Page 11 of Hot Streak

“’Cause you think Charlie was doing just fine, yeah?”

“Charlie’s great.”

“No disagreement there,” Jackson said, aware that more than Connor was listening. He didn’t want to make waves in the clubhouse, and he’d been in enough of those to know how to skate by just under the radar.

“Then why are you here, ready to bust my ass?”

“Because Charlie’s too nice to do it properly,” Jackson said.

“Fucking hell.”

“Come on, see you out there,” Jackson said, tapping him on the shoulder. A brief touch. He shouldn’t have felt a thing, but the feeling skittered down his arm.

He was gonna have to nip that in the bud.

He’d seen plenty of hot guys in his time on this planet; there was no reason why this one should affect him. This one couldn’t affect him, because they had fucking work to do, and because in the course of that work, they were going to have to touch—a lot.

Andy was standing by the dugout as Jackson climbed the stairs. Deke, who it seemed regularly filled the spot of designated hitter, was taking batting practice now, his swing smooth and confident as he stroked the ball through the air.

“You don’t need to worry ’bout Charlie none,” Andy said. “But Deke? He’s gonna be none too pleased if you take some of his at-bats.”

Jackson took in the big guy at home plate. “He can’t play first?”

“Oh, he can. But Mikey would much rather have him in the DH slot.”

“He can’t catch good enough,” Jackson guessed.

Andy shrugged, but the answer was obvious. No. Not well enough.

“Mikey told me you’ll be splitting equal time with Charlie. He’ll be glad of the break. The other catcher we had—got sent down to Montgomery before you showed—he was fucking useless. Couldn’t hit a kiddie pitch.”

“He ever catch for Connor?”

Andy shot him a look. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know the guy, but Connor seems likely to chew catchers up and spit them out.”

“Some catchers, sure. Charlie wasn’t bothered. But I’ll say this—when Connor was out on the mound, he was calling the shots, not Charlie.”

Jackson chuckled.

“Yeah,” Andy continued. “I know. That’s not gonna fly with you. It’s why you’re here. You’re nobody’s lackey.”

“Tell Connor that,” Jackson said, glancing over to where the man himself had just emerged from the dugout, wearing those ridiculous sunglasses still, even though he’d pulled a cap on.

“You go after Deke,” Andy said, gesturing to where Deke was finishing up. “’Cause I’d like to see you catch Connor’s bullpen.”

“Sure,” Jackson said. He tried out a few bats until he found the one he liked the feel of and headed out towards home plate.

“You’re Jackson Evans, then?” Deke said, turning towards him, resting the tip of his bat on the dirt as he leaned into it.

“That’s me.” Jackson took a few practice swings, warming up his muscles.

“Heard of you.” Deke spat on the ground.

Jackson could never be sure what that meant—had he heard Jackson was a good teammate and ball player or that, in his miniscule spare time, he enjoyed the company of men and not women?

“Yeah?”

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