Stealing Home(3)

Leaning into my armrest, I realized how strange it was to be having such an easy conversation with Luke Archer. It felt natural, not forced. Most of the players would take a moment to chat with me about something game-related, but I was still the new kid on the block. I felt like I had to pass some test before they’d accept me as a member of the team.

Archer didn’t seem to be of the same mind though.

“Yeah, I know. It’s like you need to find someone who can just travel with you wherever you go, right?” I said, thinking how much easier it would to be in a relationship with someone I got to see on a daily basis without two computer screens.

“Exactly. Someone who understands the lifestyle. Appreciates the sacrifices you have to make.”

My head fell back into the headrest from the inertia of takeoff, but I could still feel Archer’s eyes on me. “Someone who understands that the job comes first. Someone who doesn’t get insecure or jealous or bent out of shape that they get the few precious minutes in between the job.”

When my head turned toward him again, I found Luke Archer staring at me with a kind of intensity I hadn’t seen aimed my way in a long time. My breath caught, and even though the strength of his stare threatened to overwhelm me, I held his gaze.

“Someone who understands the game. The commitment. The time. The sacrifice. Someone who’s as committed to it as you are.” One corner of his mouth twitched, carving a dimple into his cheek. “It’s not like you could ever expect to find a person like that sitting in the row across the aisle from you, right?”





“THEY’RE READY FOR you, Archer!” Coach Beckett hollered into the bowels of the locker room after shoving through the doors.

A chorus of whistles and catcalls circled the space, echoing off the concrete walls and metal lockers.

“I don’t know what Sports Anonymous wants with your ugly mug when they could have mine plastered across the cover instead,” Reynolds piped up above the din as Archer rose from the bench in front of his locker.

I was busy wrapping Hernandez’s ankle on the other side of the locker room, content to leave as much space between Archer and me as a confined space allowed. We hadn’t said much to each other after takeoff last night, but I could feel his gaze on me when he thought I wasn’t looking. By the time we’d touched down, the energy in the air between us was so strong, I felt like I could stick my finger out and be electrocuted by it.

“It’s because they actually want to sell magazines.” Archer flashed a wide smile at Reynolds as he headed for the doors. “And they’re not shooting for Halloween yet. I’ll let them know you’re interested when they’re ready to shoot the ghouls-and-goblins edition though.”

Reynolds snagged a towel from his locker and lobbed it across the room at Archer.

“The pretty boy of baseball. How bad does having to wear that title suck?” Reynolds shouted, which was followed by a few more whistles.

By now, I was used to the locker room banter and usually blocked it out. I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t today, but I guessed it had something to do with the subject the banter was focused on.

“Not too damn bad considering the pretty boy of baseball also happens to have the best batting average in the league.” Archer wagged his brows a few times before blowing an air kiss Reynolds’s way and shoving the door open.

“Archer!” Coach yelled.

Archer paused in the doorway. “Yeah, Coach?”

“Take a trainer with you.”

Shepherd snagged his duffel and jogged toward the door.

“It’s a photo shoot, Coach. I don’t think we need to worry about me pulling a muscle or spraining something.”

“With the way this season is shaping up for us to go to the big game, you are not allowed to take a piss without a trainer within arm’s reach, you hear me?” Coach pointed at Archer, his shit-kicking face drawing his forehead into folds. “I will bubble-wrap you myself if I have to, but I will not let anything happen to my clutch hitter.” Coach paused, but we all knew better than to argue when he was like this. He’d been a part of this game for fifty years and had the wins and pennants to prove it. “Understood?”

Archer nodded once. “Understood.”

Shepherd, who’d frozen in the middle of Coach’s tirade, went back into motion.

“But I get to pick who goes with me,” Archer announced. Even though I wasn’t looking at him, I could feel his eyes on me. “Doc? Whenever you’re done babying Hernandez, we’ve got a photo shoot to get to.”

I felt every eye in the locker room drift in my direction.

“Doc?” Shepherd said, his eyes narrowing on me. “Are you talking about Allie?”

I withheld the eye roll. It was common practice for everyone to refer to each other by last name—from the players to the coaching staff to the medical team. Shepherd refused to abide by that unsaid rule when it came to me though. Pretty sure it was his way of singling me out, since I wasn’t already singled out enough, being the one woman in the locker room with thirty to forty men. I knew Shepherd saw me as some kind of joke—like I had no place working in professional baseball. He was kind of a prick, but in this profession, I had plenty of those to deal with.

“Doc. Yeah.” Archer shrugged, tipping his head out the door when I looked up.