Stealing Home(34)

His chuckle echoed from the back room.

After that, players and staff slowly filtered into the locker room, the buzz zapping in the air from the thrill of a home game. Archer took care of timing himself in the bath and the heat compress that followed, leaving me time to tend to some of the other players.

“Eden!” Coach Beckett’s deep voice boomed through the locker room.

“Yeah, Coach?” I replied as I finished taping Robinson’s shoulder.

“In my office,” he shouted before storming back in there.

Coach’s temperament had taken me a while to get used to, but now I barely flinched when he hollered at me. That was just the way he worked. I didn’t doubt he hollered good night to his wife every night before crawling under the covers.

Stretching the last piece of tape over Robert’s shoulder, I jogged into Coach’s office, guessing I already knew what he wanted to talk to me about.

“Close the door,” he said, spreading his hands on his desk as I entered.

After closing the door, I moved in front of his desk and remained standing. Usually my meetings with Coach were too short to sit.

“Archer. Is he playing tonight or not?”

My mind raced, as conflicted now as it had been earlier. I knew he’d be asking and I knew I’d be expected to give him an answer. I just wasn’t sure what that answer was yet.

“No bullshit either, Eden. If Archer can play, he plays. If he can’t, his ass will stay on that bench. I want it straight.” Coach’s cleats echoed through the office when he shifted his weight.

My mind undulated from one answer to the other. Could Archer play? Yes, he could. Should Archer play? That was a trickier answer.

“He can play.” My voice sounded smaller than I wanted to, so I gave it another try. “He can play.”

Coach was quiet for a minute, his eyes challenging me, giving me a chance to retract my statement. When I didn’t, his finger lifted at me. “If my star player reinjures himself and puts him out for the season, it’s going to be your ass on the line, Eden. You understand?”

I swallowed, nodding. “I understand.”





THE SHOCK HAD dominated all night long. Fielding, batting, running, scoring—they’d owned the game against the Seattle Sharks, proving why they were the favorite to win the Series this year.

After the loss to New Orleans, the team needed this win. The energy in the dugout had been overwhelming, largely due to one number eleven being elated he was back to playing the sport he loved.

When Coach had told Archer he was on for tonight, he’d run a circle around the locker room, high-fiving every member of the team and staff. He saved me for last, managing to give my hand a little squeeze in passing.

We were at the top of the ninth with only one out left to pretty much win the game since we were up eight runs, and I was thinking about finally relaxing. The whole night I’d been watching Archer’s every move, looking for any signs of him favoring his right leg, but all of the worry and vigilance had been for nothing.

Archer was moving just fine, clipping around the bases at his usual speed, fielding balls with no signs of pain or injury. I’d made the right call. He’d told me he was ready, I’d assessed he was, and I’d made a good call.

I knew not every aspect of my job had guarantees and certainties, but I couldn’t take the pressure off of myself.

The Sharks’ batter had just earned his second strike, and the guys in the dugout were holding their breaths, ready to celebrate. The next pitch Watson threw, the batter connected with, sending a whizzing line drive right between first and second.

From the dugout, it looked like the right fielder would have to field it, but Archer blurred into motion, making a sharp turn to get to it before leaping into the air. The ball whacked into his mitt right before he went crashing to the ground, a billow of dust erupting around him.

The game was over—the Shock had won.

I wasn’t sure who went wilder: the crowd or the team. The players left in the dugout rushed the field while the crestfallen Sharks trudged off of it. The coaching staff was clapping each other’s backs while the medical staff was giving our usual sighs of relief that the game was over and every player who’d walked onto the field was able to walk off of it.

That was when my gaze drifted toward first base, where Archer was being righted by a herd of his fellow players, shouting their Hell yeah’s and clapping him on the shoulder. No one else seemed to notice, but I did. The subtle flash of pain pull at his face when he started walking off the field with his teammates. The set of his jaw when he put weight on his right leg with each step.

Shit. Slinging my bag over my body, I rushed out of the dugout and onto the field. The players passed me with celebration on their faces, nudging my shoulders as I passed them. No one seemed to notice that one of their players was in pain.

When Archer saw me loping toward him, his eyes darted toward the dugout, where Coach was. I didn’t miss the relief that washed over his face with whatever he saw.

Squeezing between him and Watson, my eyes locked on his.

“I’m fine,” he said under his breath.

“Liar,” I whispered back, moving to put my shoulder under his arm to help him off the field.

“No, don’t.” He gave an almost indiscreet shake of his head. “Coach—I don’t want him to know.”