Page 1 of Hot Streak

Chapter 1

In Jackson Evans’ mind, there was nothing more precious or more sacred than the first time he walked into a ballpark.

His meemaw had always referred to it as the ‘church of baseball’ and from the first moment he’d stepped onto the grassy field, as a five-year-old, wobbly and uncertain, he’d felt that pull.

That need.

This was a damn pretty ballpark, too. Long, gracious lines that cradled the leaf green turf in its arms, the dark brick buildings towering around the field shadowing part of the outdoor stands. It was big and it was beautiful, and Jackson had waited a long time to come back to North Carolina to play here.

“See you found the field alright.”

Jackson turned, and Michael Wilson, the manager of the Raleigh Rogues, was leaning against the dugout fence.

“Yeah, yeah. I did. Looks great.” Jackson didn’t need to plaster a fake smile on. Moving on—especially being traded—had never been his favorite thing, but when the Toledo Mud Hens had told him he was being traded to Raleigh, he’d been excited.

Raleigh was only a few hours away from Asheville, where he’d grown up and where his mom and sister, with her kids, still lived. Where, someday, when baseball finally finished chewing him up and spitting him out, he would retire. To do what, he didn’t know, because all he fucking knew was this game.

“You look good in it,” Mikey said and reached out a hand, and they shook briskly.

“You gonna tell me why I’m here?” Jackson asked.

He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t some highly sought after prospect. He’d spent the last fifteen years bouncing around the minors—with a few short, but memorable, stints in the majors. Nobody would ever know the name Jackson Evans, and he’d long since made his peace with that. He just wanted to get paid for going to church every night.

“We got a new guy, a pitcher. He’s got an arm on him like a fucking rocket,” Mikey said, shrugging.

“But?”

“Million dollar arm, five cent head. He’s out of his depth, Evans. Doesn’t know how to string together a start. And those idiots who traded him to us? They did a shit job setting him up.”

Jackson had known, of course, that he wasn’t being brought to Raleigh for his ability to hit the long ball or his catching skills. Still, it would’ve been good for Mikey to at least pretend that the Rogues wanted him for him.

No.

He was only here as a means to an end.

“Like yesterday. Struck out eighteen. Walked eighteen. New league record. For both.” Mikey made a face.

“Shit,” Jackson said with a laugh, rubbing his face. “He that bad?”

“He hit the mascot. Twice.”

“I can’t fix his mechanics,” Jackson said. Well, he could, but did he want to? Not particularly.

“Shit, no. We got Andy for that. Andy Sadler? You know him?”

Had he heard of Andy Sadler? Sure, Jackson fucking had. You couldn’t spend any time in the minors and not hear of the great Andy Sadler. Refused promotions. Didn’t want to manage players. Instead, he just moved around, coaching the young pitchers in minor leagues across America. He was infamously idiosyncratic, even for a baseball guy.

“Sure, I heard of Andy Sadler.”

“But you, I want you to teach him how to have a fucking head on his shoulders. To think when he needs to, but mostly to just throw the goddamn ball without over thinking. And he’s wild, goddamn he’s wild. I can’t keep an eye on him. You’re gonna do that too. Room with the kid on the road. Make a player, a player like you, outta him. A real fucking pro.”

Jackson made a face. “You want me to be a glorified babysitter.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay. I do. But I got a great fucking catcher out of the deal, too.”

“Shit, man,” Jackson complained.

“Just meet the kid. See what you think of him. Maybe you’ll hit it off.”

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