Page 5 of Hot Streak

“But what,” he retorted.

“But I’m thinkin’ anyone who signs up for that duty is gonna regret it.”

Connor leapt up. “I’m fucking great. They drafted me in the first fucking round. Right out of high school. When I pitched, the stands were full of scouts. They practically tripped over themselves to get to me. And after? I was the fucking king of the minors, back in California.”

“I’m sure you were.” Jackson looked amused still, like he was taking nothing Connor was saying seriously.

And, more than anything, that dismissal set Connor’s teeth on edge.

“I’ve got a fucking Jaguar out there, in the parking lot. What do you got?”

“A brain.” Jackson finished his drink in one swallow and set it down on the old, rickety wood table in front of Connor. “This is hopeless. This is fucking hopeless. A Jaguar. Who the fuck cares what you’re driving? Who cares how many assholes came to see you pitch in high school? High school.”

Connor opened his mouth and then slammed it closed.

“Ouch, man,” TJ said weakly.

“I don’t know,” Ro said, tilting his head, “I like this dude.”

Of fucking course Ro would. By the end of the night, Ro would probably be worshipping at his feet.

Connor was disgusted.

And jealous.

A twist of envy he couldn’t understand, could barely even identify, wound its way around his heart, and squeezed. What would it feel like, be like, to walk into a room like this and not have to posture and brag. To just be and know, deep down, that you were solid, that you were good. That you had value. To never worry about what you brought to the equation.

Jackson Evans didn’t give a single shit what anyone thought of him.

And Connor was at the top of that list.

“We were just trying to figure out Connor’s nickname,” Ro said, trying to defuse the situation, because that was Ro for you.

“You can’t figure out a nickname,” Jackson said, sitting down, even though Connor had very much not invited him to. What a smug prick, thinking that buying one round of shots was enough to entitle him to a seat at their table.

“That’s what TJ said,” Ro said. “Millie likes Pokey.”

Connor made a face. Fucking Pokey.

“A nickname’s gotta be a thing that just happens.” Jackson leaned in and snapped his fingers, right in Connor’s face. “Like magic.”

“You’d know something about that magic, huh, Clark?” TJ teased.

Connor could take the fun TJ and Ro and some of the other guys poked at him. But this new asshole? There was something in his knowing gaze that Connor hated and Connor wanted to flinch from.

And when had he ever flinched from anything?

“I’m all about that magic, baby,” Connor boasted, taking care to make his voice smugger even than normal. All to rile up this new guy.

Jackson. His name’s Jackson.

That same, deep down part of him, reminding him of his name, tried to warn him off. But Connor had taken too many shots and was recklessly skating right on the edge of too drunk to give a shit about what he should do.

He just wanted to get right into this guy’s face and make him eat his words.

Jackson chuckled. “I just bet you are.”

“Oh, I got it,” Connor growled.

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