Stealing Home(11)

We’d be lucky to leave the field with everyone on their own two feet instead of sprawled out on a parade of stretchers.

“Hey.” Archer slid next to me on the bench after jogging into the dugout at the end of top of the ninth.

“Hey,” I replied, trying to ignore that same mix of sweat and man closing in around me when he slid closer. Along with it came the hint of grass and leather. It should have been offensive, but it was the opposite. I loved this sport and everything that came with it—the scents included.

“So how do you like playing football?” I asked, keeping a straight face.

“Please, football players have it easy with all that padding and protection. I’m going to look like I got tuned up by a tire iron tomorrow.” He turned his forearms over, and I could already make out a few bruises breaking to the surface.

“You want something for the pain?” I reached down for my duffel bag.

“Do I ever want something for the pain?”

“Fine.” I tucked the bag back under the bench. The bruises weren’t bad—he’d survive.

“But I wouldn’t mind a nice deep-tissue massage later. Let’s say ten o’clock. My room. Clothing optional.” He kept his voice quiet, smirking at the field as the Rays threw a few warm-up balls.

“No pressure,” I said under my breath.

His smirk grew. “No pressure.”

When Coach paced down the dugout past us, Archer casually shifted farther down the bench from me, his smirk fading.

“We’re one down, boys. One down.” Coach snarled at the scoreboard while Hernandez slid on his batting helmet and took a few practice swings out on the grass. “We’re going to finish this game two up, you hear me? We’re not going to tie. We’re not going to win by one run. We’re going to win by two.”

A chorus of grunts of agreement echoed through the dugout.

“Let’s remind these clowns they have no right to consider themselves baseball players. Let’s show these damn * Rays that the Shock is made up of gods and legends.” Coach snarled into the outfield next, like the sight of the Rays made him violent. “We don’t just play ball, boys. We. Win. Ball.”

Another echo of shouts fired around me, Archer being the loudest. The sound of him grunting and hollering beside me made me feel things in places I should not have been feeling when I was trapped in a dugout with a mess of stinky, angry ball players.

When Hernandez moved up to the plate, the team cheered him on while most of the Rays’ crowd started heckling him.

Garfield was on deck, and Archer was in the hole.

“I want to steal home.” Archer scooted back closer to me once Coach’s and the other players’ attention was on Hernandez stepping up to the plate.

“No one steals home anymore.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

His arm was brushing against mine, messing with my head. “Doesn’t mean it should be done either.”

“We need a run. We need a big play.” He sucked in a breath when Hernandez swung at the pitch . . . and missed. Strike one. “If Hernandez and Garfield can get on base and I hit a double or a triple, we’ll be in good shape.”

“Or you could just hit one of those homerun things you’re setting records for. That could work.” I glanced at him from the corners of my eyes.

He shook his head at me.

“Stealing home plate?” I repeated, realizing he was serious. “It’s like a one-in-a-thousand shot you’ll pull it off.”

“Never tell me the odds. It only makes me want to do it more.” His jaw ground when Hernandez chalked up another swing and a miss.

“Play it safe. I know you’re favoring your right leg.” My gaze dropped to his leg running down the length of mine. “I don’t know what you did to it, but I know it’s hurting. Don’t risk hurting it any more.” When his jaw set a little, I sighed. “Am I going to have to tell Coach?”

“I just twisted it weird. It’s fine. A little ice and rest and I’ll be good.”

“Is this when you tell me you’re going to walk it off?”

It wasn’t affecting his performance much, but he’d need speed and luck to steal home. With the way he was favoring his leg, speed was not in his corner tonight.

“No. This is when I show you I’m going to walk it off. Right after I add another point to our side of the scoreboard when I steal home.”

When Shepherd glanced down the bench, I reached into my duffel so it looked like I had a reason to be having a conversation with the star player. Instead of the real reason we were having a conversation.

“Don’t steal home,” I said once Shepherd’s attention went back to the game. When Archer sighed, I added, “Not as in not ever. Just wait until the time’s right. When you know you’ll be successful.”

He looked ready to argue when pitch number three sailed at Hernandez and he connected with the ball, sending a whizzing line-drive into left field. Hernandez turned on the jets and hauled to first base, making it right before the ball smacked into the first baseman’s glove.

The dugout let loose with a round of whistles and cheers.

“I’m on deck.”

“Good luck.” I nudged his leg with mine as he stood.