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  STEALING HOME

  Copyright © 2016

  Nicole Williams

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  WORKING FOR A professional baseball team was going to be the end of my love life. The past two years confirmed that theory, as had the last text I’d received from my latest ex-boyfriend.

  Half of the year on the road added to another half of the year working grueling hours that rivaled a doctor’s first year of residency equaled a whole lot of no free time to fill with a social agenda. Since being hired on by the San Diego Shock this season and the San Francisco Kings the year before that, the longest relationship I’d maintained spanned eight weeks.

  This last one had barely cleared the four-week mark.

  My lifestyle was costly, but it was worth it. Baseball was in my blood, and sports medicine was in my heart.

  I’d grown up in a small Midwest town where people still got together for potlucks and everyone from the town hermit to the mayor attended a funeral. Where the only place you were expected to be after church on a Sunday was stretched out on the bleachers around the baseball field. It didn’t matter if it was a T-ball game or the high school championships—the bleachers were always packed.

  Baseball was a religion where I grew up—it was stitched into the fibers of my life—so it was no surprise when I ended up with a baseball player. No, the surprise came after I’d followed him to college and found him in bed with someone else.

  It had taken the wind right out of me, along with my tendency to trust first and doubt after. Ben had been sleeping around for a while by the time I found out—friends had known and said nothing—and that was the day I made a promise to myself to never let another guy hurt me as he had, to never be made a fool of like that.

  After changing schools mid-year, I started studying sports medicine and never looked back. Or at least not often. I only looked back when I found myself feeling something similar to what I’d felt for Ben. The relationship never lasted long after that.

  As evidenced by my newest failed relationship.

  “Whose ass do I need to kick, Doc?”

  Dropping my phone into my lap, I looked across the aisle to see who was sliding into the row across from me.

  Luke Archer.

  Known to fans as the best hitter on the Shock, if not in all of pro baseball. Known to women for his good looks and up-to-no-good smile. Known to Cosmo magazine as being voted the Finest Ass in professional baseball. And known by the athletic training staff as a well-rounded pain in our asses.

  Not because he thought he knew better or was yet another prima donna—which the sport had no shortage of—but because he held to the old-school code of taking care of an injury by “walking it off.” If that didn’t work, then we could usually convince him to pop one or two pain relievers after the game, and sometimes, if he was feeling especially accommodating, he’d accept a bag of ice.

  Luke Archer was the real man of steel, and no one to date had managed to convince him he was also made of those injury-prone materials known as flesh and blood.

  “Doc?” Archer’s voice broke through my haze of thoughts. “Just give me his name and I’ll take care of it.”

  The rest of the team and staff were shuffling down the aisle between us to find their seats on the team jet, but his stare aimed my way felt unyielding.

  “What makes you think anyone’s ass deserves a kicking?” I asked.

  I returned a high-five as Reynolds passed by. He’d twisted his ankle in the game earlier today, and I’d been the first on the field to get him taken care of. I’d been the last one out of the locker room to finish getting him taken care of too. As a noob, I had to work twice as hard. As a woman, I had to work ten times as hard.

  “I have three younger sisters. I have more experience than most with guys deserving ass kickings.”

  The last of the guys wandered by us. Without the break of their bodies coming between us, Archer’s stare became too intense. His eyes seemed capable of pinning me to the back of the seat.

  The head athletic trainer, Dax Shepherd, attended to the “money” players—the ones like Archer, who brought fans to the stadium and were a large part of the Shock’s impressive win-to-loss ratio. Up until this very moment, I didn’t know Luke Archer was aware of my existence on this team or the planet.

  “You really have three younger sisters?” I asked.

  Unlike most of the female populace, I didn’t know every last fact about Luke Archer. The news about his parents had made headlines a few years back, and that was all I knew about his personal life.

  “I really do. And I talk to or text all of them every day.”

  “Plus you kick asses for them.”

  Archer’s hazel eyes lightened. “Plus that.” He twisted in his seat so he was almost facing me, his eyes dropping to the phone in my lap. “So? No one messes with my sisters. And no one messes with my team.”

  My forehead creased. “I’m not one of your teammates.”

  “You’re a part of my team. Just because you don’t play the field or swing a bat doesn’t mean you’re not. You keep us healthy and strong out there.” When I cocked an eyebrow, he added, “And when we get injured, you make sure we get fixed up quickly so we can get back to doing what we love. You’re every bit as vital to this team as . . .” He glanced up and down the aisle like he was looking for someone to fill in the blank with.

