Stealing Home(24)

Even being in a room packed with other bodies and neither of us really acknowledging each other, I had a difficult time staying unaffected. The air became a little thinner. My heartbeat a little louder. My breaths a little shorter.

“What do you have to say about this, Eden?” Coach stood behind the desk, already in his uniform and windbreaker, pointing straight at Luke.

My throat constricted at the same time the air rushed out of my lungs. All the eyes in the room, except for Luke’s, turned on me, all of them waiting for my response. Had someone found out? Is that what this unscheduled meeting was about?

My mind went blank as the silence continued.

“Am I speaking in gibberish or something?” Coach grunted, staggering his hands across the desk as he leaned across it. “You’ve spent the last two days with Archer. Start talking.”

My pulse felt like a drumbeat in my throat as adrenaline and anxiety flooded my system. Coach’s stare was unyielding, and the longer I stayed quiet, scrambling for something to say, the more imaginary steam seemed to blow from his ears.

Shepherd’s forehead was drawn together, appraising me with a look that indicated he thought me quite inept. Dr. Callahan's and Turner’s expressions weren’t that much better. Archer was the only one not looking at me, but as my silence stretched on, he shifted in his seat.

“My leg.” His voice filled the room. “How do you think my leg’s doing?”

When he let his head turn just enough in my direction so our eyes connected, I relaxed. This wasn’t a meeting accusing Archer and me of having an inappropriate relationship—this was a status meeting about his leg.

My lungs went from two limp, sagging balloons to bursting. “It’s a stage two pull, as you all know,” I started, having to look away from Archer in order to speak intelligibly. “We continued to treat it through the night, alternating ice and heat, every three hours. The plan is to continue the same through tonight, start some massage and stretching tomorrow, and take it from there.”

Coach was whirling his hand like he was waiting for me to say more. When I didn’t add anything else, he threw his arms in Archer’s direction. “Fantastic. But what does that have to do with tonight’s game?”

“Tonight’s game?” I felt my eyebrows pinch together as I glanced at Archer, still perfectly stoic-faced in his chair, almost like he was waiting to be read a sentence in court.

Coach grumbled something, his cleats clinking on the floor as he started pacing behind the desk. “Yes, can he play or not?” My eyebrows stayed together as he continued, “I’ve gotten everyone else’s opinion on the matter, and now I’d like yours. If it wouldn’t be too big of an inconvenience for you to give it, of course.” Coach shot me a look.

I stood quietly confused for another moment. Waving at Archer, the only one sitting in the room, and ripe from ice and heat treatments, I felt like the answer should have been obvious. “No.” My voice seemed to fill the whole room. “He can’t play tonight.”

I didn’t miss the way Archer’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing just enough to give away he wasn’t as removed as he was letting on. I also didn’t miss the rest of the bodies in the room shifting. Shepherd huffed under his breath as his head shook.

Coach didn’t seem to notice any of it—he just kept watching me like he was challenging me to change my answer or something. I wouldn’t though. With this kind of injury, playing a game less than forty-eight hours later shouldn’t even be open to discussion. Archer was out for one game at least, if not a few. It was difficult to say for sure since with an injury like his, you had to take it day by day.

“I’ve got four other people in the room telling me the opposite, Eden.” Coach paused his pacing, his hands going to his hips as he studied Archer in his chair. “What reason do you have to give me for why my star player can’t play a big game tonight?”

Three sets of eyes slid in my direction, varying degrees of smugness and superiority on Shepherd’s, Callahan’s, and Turner’s faces. I returned their looks with one of my own. They all damn well knew it wasn’t in Archer’s best interest to return to the game tonight. Maybe it was in the team’s, but it wasn’t for the player.

“Ignoring the fact that he could barely walk unassisted yesterday,” I began, peaking my brow, “if you put him in the game tonight, Archer has a very high likelihood of reinjuring himself—and much worse. Then your star player might have to sit out the rest of the season instead of a couple of games.”

Coach let that process for a minute while I crossed my arms at the three other people in the room who should have been on board with me. I couldn’t believe that a damn doctor, physical therapist, and the lead athletic trainer would look Coach in the eye and tell him Archer could play tonight.

It was the training profession’s equivalent of malpractice.

But Coach had said the four people in the room had told him Archer could play tonight which meant . . .

My head whipped in Archer’s direction when I put it together. I’d told him he couldn’t play tonight. I’d prepared him because I knew he wouldn’t take sitting out a game well. I couldn’t believe he’d hear me tell him one thing, then go on to tell Coach something else. Anger surged in my veins, and my stare progressed to the point of almost willing him to look at me.