Stealing Home(50)

The wheels of my computer chair rolled closer as I leaned in to study the photo. My ears were ringing like I’d just been knocked over the head with a brick. It wasn’t just that the two of them were looking at each other; it was the way he was looking at her. It was familiar. Achingly familiar. The set of his brow, the tip of his smile, the intensity in his eyes—it was the way Luke looked at me.

It was the same way he’d looked at her.

Jealousy was taking root, but I didn’t let it grow. Luke had a right to a past. He had a right to look at some other woman with care and concern. He had history with this woman, but that wasn’t why I was taped to my laptop when I could have used the extra hour of sleep. The women in his past weren’t what concerned me—it was how they’d become a part of his life.

I needed to see if Shepherd’s story had any credibility, because if it did, what did that say about why I’d been hired, why Luke had come into my life, and what the future of my career looked like?

I guessed I knew what it would say—I just wasn’t sure I was ready to hear it.

Scrolling through the last images of Callie, I couldn’t find any of her and Luke together. They’d been careful, just as we’d been. But in the last few images, I found yet another familiar face. This one was familiar because of the photo propped on Luke’s dresser.

It was the same baby in Callie’s arms, taken at about the same time as Luke’s photo, judging by the age of the baby. The caption read nothing more than “Callie Monahan and son,” but I knew.

He wasn’t just her son. With those eyes and that mouth, I knew who the father was.

My chest started heaving from my breathing. Why hadn’t he told me? Why would Luke keep something so big from the woman he was seeing . . . unless he had no intention of “seeing” her past the expiration of the season? Unless seeing was code word for using. Girlfriend code word for f*ck toy.

My fingers curled into the armrests of the chair. I’d seen enough—I should just let this settle in before I went any further down this vortex. Before I could control what was happening, I typed something else into the search engine. Something about the Shock’s team dietician two seasons ago.

That hole in my stomach stretched wider. Another young woman who’d only stayed a season.

My fingers flew across the keyboard again. Typing in Shock’s physical therapy team for the season last year, I scrolled through the images until I found the one I was searching for. Same exact thing. Young woman. One season.

For a minute I just stared at her picture, shock rendering me motionless. When the shock receded just enough to let comprehension in, I noticed something.

She had blond hair, brown eyes, and was on the petite side. Scanning back to the team dietician, same story. I didn’t need to go back to Callie’s photos to confirm the same thing.

Luke Archer had a type, and it seemed the team had been catering to his preferences ever since he’d signed on. He had a type. Blond, brown-eyed, petite, and willing to crawl into bed with him.

That was when the room began to spin again, though it wasn’t from the alcohol—it was from a harsh dose of reality setting in. The Shock hadn’t hired me on merit and talent alone, like I’d believed. They hadn’t hired the three women before me on any of that either.

I’d been brought on for one reason and one reason only—to keep Luke Archer happy and swinging for the fences. Blood rolled to a boil in my veins, anger masking the pain.

He was about to get a dose of harsh reality himself.





CLIMBING ABOARD THE team plane that afternoon took every ounce of courage I had at my disposal. I’d talked myself into resigning mid-season a hundred times already—and I’d talked myself out of it a hundred times. Despite feeling like a joke being here, I knew to up and leave in the middle of a team’s season would look bad. Any hopes I had for continuing my career in professional sports would be dashed. I didn’t want one season to define the rest of my career, so I told myself to suck it up and finish the season strong. I reminded myself that these kinds of trials were what made people stronger and that by the end of this, I would be made of steel.

Convincing myself to finish the season was easy. Or, easier. Convincing myself that I didn’t have feelings for Luke Archer was not. It should have been. After everything I’d learned in the past twenty-four hours, accepting that anything I had or did feel for him had all been based on a giant ruse should have been simple.

It wasn’t though. When I thought about Luke, I still felt things for him. I still felt my stomach tighten when I thought of the way he looked at me. I still felt that surge of hope for when I’d get to see him next. I still felt that sense of peace and belonging when I thought about him.

I hated myself for all of it. I despised myself for still caring about some man who’d lied to me and betrayed me. That was okay though, I convinced myself, because I could make hate work. Hate kept the fire of anger burning—I would have been in more trouble if I’d forgiven myself for my weakness.

As I stepped inside the cabin, I’d never been so aware of my expression and making sure the one I’d practiced in the mirror earlier stayed in place. Most of the team was already on board, buckled into their seats with their headphones on. Some of them already looked asleep, some were looking at the windows, and some were playing on their phones. But one was looking up, straight at me.