  “As Luke Archer?” I completed for him.

  His answer to that was a lifting of his eyes. “I’m one man who can swing one bat.”

  “One bat really, really
hard. And very, very exactly,” I interjected.

  He continued, “You make sure twenty-five men can keep swinging their own bats.”

  “Well, there’s me, the two other athletic trainers, the physical therapist, the personal trainers, and the actual doctor who help out with that too. I can’t take all of the credit.”

  “Come on. You work twice as hard as any of them, so you should at least take most of the credit.” When his phone started chiming in his slacks’ pocket, he pulled it out, turned it off, and hid it back in his pocket.

  “And since the closest Shepherd and Coach Beckett have let me get to you is handing out a water bottle, how would you know that?”

  He pointed at his eyes. “I’ve got two of these and use them for observation on occasion.”

  “When they’re not searching for your next conquest?” I gave an internal groan the moment after I’d voiced something that should have stayed unsaid.

  My relationships with the players had always been professional and rarely, if ever, delved into the realm of personal information. If it didn’t have to do with preventing or tending to injuries, I didn’t bring it up.

  Until now. When I’d just suggested that Luke Archer had a reputation in every city the Shock had visited, every hotel they’d stayed in. Perfect way for my first real conversation with the star player of the team, and the whole of professional baseball, to go.

  Archer stayed quiet, studying me with that tipped smile he was famous for.

  “You know my opinion on rumors?” he said a minute later.

  I was capable of nothing more than shaking my head.

  “That they’re started by haters. Spread by fools. And accepted by idiots.”

  My head tipped. “Are you calling me an idiot?”

  His eyes flashed. “Are you calling me a manwhore?”

  I studied him lounging in his seat with his legs kicked out in front of him, his wide chest stretching beneath his suit jacket, his long arms resting on the armrests.. His body was enough to weaken the resolve of someone as jaded to player players as I was, but his face didn’t play second-string.

  Brown hair lightened by the sun, smooth skin darkened by it, a strong jaw, and hazel eyes that trended more toward the green end of the spectrum; Luke Archer was quite possibly the most attractive man I’d ever laid eyes on. According to Sports Anonymous’s random poll of five thousand women, he was the best-looking guy in professional sports today. The other few billion women on the planet would have agreed with that title, I assumed.

  “Do you always take so long to answer a question?” Archer motioned at me, waiting.

  “No,” I said, recalling the last question he’d asked me. Snap out of it. “I don’t think that you’re a . . . manwhore,” I whispered the last part.

  I’d had enough experience with the rumor mill to be a sympathetic party to the target of so many. Being one of the first and only female athletic trainers in professional sports had opened me up to a hundred rumors when I’d been hired. All versions of them had to do with me fucking my way into the position.

  “Good.” Archer nodded, seeming satisfied. “Because you certainly don’t seem like an idiot.”

  “Thanks?”

  He nodded again. “Welcome.”

  That was when the pilot’s voice echoed through the team jet, running through his usual spiel. We were leaving Tampa and heading up to Chicago. Now that the season was in full swing, I lost track of the cities we were leaving and the ones we were heading toward. All of my attention was focused on the players and getting them through the season as injury-free as possible.

  “I’m still waiting for that name, Doc.” Archer clicked his seat belt into place when one of the attendants stopped beside him, looking ready to strap it into place for him.

  When she saw mine unfastened, all I got was a lifted brow and a pointed finger before she moved on to the next aisle.

  “Oh, it’s okay. He’s not worth it.” I lifted my phone toward him before dropping it in the duffel bag I kept on hand at all times. Bandages, tape, painkillers, and a small cooler of ice packs were always at the ready whenever I was with the team. “Any guy who breaks up with someone via text message isn’t worth much.”

  “Really? Over text?” Archer’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the reason the ass-kicking was invented. For those types of guys.”

  I shrugged as the plane started to taxi down the runway, the interior lights dimming. “We haven’t even been together a month. Truthfully, it lasted longer than I thought it would. This kind of lifestyle”—I twirled my finger around the airplane—“makes it difficult to sustain a long-term relationship.”

  “That’s why I’m not a fan of them.”

  “Long-term relationships?”

  “Any kind of relationship,” he said.

  I nodded my understanding. The players had it worse than the team staff. At least in terms of having to question if a person was into them for who they were or because of their job, and the fame and money that came with it.

  “I’m either practicing for a game, playing a game, recovering from a game, or fueling up and resting for a game. There’s not time for much else,” he said.

