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?”