Page 74 of Hot Streak

Jackson looked like he’d been hit by a ninety-eight mph fastball.

He didn’t say anything, just stared at Connor—and this time Connor recognized the flare of it in his dark eyes.

He wants you. And he doesn’t want to want you.

But even knowing what that look meant didn’t fix anything. It only frustrated Connor more, because he knew when they were alone, next, it wouldn’t matter, because Jackson would never reach out and take what they both wanted.

“What’s going on?” Andy approached, the semi-regular crease between his brows deepening. “Everything alright?”

“Sure,” Jackson said flippantly.

“Doesn’t seem to be.”

“It’s really fine. Don’t worry about it,” Connor said, even though his temper hadn’t cooled.

“Well, your pitching was real fine today, Connor,” Andy said, still looking confused.

“Sure was,” Jackson said. To anyone else, he might seem happy about that, but Connor could tell he was annoyed.

Annoyed when Connor had gone out of his way to be nice, to be pliable, to not be a pain. Annoyed, even, when Connor had pitched his ass off just now. Had done every single fucking thing he said.

It was unfuckingbelievable.

“Well, you should be set for your start tomorrow,” Andy said. “Be sure to stretch now. Don’t want you coming in with any soreness.”

“Got it,” Connor said.

Andy gave both of them one more searching look—like he could figure out what the fuck was going on—then shook his head and walked off.

Jackson turned and started to walk off, probably to get ready for batting practice, but because Tristan was probably right and he had a whole slew of self-destructive tendencies, he followed. He knew Jackson was pissed off—not why, of course—but that it was a certifiable fact. And he followed him anyway.

The clubhouse was basically empty. TJ was finishing up changing, and he took one look at Jackson charging in and Connor trailing after him and he smartly got out of there, grabbing his mitt and letting the door swing closed behind him.

“I want to know why you’re pissed at me now,” Connor insisted. “I did every single fucking thing you said. I became the little pliant pitcher you wanted. Every sign you gave, I nodded and said, yes, sir. I gave you everything you wanted. Every. Single. Fucking. Thing.”

Well. Every single thing except the one thing Jackson was resisting taking.

Jackson turned to him, eyes blazing with temper.

Connor didn’t get it.

“Because you didn’t do it for you, you fucking idiot,” Jackson said, rounding on him, and pushing him backwards out of his space. “You did it to get in—”

He stopped abruptly, like he’d just realized where they were.

There wasn’t anyone in the clubhouse they could see, but that didn’t mean they were truly alone.

“What?” Connor retorted. “What did I do it for? You gonna say it or not?”

He was goading Jackson now. He knew he was. And just like Tristan had claimed, he kept pushing—and this time it wasn’t just him, but Jackson, too—right into the dumpster fire.

Jackson stared at him, chest rising and falling with each hard breath.

“Guess you’re not. Guess I’m not surprised, considering—”

This time Connor didn’t get the rest of his sentence out. Jackson grabbed him by the arm and literally dragged him—like he weighed fucking nothing, which sure shouldn’t have been a turn-on, but was—through the clubhouse and into the shower room. This stadium had slightly nicer facilities than most, and each stall was delineated by tile walls, with a flimsy, slightly molded plastic curtain pulled across the front.

Jackson shoved him into one of the stalls, though they all seemed to be unoccupied at this time of the day, and yanked the plastic curtain closed.

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