When Coach had told Archer he was on for tonight, he’d run a circle around the locker room, high-fiving every member of the team and staff. He saved me for last, managing to give my hand a little squeeze in passing.
We were at the top of the ninth with only one out left to pretty much win the game since we were up eight runs, and I was thinking about finally relaxing. The whole night I’d been watching Archer’s every move, looking for any signs of him favoring his right leg, but all of the worry and vigilance had been for nothing.
Archer was moving just fine, clipping around the bases at his usual speed, fielding balls with no signs of pain or injury. I’d made the right call. He’d told me he was ready, I’d assessed he was, and I’d made a good call.
I knew not every aspect of my job had guarantees and certainties, but I couldn’t take the pressure off of myself.
The Sharks’ batter had just earned his second strike, and the guys in the dugout were holding their breaths, ready to celebrate. The next pitch Watson threw, the batter connected with, sending a whizzing line drive right between first and second.
From the dugout, it looked like the right fielder would have to field it, but Archer blurred into motion, making a sharp turn to get to it before leaping into the air. The ball whacked into his mitt right before he went crashing to the ground, a billow of dust erupting around him.
The game was over—the Shock had won.
I wasn’t sure who went wilder: the crowd or the team. The players left in the dugout rushed the field while the crestfallen Sharks trudged off of it. The coaching staff was clapping each other’s backs while the medical staff was giving our usual sighs of relief that the game was over and every player who’d walked onto the field was able to walk off of it.
That was when my gaze drifted toward first base, where Archer was being righted by a herd of his fellow players, shouting their Hell yeah’s and clapping him on the shoulder. No one else seemed to notice, but I did. The subtle flash of pain pull at his face when he started walking off the field with his teammates. The set of his jaw when he put weight on his right leg with each step.
Shit. Slinging my bag over my body, I rushed out of the dugout and onto the field. The players passed me with celebration on their faces, nudging my shoulders as I passed them. No one seemed to notice that one of their players was in pain.
When Archer saw me loping toward him, his eyes darted toward the dugout, where Coach was. I didn’t miss the relief that washed over his face with whatever he saw.
Squeezing between him and Watson, my eyes locked on his.
“I’m fine,” he said under his breath.
“Liar,” I whispered back, moving to put my shoulder under his arm to help him off the field.
“No, don’t.” He gave an almost indiscreet shake of his head. “Coach—I don’t want him to know.”
“Afraid he’s going to yell at you?” The noise was so loud in the stadium, I had to put my mouth right outside his ear for him to hear me.
Archer’s jaw set a little more. “I don’t care if he yells at me—I’m used to it. I don’t like the idea of him yelling at you though.”
I huffed, matching his every step off the field with one of my own. “I can take it.”
“I can’t.”
If he thought Coach would have something to yell at me over, that meant he’d hurt his leg. Again. For all I knew, he’d pulled it all over again.
“Don’t,” he said under his breath when I moved to support some of his weight again.
“Dammit, Luke, this is my job.”
“Exactly, and I want to make sure you still have one tomorrow.” He tipped his chin just enough as we moved toward Coach. He was watching us now.
“How bad is it?”
“Not bad.” When I started to exhale, he added, “Really.”
“Is that why I can see beads of sweat forming on your forehead?”
The faintest of smiles crept into place. “I just finished playing nine innings. Sweat usually comes with the game.”
“Are those nine innings the same reason you look ready to crack a few molars from the way you’re grinding your jaw?”
Coach was still watching us, his brow furrowed just enough to give away that he suspected something was up. Picking up on the same, Luke’s strides became stronger, his gait less uneven.
“How bad? Really?” I asked.
“Not bad. Just a little mad.”
I guessed he was lying or at least under-exaggerating. I guessed that had he been anyone else, he would have been curled up in a ball on the ground, crying for a painkiller that would knock out a Thoroughbred.
That was when his gaze wandered to the stands, centering on one of the front rows, where three girls were flailing their arms like they were trying to hail a cab in New York during rush hour. If he hadn’t told me he had three little sisters, I would have figured it out from one look at them. They were all mini girl versions of Luke: light brown hair, big expressive eyes, and the same wide smiles.