Stealing Home (6 page)

The crack of a ball connecting with a bat shook me from my reverie. The dugout exploded with noise again when Garfield sped to first base. Hernandez made it to second right before the ball sailed into the baseman’s mitt.

“Come on, Archer!” Coach hollered as Archer stalked up to home plate. “Give ‘em hell, son!”

My throat ran dry. Even when I swallowed, it didn’t help. The crowd was really heckling now that the best batter in the league was stepping up to the plate with two on base.

Before he stepped into the box, he performed his ritual tapping of his cleats with his bat. Two taps on the left cleat. Three on the right. Then he rolled his shoulders a few time before stepping into the box and lowering into position.

The pitcher shook his head at the signal the catcher had just flashed him. He nodded at the second signal.

Archer drove pitchers up a wall because he didn’t have a weakness. He’d swing at every type of pitch. He’d connect with them all too. Whether he swung or not had more to do with what felt right when that ball was launching his way—at least, that’s what I’d heard him mention in an interview earlier in the season.

As the pitcher wound up, everyone in the dugout, including myself, sucked in a breath. The ball moved so fast I barely noticed the white blur sail through the air before the crack of Archer’s bat connecting with it echoed through the stadium. The ball went high and deep. Everyone in the dugout stood up from the bench, and just when it looked like the ball was going to clear the fence, it clinked against the back of the fence and bounced deep into center field.

Garfield was already rounding third base and Hernandez was closing in on home before the centerfielder made it to the ball. As a testament to Archer’s speed, even on a semi-injured leg, he was on his way to third before Garfield had barely passed it.

Coach Beckett was beating the ground in front of the dugout, and the rest of the players looked like they were ready to charge the field.

The third base coach waved Archer toward home, but it was a bad call. He should have stopped him. Archer had only made it halfway to home before the ball smacked into the catcher’s mitt.

Archer lunged back to third, but not before the ball made it to the third baseman. He was caught in a hotbox, no sooner lunging for home before pivoting back for third.

The players in the dugout were roaring. Coach Beckett’s shouts were drowned out by the noise. The whole time, I didn’t think I took a breath.

Dust erupted around Archer’s cleats with every step, clouding up the air around him. When he turned back toward home, he waited for the third baseman to launch the ball to the catcher before switching directions and hauling back to third. Only because I was watching Archer’s face so intently did I see it—the flash of pain. No doubt brought on by the sudden twist in direction on the leg he’d been favoring for the past few innings.

Diving, Archer’s arms wound around third base before the baseman’s glove brushed him with the ball that had just slapped into it. The crowd around the stadium was booing their guts out as the ump announced Archer safe. The scoreboard changed to put the Shock up by one at the top of the ninth.

The dugout had turned into a clan of brutes beating their chests, grunting their approval, and adjusting their cups like they simply couldn’t
not
fondle themselves after that kind of play.

I was already reaching for my bag and heading up the stairs before Archer stood. By the time the third base coach waved me over, I was only a few strides away.

The leg he’d been favoring earlier was the same one he could barely apply any weight to now. The umps called a timeout in order to bring in a runner for Archer while the third base coach and I helped Archer off the field.

His arms draped around our shoulders as he let us help him.

“Don’t put any weight on it,” I ordered when I caught him trying to walk himself off.

“I’m fine.” His fingers drilled into the outside of my shoulder as we moved him off the field. “I just tweaked a muscle or something.”

“Or something,” I mumbled, shaking my head.

Shepherd jogged up to take the third base coach’s place beside Archer.

“Hey, don’t worry. This is all part of my plan,” Archer said.

“Part of your plan to get carried off the field mid-season?” I whispered as Shepherd and the third base coach exchanged a few words.

“Part of my plans to get my arms around you.”

“You’ve got
one
arm around me.”

“For now.” His arm tightened around me as his mouth lowered to my ear. “But something tells me the second will be wrapping around you soon enough.”

“SHOULDN’T YOU BUY me dinner first or something?” Archer smirked at me when he lifted up onto his elbows as I tugged his sweats down his legs.

“Tell you what,” I replied after I gave one last pull, freeing the dark gray sweats from him. After handing him a towel, I waited for him to drape it over his lap. Instead he curled it up and tossed it across the hotel room. “How about I draw you a nice, soothing, relaxing bath? Full of ice.”

As I came around the side of his bed, it took all of my concentration to focus on the compress I needed to unwrap instead of what was resting just a little higher. At least he had underwear on, but it wasn’t like they provided much coverage. Especially when what was tucked inside them looked about ready to burst free.

And dammit. I’d looked. From the way I could feel him watching me, he knew I’d looked too.

“Another ice bath. Sounds perfect. Since my balls aren’t already blue enough.” Archer spread his legs open farther as I reached down to unwind the compress circling his upper right thigh.

“Yeah, well, that’s what you get for not listening to the recommendation of your athletic trainer to take it easy.” I unwound the bandage slowly, not wanting to further inflame the area. “Every three hours, we’ll alternate fifteen minutes of ice and heat.”

“Yay.” He cleared his throat when my fingers brushed his inner thigh as I unwound the last of the compress Shepherd had wrapped back in the locker room after his first ice bath. “Since you got to decide on the ice option, how about I decide on the heat option?”

From the low notes in his voice, I knew exactly what he meant. “The plan is to calm the tear. Not further aggravate it.”

“Okay. I can work with that.” When I exhaled, he added, “I’ve got ideas.”

“Ideas that involve what you have in mind and not using your groin muscles?” My gaze wandered back to that part of his anatomy. Right before moving onto a different part of it.
Holy shit.
Something about knowing he wanted me and wasn’t concerned with hiding that desire made me dizzy. “Good luck with that.”

