star player happy and the team wins adding up.

  Giving him the most passing glance I was capable of, I kept moving by his row. I didn’t miss the way he indicated the window seat empty beside him. I didn’t miss the damn tiny box with a bow on it resting on the empty seat.

  I felt like someone was ripping my heart to pieces when I passed him.
I could hear him twisting around in his seat, watching me. I could feel his stare as I wound farther down the aisle, putting me as far away from him as the plane would allow.

  Just when I was about to take the empty row at the back of the plane, I changed my mind. Knowing Luke, once the plane was in the air, he’d come back to sit with me, and I wasn’t ready to talk to him. I’d have to soon, but not yet. The sting of it all was too fresh. I knew I’d say things I’d regret.

  “Mind if I squeeze in beside you?” I stopped outside of the row Reynolds was stretched out in.

  He slid off his big headphones, confusion forming on his face. “Be my guest, Doc.” He motioned at the empty seat beside him and stood to let me squeeze by.

  The whole time, I felt Archer watching. As I turned to sit, our gazes met for just long enough I could see the same lines of confusion drawn on his forehead. To distract myself, I fought with the buckle, trying to get it adjusted to fit me, but being flustered and nervous was making basic things difficult.

  “Do you need some help?” Reynolds asked.

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Sure about that?” he said when I started beating the two ends together when they refused to latch.

  A moment later, I got them to cooperate. “I’ve got it,” I breathed, sagging into the seat.

  A few minutes passed in silence except for my shifting every few seconds, trying to get comfortable. I was having a difficult time deciding if I wanted the window shade open or closed.

  By the time we were in the air and I was still a shifting, undecided wreck, Reynolds leaned over. “Do you need to talk, Doc?”

  Finally I found the right position I felt comfortable in, settling on the window being closed. “No,” I said, closing my eyes. “I need to forget.”

  I’D SURVIVED THE plane. I’d survived the walk through the airport, when he’d tried coming up beside me and slipping something into my hand, by dodging into the women’s bathroom before he could get the little box in my grip. I’d survived the drive to the hotel. I’d survived the awkward moments when he’d tried to get my attention and I’d pretended not to notice. I’d survived the day.