Page 52 of Hot Streak

Connor might be pitching great, but if the team didn’t give him any support by putting points on the board, then it wouldn’t matter. He—and the whole Rogues team—would lose this game by default.

Jackson dug his cleat into the dirt next to the plate and raised his bat, meeting the intent gaze of the pitcher. It was only sixty feet from the mound to home plate, but it felt like sixty miles. When he was the one catching, the distance never felt that significant, but whenever he was up to bat, it always felt like a yawning chasm.

Settling into his stance, Jackson eyed the pitcher. He was into the fourth inning now, and he’d pitched well the whole game—not as well as Connor, but pretty well. The first time he’d been up to bat, Jackson had lined out to first, but if he’d gotten a bit more of it, he could’ve turned it into a solid double, the way Ro had.

Fourth and fifth inning were always the slippery slopes. When would the hitters figure out the pitcher’s tricks? And even if they did, could they turn them to their own advantage?

Jackson was pretty sure he could do it with this guy. He liked to rely on misdirection, but if you weren’t misdirected, his pitches were usually balls.

He watched as the first one sailed right by him, a little too high.

Ump called it a ball.

Second one, still too high.

Ball two.

Sixty feet away, Jackson could see the pitcher growing a bit more agitated, scuffing the dirt with his shoe, frowning as he got set up for the next pitch.

This one was just inside the inside corner.

Jackson might’ve swung for it, but down two to zero, he wasn’t ever likely to swing. And on top of that, he knew the ump hadn’t been giving Connor that pitch all night.

He didn’t give it to this guy either.

He called ball three.

The pitcher’s movements were shaky now. Angry.

Jackson could see it. Was practically salivating for the pitch that would be smooth sailing right out of the park. If he didn’t throw right down the middle, he was a freaking moron.

But he didn’t.

This was another slider, like the one that had nearly clipped TJ only a few minutes ago.

But instead of the ball pulling away, it didn’t have the movement it needed and only at the last second did Jackson realize he was in deep shit and he’d better get the fuck out of the way.

Swiveling his hips, he turned and the ball, going at least ninety miles an hour, hit him right in the side.

Pain bloomed, shooting through his back, his legs.

He’d been hit with a lot of balls in his life. More than his fair share, because being a catcher himself and a damn good hitter, he tended to see right through most pitching tricks, and often they lost their tempers.

This one definitely had.

Jackson straightened slowly, the edges of his vision whiting out with the agony of it.

He’d have a fucking insane bruise in the morning but for right now, he didn’t think the asshole had actually caught a rib. He’d gotten just far enough around that it had just hit him in the meat of his side.

“You alright?” Belatedly, Jackson realized that Mikey was right there, that he’d come jogging out to make sure he was okay heading to first. That he didn’t need a pinch runner.

“Fine,” Jackson retorted shortly.

Mikey raised a questioning eyebrow but turned and jogged back to the dugout.

Jackson was sure pissed, but he was technically fine.

Should’ve gotten a home run off this asshole for that.

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