Read Stealing Home for Free Online

treadmill to a stop. “When you make your decision, you know where to find me. You know where I stand. Let me know when you figure out where you do.”
    “No pressure, right?”
    He stopped wiping off his face, his eyes darkening as he stepped off the treadmill and moved toward me. “Depending on your answer, there’ll be plenty of pressure. In all the right places. Whenever you need it. Whenever you want it.”
    My legs squeezed together. “You really don’t leave anything open to interpretation, do you?”
    “No.” His head shook. “Don’t let the fear of striking out hold you back.”
    My tongue went into the side of my cheek. “I think Mr. Ruth was referring to baseball, not dating.”
    His dimple sunk into his cheek. “Maybe he was, but that’s the principle Mr. Archer applies to all facets of his life.” Backing away from me, he snagged his shirt off a barbell and took another sip from his water bottle. He was keeping true to his word—letting me figure this out without him pressuring me . . . yet.
    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