The promise or threat or whatever it was made my pulse race. I could only imagine how much Luke Archer could pressure the hell out of me.
“Archer,” I called before he slipped through the door. My job first. That was the way this had to work, no matter what my decision.
“Yeah, yeah, Doc. I’ll down a couple electrolyte tabs and get some rest.” He froze in the doorway, glancing back at me still pinned to the wall. “Unless you’ve made up your mind and have something else in mind for my bed tonight.”
Lifting my hand, I waved. “Sweet dreams, Archer.”
THIS GAME WAS going to come down to the last inning. I hated games like these. The players loved games like these though.
There was so much adrenaline and testosterone shooting through the dugout, we would be in trouble if someone lit a match. This energy was that explosive.
By the top of the fourth inning, two fights had already been broken up—one started by Reynolds when he claimed the shortstop from the Rays blew him an air-kiss after Reynolds tried to steal third, and the second when Garfield, the catcher, threw down with a player who got walked but decided to “accidentally” sail his bat into Garfield’s chest pad.
Archer had sprinted from his position at first base to try to break it up and managed to get taken to the ground when a few players from the Rays fired out of their dugout, assuming he was joining forces with Garfield.
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 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.