Page 108 of Hot Streak

And it wasn’t like he was pitching badly, but his pitching lacked the speed and flair it normally had. He wasn’t quite hitting the corners of the zone the way he usually did.

They were in the third inning, two batters down, one to go, one standing on first, because the guy had refused to bite on some of Connor’s sloppier efforts.

Anyone else who decided to be patient and make Connor throw strikes was going to take advantage of him in a big way.

Jackson straightened and, calling for a time out, jogged out to the mound.

To anyone else Connor might look like normal. But Jackson knew his face by now. Knew every little expression he made and the ones he probably didn’t even realize he was making.

Right now it was half a frown, a frown like he was trying very hard not to frown.

“What’s up,” Jackson said, keeping his voice calm and level.

“You’re the one who called for a time out,” Connor retorted.

“Yeah. Sure. But you’re the one who’s not hitting the edges when I call for it. Your placement’s sloppy.”

“Maybe I’m just not feeling it today.”

“You’ve been freaking out ever since you saw that scout. Doesn’t matter how much you think about each pitch—it’s not gonna make them that much better.”

Connor full-on frowned now.

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” Jackson interrupted him. They didn’t have forever. Already the umpire was making restless movements, like any moment he might start to jog out, indicating that their time out was over.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Jackson dropped the ball into his glove. “Don’t think. Just pitch.”

He jogged back to home plate and settled into his spot. The batter glanced over at him. “He’s sure high-strung, isn’t he?” he asked, his disrespect obvious.

He wasn’t going to give this asshole the satisfaction.

Don’t think. Just pitch.

Jackson called for a high inside fastball and prayed Connor had listened.

Sure enough, he waited almost no time, throwing the pitch almost immediately.

It whistled right past the pitcher, and as it hit Jackson’s glove, he didn’t need to look at the board to see that it had hit the upper level of Connor’s speed. It was the best pitch he threw all night.

And maybe the batter didn’t say anything else, but from the way he approached the box the next pitch, it was clear from his body language that he was taking Connor fucking seriously this time.

The rest of the game went the same. Connor found his groove—but every once in awhile, he’d slow down, starting to think, and that would inevitably fuck him up. Jackson would have to go back out there and remind him—he had an arm and he knew how to use it, if he’d just let it do what it was capable of.

Still, it was a pretty damn good game. Jackson hit a double and another solo homer, and the Rogues won, six to one.

Jackson didn’t need to see the scout’s report to know that Connor had earned his spot in the majors with this start.

He told himself he’d done his job.

Even as something in the vicinity of his heart, which he was resolutely ignoring, ached.

It was always going to be this way.

But somehow, that didn’t make him feel any better.

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