Stealing Home(53)

After giving my teeth an extra good brush, I rinsed and wandered back out into his room with my new toothbrush still in hand. We’d both been a little busy and distracted last night, and I hadn’t noticed much more than his body and my proximity to it. I took a minute to explore his room in the light of day.

It was a man’s room, hues of gray and blue running throughout. Signed baseballs and wooden bats were propped on shelves, photos of baseball legends scattered in the mix. There was a whole wall of photos of Luke’s old teams, from his T-ball team to the Shock. He was easy to spot in each team photo. That smile hadn’t changed from the time he was five.

When I got to his dresser on the wall across from his bed, I stopped. At first I thought the photo I was staring at was one of him as a baby. Same big hazel eyes, same honey hair, same smile. It was baby Luke.

But then I noticed what the baby was wearing—a little Shock romper. With the number eleven stitched onto the chest.

My heart stalled for a moment. The Shock had never had a number eleven until Luke Archer joined the ranks three years ago and wanted to keep the number he’d had stamped on his back since he was nine. I’d read the article in the newspaper a while ago, and even though I remembered thinking how silly it was that a grown man would place such an importance on his number, I knew athletes, ball players especially, were superstitious as a breed.

“If you want something to change into, I’ve got some new clothes in my dresser that should fit you.” Luke’s voice echoed down the hall before it erupted into the bedroom. “Oh, did you already find them?” he asked when he noticed me in front of his dresser.

“Who’s this?”

When Luke’s eyes fell on the photo, the skin between his brows creased just enough for me to notice. He didn’t say anything at first, letting a storm of emotions thunder across his face.

“Just an old friend’s son,” he said, looking away.

“An old friend’s son you keep a picture of on the dresser in your bedroom . . .”

His shoulders tensed. “If you have a question you want me to answer, ask it. Otherwise breakfast is getting cold and I’ve got to get to practice.” He waited for me to voice whatever questions he thought I had.

My head was too busy spinning to form any though.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said quietly, turning to leave.

After Luke left the room, I stood there another minute, studying the baby in the picture. I wouldn’t let my assumptions take root. It was a picture of a baby. An old friend’s baby. That was it.

Realizing I was still clutching my toothbrush, I headed into the bathroom to drop it off. I paused at the sink, not sure where to put it. There was a toothbrush holder, which seemed like the obvious choice, but it was already holding two toothbrushes. Ignoring the swirl in my stomach wondering why one person had two toothbrushes in their bathroom, I set my toothbrush on the counter, but that didn’t look right either.

In the end, I dropped it in the trashcan on my way out.





MY MIND HAD been racing all day. Circling between toothbrushes and trust— baby pictures and trust. Trust.

A touchy subject for most people—a volatile one for me.

Deep down, I knew I trusted Luke. It was the surface layer that wondered why I did and if I should. I was at war with myself, no sooner settling the dispute before having it crop up again with renewed vengeance.

Maybe I should have taken a pass on the charity ball. As a member of the support staff, my presence wasn’t required. Expected and implied, yes, but I wasn’t a player—no one had bought a ticket to rub elbows with the newest athletic trainer on the team.

As soon as I passed through the doors of the ballroom, I knew I shouldn’t have come. My head was a mess, and having to be in the same room with him without acknowledging each other as anything more than professional acquaintances was going to be a challenge. For both of us.

The room was already buzzing. Less than an hour into the event, people were milling about the silent auction tables, sipping champagne, and huddling around the Shock players.

I wasn’t looking for him, at least not exactly, but it was almost like I knew right where he was. The crowd of people clustered around him may have helped with his location. Or maybe it had more to do with the way he was already looking at me when I found him.

Our eyes locked, and the room revolved around me. Number eleven in his baseball uniform at the end of a hard-won game was the sexiest thing in the world—but Luke Archer in a tux was a close second.

He was the first to tame his stare, but I stood in place for another minute, reeling. I wasn’t trying to look at him, but I couldn’t seem to help it. Especially with the frequent looks he kept sending in my direction. We were fools to think we could be around each other like this without being together.