“Before you say anything, I just want you to know that I’ve been thinking about what you said to me a few days ago in the shower room.”
“We didn’t say much from what I remember.” I clutched the clipboard to my chest, trying to ignore the fact that the man who knew how to do wonderful things to my body with his body was naked and ready fifteen feet in front of me.
“No, but what you did say left an impression.”
“Good to know you were listening.”
Archer folded his jeans and stuffed them inside his locker. “I want you to know that I respect that you have a job to do and that you can’t let us get in the way of that.” He waved his finger between us. “It’s your call, Doc. I’m not going to pressure you either way, and I’m not going to sulk if you tell the coach to bench me.” He let those words hang between us for a moment before grabbing a towel and heading back toward the tubs. “I’ve said what I needed to. I’ll be turning my huevos into ice cubes if you need me.”
“Big baby,” I muttered after him.
His chuckle echoed from the back room.
After that, players and staff slowly filtered into the locker room, the buzz zapping in the air from the thrill of a home game. Archer took care of timing himself in the bath and the heat compress that followed, leaving me time to tend to some of the other players.
“Eden!” Coach Beckett’s deep voice boomed through the locker room.
“Yeah, Coach?” I replied as I finished taping Robinson’s shoulder.
“In my office,” he shouted before storming back in there.
Coach’s temperament had taken me a while to get used to, but now I barely flinched when he hollered at me. That was just the way he worked. I didn’t doubt he hollered good night to his wife every night before crawling under the covers.
Stretching the last piece of tape over Robert’s shoulder, I jogged into Coach’s office, guessing I already knew what he wanted to talk to me about.
“Close the door,” he said, spreading his hands on his desk as I entered.
After closing the door, I moved in front of his desk and remained standing. Usually my meetings with Coach were too short to sit.
“Archer. Is he playing tonight or not?”
My mind raced, as conflicted now as it had been earlier. I knew he’d be asking and I knew I’d be expected to give him an answer. I just wasn’t sure what that answer was yet.
“No bullshit either, Eden. If Archer can play, he plays. If he can’t, his ass will stay on that bench. I want it straight.” Coach’s cleats echoed through the office when he shifted his weight.
My mind undulated from one answer to the other. Could Archer play? Yes, he could. Should Archer play? That was a trickier answer.
“He can play.” My voice sounded smaller than I wanted to, so I gave it another try. “He can play.”
Coach was quiet for a minute, his eyes challenging me, giving me a chance to retract my statement. When I didn’t, his finger lifted at me. “If my star player reinjures himself and puts him out for the season, it’s going to be your ass on the line, Eden. You understand?”
I swallowed, nodding. “I understand.”
THE SHOCK HAD dominated all night long. Fielding, batting, running, scoring—they’d owned the game against the Seattle Sharks, proving why they were the favorite to win the Series this year.
After the loss to New Orleans, the team needed this win. The energy in the dugout had been overwhelming, largely due to one number eleven being elated he was back to playing the sport he loved.
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.