Stealing Home(2)

His answer to that was a lifting of his eyes. “I’m one man who can swing one bat.”

“One bat really, really hard. And very, very exactly,” I interjected.

He continued, “You make sure twenty-five men can keep swinging their own bats.”

“Well, there’s me, the two other athletic trainers, the physical therapist, the personal trainers, and the actual doctor who help out with that too. I can’t take all of the credit.”

“Come on. You work twice as hard as any of them, so you should at least take most of the credit.” When his phone started chiming in his slacks’ pocket, he pulled it out, turned it off, and hid it back in his pocket.

“And since the closest Shepherd and Coach Beckett have let me get to you is handing out a water bottle, how would you know that?”

He pointed at his eyes. “I’ve got two of these and use them for observation on occasion.”

“When they’re not searching for your next conquest?” I gave an internal groan the moment after I’d voiced something that should have stayed unsaid.

My relationships with the players had always been professional and rarely, if ever, delved into the realm of personal information. If it didn’t have to do with preventing or tending to injuries, I didn’t bring it up.

Until now. When I’d just suggested that Luke Archer had a reputation in every city the Shock had visited, every hotel they’d stayed in. Perfect way for my first real conversation with the star player of the team, and the whole of professional baseball, to go.

Archer stayed quiet, studying me with that tipped smile he was famous for.

“You know my opinion on rumors?” he said a minute later.

I was capable of nothing more than shaking my head.

“That they’re started by haters. Spread by fools. And accepted by idiots.”

My head tipped. “Are you calling me an idiot?”

His eyes flashed. “Are you calling me a manwhore?”

I studied him lounging in his seat with his legs kicked out in front of him, his wide chest stretching beneath his suit jacket, his long arms resting on the armrests.. His body was enough to weaken the resolve of someone as jaded to player players as I was, but his face didn’t play second-string.

Brown hair lightened by the sun, smooth skin darkened by it, a strong jaw, and hazel eyes that trended more toward the green end of the spectrum; Luke Archer was quite possibly the most attractive man I’d ever laid eyes on. According to Sports Anonymous’s random poll of five thousand women, he was the best-looking guy in professional sports today. The other few billion women on the planet would have agreed with that title, I assumed.

“Do you always take so long to answer a question?” Archer motioned at me, waiting.

“No,” I said, recalling the last question he’d asked me. Snap out of it. “I don’t think that you’re a . . . manwhore,” I whispered the last part.

I’d had enough experience with the rumor mill to be a sympathetic party to the target of so many. Being one of the first and only female athletic trainers in professional sports had opened me up to a hundred rumors when I’d been hired. All versions of them had to do with me f*cking my way into the position.

“Good.” Archer nodded, seeming satisfied. “Because you certainly don’t seem like an idiot.”

“Thanks?”

He nodded again. “Welcome.”

That was when the pilot’s voice echoed through the team jet, running through his usual spiel. We were leaving Tampa and heading up to Chicago. Now that the season was in full swing, I lost track of the cities we were leaving and the ones we were heading toward. All of my attention was focused on the players and getting them through the season as injury-free as possible.

“I’m still waiting for that name, Doc.” Archer clicked his seat belt into place when one of the attendants stopped beside him, looking ready to strap it into place for him.

When she saw mine unfastened, all I got was a lifted brow and a pointed finger before she moved on to the next aisle.

“Oh, it’s okay. He’s not worth it.” I lifted my phone toward him before dropping it in the duffel bag I kept on hand at all times. Bandages, tape, painkillers, and a small cooler of ice packs were always at the ready whenever I was with the team. “Any guy who breaks up with someone via text message isn’t worth much.”

“Really? Over text?” Archer’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the reason the ass-kicking was invented. For those types of guys.”

I shrugged as the plane started to taxi down the runway, the interior lights dimming. “We haven’t even been together a month. Truthfully, it lasted longer than I thought it would. This kind of lifestyle”—I twirled my finger around the airplane—“makes it difficult to sustain a long-term relationship.”

“That’s why I’m not a fan of them.”

“Long-term relationships?”

“Any kind of relationship,” he said.

I nodded my understanding. The players had it worse than the team staff. At least in terms of having to question if a person was into them for who they were or because of their job, and the fame and money that came with it.

“I’m either practicing for a game, playing a game, recovering from a game, or fueling up and resting for a game. There’s not time for much else,” he said.