Stealing Home by Nicole Williams will be out July 10th! We have all the details for this new romance plus the cover reveal!
It’s summer and the perfect time to dive into a sports romance! Stealing Home by Nicole Williams definitely falls into that category, and you’ll want to check this one out when it’s released July 10th! Check out the cover reveal below, too!
Being the only woman working for a professional baseball team isn’t easy. As the San Diego Shock’s newest athletic trainer, Allie knows all about long hours, endless travel, and warding off players’ advances. Given she’s already the subject of a handful of rumors about how “lucky” she was to have earned such a coveted position, she can’t so much as flutter an eyelash a player’s way if she wants to be taken seriously.
But number eleven is doing more than fluttering eyelashes Allie’s way. Far more. Luke Archer is at the top of his game and doesn’t let the fear of striking out keep him from swinging. This is a motto he applies both on and off the field, but Allie appears immune, seeming to view Luke as nothing more than caution tape on legs.
He’s a player, and in Allie’s experience, they’re all the same. She won’t risk her job or her heart to another one, no matter how different this one claims to be. But as Allie gets to know him, she discovers the number eleven the public thinks they know is very different from the real Luke Archer. He seems too good to be true.
And maybe he is.
Allie will have to confront the stories attached to a player of Luke Archer’s stature and decide who she’ll put her faith in—The man she’s falling for? Or the rumors?
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“Hey.” Archer slid next to me on the bench after jogging into the dugout.
“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.
“I want to steal home.” Archer scooted back closer to me once Coach’s and the other players’ attention was on Hernandez stepping up to the plate.
“No one steals home anymore.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”
His arm was brushing against mine, messing with my head. “Doesn’t mean it should be done either.”
“We need a run. We need a big play.” He sucked in a breath when Hernandez swung at the pitch . . . and missed. Strike one. “If Hernandez and Garfield can get on base and I hit a double or a triple, we’ll be in good shape.”
“Or you could just hit one of those homerun things you’re setting records for. That could work.” I glanced at him from the corners of my eyes.
He shook his head at me.
“Stealing home plate?” I repeated, realizing he was serious. “It’s like a one-in-a-thousand shot you’ll pull it off.”
“Never tell me the odds. It only makes me want to do it more.” His jaw ground when Hernandez chalked up another swing and a miss.
“Play it safe. I know you’re favoring your right leg.” My gaze dropped to his leg running down the length of mine. “I don’t know what you did to it, but I know it’s hurting. Don’t risk injuring it any more.” When his jaw set a little, I sighed. “Am I going to have to tell Coach?”
“I just twisted it weird. It’s fine. A little ice and rest and I’ll be good.”
“Is this when you tell me you’re going to walk it off?”
It wasn’t affecting his performance much, but he’d need speed and luck to steal home. With the way he was favoring his leg, speed was not in his corner tonight.
“No. This is when I show you I’m going to walk it off. Right after I add another point to our side of the scoreboard when I steal home.”
When Shepherd glanced down the bench, I reached into my duffel so it looked like I had a reason to be having a conversation with the star player. Instead of the real reason we were having a conversation.
“Don’t steal home,” I said once Shepherd’s attention went back to the game. When Archer sighed, I added, “Not as in not ever. Just wait until the time’s right. When you know you’ll be successful.”
He looked ready to argue when pitch number three sailed at Hernandez and he connected with the ball, sending a whizzing line-drive into left field. Hernandez turned on the jets and hauled to first base, making it right before the ball smacked into the first baseman’s glove.
The dugout let loose with a round of whistles and cheers.
“I’m on deck.”
“Good luck.” I nudged his leg with mine as he stood.
“Hey, I’ve got my lucky shirt on. I’m all set.” He slid off his ball cap and sailed it into my lap.
“Yeah, but it’s been washed a few times since I was in it. Not sure how much luck’s left in it.”
“I’m feeling pretty damn lucky.” He pinched at the shirt before slipping a batting helmet onto his head. “But don’t worry. I fully plan on having my jersey draped around your body again soon.”
My eyes wandered down the dugout. No one was watching—they were too busy holding their breaths as Garfield sauntered up to the plate.
“Don’t steal home.”
“Make me a better offer, and I’ll consider it.” He paused for a heartbeat, challenging me with his eyes. When my lips stayed sealed, he climbed the steps out of the dugout. “Home plate it is.”
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.
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.”
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.”
“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?”
About the Author
Nicole Williams is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of contemporary and young adult romance, including the Crash and Lost & Found series. Her books have been published by HarperTeen and Simon & Schuster in both domestic and foreign markets, while she continues to self-publish additional titles. She is working on a new YA series with Crown Books (a division of Random House) as well. She loves romance, from the sweet to the steamy, and writes stories about characters in search of their happily even after. She grew up surrounded by books and plans on writing until the day she dies, even if it’s just for her own personal enjoyment. She still buys paperbacks because she’s all nostalgic like that, but her kindle never goes neglected for too long. When not writing, she spends her time with her husband and daughter, and whatever time’s left over she’s forced to fit too many hobbies into too little time.
Nicole is represented by Jane Dystel, of Dystel and Goderich Literary Agency.