Archer watched me as I disappeared into the bathroom to turn off the water filling the tub. “Never underestimate the ingenuity of a desperate man.”

After testing the temperature of the bath, I grabbed one more bag of ice and dumped it in. I’d arranged to have four new bags arrive every few hours through the night so I could mitigate the damage Archer’s pulled groin muscle would have on his season.

The team doctor had done an exam in the locker room and assured Coach Beckett that with aggressive care these first twenty-four hours, Archer should be able to play the game in New Orleans three days from now.

From my own exam, I knew the doctor was giving Coach a serious case of lip service. The only way Archer would be able to play the Shock’s next game was if we injected him with every illegal substance in this sport and on the market in general. It was a class two pull—no amount of walking off would fix this in a couple days’ time.

“Are you hungry, Doc?” Archer called from the other room.

“That depends on the context of that question.”

His laugh carried into the bathroom. “You know me too well. However, in this instance, I’m referring to hunger as in for food. The room service type specifically. I can order something for us so we can eat once you’re done cryogenically freezing my gonads.”

Wandering back into his room, I dried off my hands with a towel. “Hey, this isn’t my fault—I warned you to take it easy.”

I ceremoniously waved my arms toward the bathroom, feeling nervous. I’d given so many ice baths I could have filled an entire ocean with them, but this one was different. It was for Luke Archer. In his hotel room instead of the locker room. Plus, back there, the entire coaching and medical staff had been present, pow-wowing a plan of treatment. No one else was here now though.

Just me. Just him. And a locked door.

Shepherd had crapped a brick when Archer requested that I attend to him through the night, right before the suspicious look that shadowed his face insinuated the very thing I was trying to avoid. If someone on the team was already suspicious that something was going on between Archer and me and we hadn’t even done anything, what chance did we have of no one finding out when and if we actually did?

“Dinner?” Archer waved the room service menu at me.

“I’ll order it for us. We need to get you in the tub before you get any more swollen.”

Archer’s gaze swept down his body, landing on the very part of him I was trying not to inspect. “I can think of something to help with the ‘swelling.’”

Crossing my arms, I gave him an unfazed look. “I’m here to see to your leg. Not your dick.”

“I think that by taking care of one, you’ll be taking care of the other.”

“True. Ice baths are up to the task of tending to torn muscles and swollen dicks. So let’s get started.”

Archer lay stretched out in bed for another minute, calling my bluff, but when I made no move to throw myself at him, he sighed. “The ice bath it is.”

“Good choice.” Rushing to him when he started to climb off the bed, I positioned myself under his arm to keep him from putting any weight on the injured leg.

Archer’s arm wound snuggly around me, holding me close as we slowly made our way into the bathroom. “I could get used to this. My arm around you. You spending the night in my room. Getting my needs tended to by you. I might just try to injure myself again once I’m healed up from this one.”

“Can’t wait to run that plan by Coach,” I muttered as we came to a stop at the edge of the tub. When he didn’t step in right away, I lifted my eyebrows. “Afraid of a little ice bath?”

“Please. I’ve had just as many of these over the past five years as I have showers. I’m immune to them.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

His eyes lowered. “I don’t know what you’re into, Doc, but I don’t typically bathe with my clothes on.”

“Those aren’t clothes.”

“I don’t bathe with my underwear on. That better?”

Before I could say anything else, his free hand tugged the waistband down over his hips. Then said underwear were in a heap at his feet.

“There. Much better.” When he glanced over, he didn’t miss my crestfallen expression. “Sorry? Did you want to help with that?”

My eyes lifted to the ceiling. Mostly just to keep them from exploring Archer’s exposed body. “Get in the bath already.”

I kept my gaze up as I helped him step into the tub, but even then, it was hard not to notice him in my peripheral vision. Even stepping into a thirty degree tub of water and ice, probably in serious pain from the muscle tear, he was still hard.

The muscles south of my navel contracted.

He didn’t wince when his other foot stepped inside, the water skimming just below his knees. His skin didn’t even erupt in goose bumps. Maybe he was immune to the discomfort of it all.

“Okay, lower down nice and easy. No sudden movements. Use me to brace yourself.” I slid my other arm under his armpit to guide him down, but he was barely putting any weight on me.

“Thanks, Doc. I already planned on using you to brace myself later, but I appreciate the green light.” His curved smile lifted even as the rest of his body lowered into the tub.

“Can you be serious for five minutes?”

Archer’s jaw set when
that
part of him disappeared into the tub, but he didn’t yelp or grimace like most of the guys did. “I
am
being serious.”

“Fine, then can you not be
so
serious? I’ve got a job to do tonight, and it doesn’t include fucking you.” I blamed my blunt crudeness on the cold water and feeling like my eyes were going to go crossed from keeping them focused on the ceiling. “Besides, how can you even be thinking that with a groin pull?”

Archer worked his jaw loose as he lowered the rest of himself into the tub. Water sloshed up the sides as his body displaced it, ice clinking against the fiberglass. “I could be thinking that if my head had just been severed from my neck.”

I smiled as I turned to grab a towel to roll into a headrest for him. “I’m starting to believe you could.”

His eyes met mine as I leaned down, tucking the rolled towel behind his head. Archer wasn’t the type who liked the extra babying and comfort measures, but I needed to keep my mind and hands busy. I didn’t trust myself around him, and staying focused on my job was the only way to make it through the night without letting Archer take my body—the way I’d spent the past couple of weeks dreaming.