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 pussy 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.
“Hey, I’ve got my lucky shirt on. I’m all set.” He slid off his ball cap and sailed it into my lap.
“Yeah, but it’s been washed a few times since I was in it. Not sure how much luck’s left in it.”
“I’m feeling pretty damn lucky.” He pinched at the shirt before slipping a batting helmet onto his head. “But don’t worry. I fully plan on having my jersey draped around your body again soon.”
My eyes wandered down the dugout. No one was watching—they were too busy holding their breaths as Garfield sauntered up to the plate.
“Don’t steal home.”
“Make me a better offer, and I’ll consider it.” He paused for a heartbeat, challenging me with his eyes. When my lips stayed sealed, he climbed the steps out of the dugout. “Home plate it is.”
Archer grabbed his bat from the rack, lowered into hitting position, and took a couple of practice swings. Even over the roar of the stadium, I could hear the air displaced from the power of his swing. All measure of lightness had faded from his expression—that iron resolve took its place. He had mastered a level of focus most of the guys in the game hadn’t come close to yet.
While everyone watched Garfield at the plate, I watched Archer. I examined the way he held himself, the way he moved his body. Every movement was intentional. The way he commanded his body on the baseball field led me to imagine how he could control it in bed. It was impossible to conclude he’d be a sloppy, flailing lover who couldn’t please his lover if the end of a revolver was drilled into his temple.
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.