Stealing Home(12)

“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.