  Leaning into my armrest, I realized how strange it was to be having such an easy conversation with Luke Archer. It felt natural, not forced. Most of the players would take a moment to chat with me about something game-related, but I was still the new kid on the block. I felt like I had to pass some test before they’d accept me as a member of the team.

  Archer didn’t seem to be of the same mind though.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s like you need to find someone who can just travel with you wherever you go, right?” I said, thinking how much easier it would to be in a relationship with someone I got to see on a daily basis without two computer screens.

  “Exactly. Someone who understands the lifestyle. Appreciates the sacrifices you have to make.”

  My head fell back into the headrest from the inertia of takeoff, but I could still feel Archer’s eyes on me. “Someone who understands that the job comes first. Someone who doesn’t get insecure or jealous or bent out of shape that they get the few precious minutes in between the job.”

  When my head turned toward him again, I found Luke Archer staring at me with a kind of intensity I hadn’t seen aimed my way in a long time. My breath caught, and even though the strength of his stare threatened to overwhelm me, I held his gaze.

  “Someone who understands the game. The commitment. The time. The sacrifice. Someone who’s as committed to it as you are.” One corner of his mouth twitched, carving a dimple into his cheek. “It’s not like you could ever expect to find a person like that sitting in the row across the aisle from you, right?”

  “THEY’RE READY FOR you, Archer!” Coach Beckett hollered into the bowels of the locker room after shoving through the doors.

  A chorus of whistles and catcalls circled the space, echoing off the concrete walls and metal lockers.

  “I don’t know what Sports Anonymous wants with your ugly mug when they could have mine plastered across the cover instead,” Reynolds piped up above the din as Archer rose from the bench in front of his locker.

  I was busy wrapping Hernandez’s ankle on the other side of the locker room, content to leave as much space between Archer and me as a confined space allowed. We hadn’t said much to each other after takeoff last night, but I could feel his gaze on me when he thought I wasn’t looking. By the time we’d touched down, the energy in the air between us was so strong, I felt like I could stick my finger out and be electrocuted by it.

  “It’s because they actually want to sell magazines.” Archer flashed a wide smile at Reynolds as he headed for the doors. “And they’re not shooting for Halloween yet. I’ll let them know you’re interested when they’re ready to shoot the ghouls-and-goblins edition though.”

  Reynolds snagged a towel from his locker and lobbed it across the room at Archer.

  “The pretty boy of baseball. How ba
d does having to wear that title suck?” Reynolds shouted, which was followed by a few more whistles.

  By now, I was used to the locker room banter and usually blocked it out. I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t today, but I guessed it had something to do with the subject the banter was focused on.

  “Not too damn bad considering the pretty boy of baseball also happens to have the best batting average in the league.” Archer wagged his brows a few times before blowing an air kiss Reynolds’s way and shoving the door open.

  “Archer!” Coach yelled.

  Archer paused in the doorway. “Yeah, Coach?”

  “Take a trainer with you.”

  Shepherd snagged his duffel and jogged toward the door.

  “It’s a photo shoot, Coach. I don’t think we need to worry about me pulling a muscle or spraining something.”

  “With the way this season is shaping up for us to go to the big game, you are not allowed to take a piss without a trainer within arm’s reach, you hear me?” Coach pointed at Archer, his shit-kicking face drawing his forehead into folds. “I will bubble-wrap you myself if I have to, but I will not let anything happen to my clutch hitter.” Coach paused, but we all knew better than to argue when he was like this. He’d been a part of this game for fifty years and had the wins and pennants to prove it. “Understood?”

  Archer nodded once. “Understood.”

  Shepherd, who’d frozen in the middle of Coach’s tirade, went back into motion.

  “But I get to pick who goes with me,” Archer announced. Even though I wasn’t looking at him, I could feel his eyes on me. “Doc? Whenever you’re done babying Hernandez, we’ve got a photo shoot to get to.”

  I felt every eye in the locker room drift in my direction.

  “Doc?” Shepherd said, his eyes narrowing on me. “Are you talking about Allie?”

  I withheld the eye roll. It was common practice for everyone to refer to each other by last name—from the players to the coaching staff to the medical team. Shepherd refused to abide by that unsaid rule when it came to me though. Pretty sure it was his way of singling me out, since I wasn’t already singled out enough, being the one woman in the locker room with thirty to forty men. I knew Shepherd saw me as some kind of joke—like I had no place working in professional baseball. He was kind of a prick, but in this profession, I had plenty of those to deal with.