Page 107 of Hot Streak

Jackson grinned again. This one reminded Connor less of that surprisingly deep, nearly spiritual connection they were forming, and more just made him want to pin him to the nearest flat surface and kiss him hard, until neither of them could control themselves.

Unfortunately, that was not going to be happening anytime soon.

He had a job to do first.

“You’re good,” Jackson said, patting him on the back. “Come on.”

“I don’t feel all that great,” Connor admitted as he slumped down on the bench in the dugout. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” Jackson had grabbed his bat on the way in to sit down and was checking it thoroughly for splinters or cracking before the game started.

“Compartmentalize,” Connor hissed under his breath.

“You mean, deal with people looking at me like a thing, like I’m just a bunch of stats, not a flesh and blood person?”

Well, there was that too.

But that was not currently the situation Connor was having problems compartmentalizing.

“No,” Connor said. “Well, yes, but uh . . .that isn’t my problem right now.”

To Connor’s surprise, Jackson grinned. He’d half-expected a lecture. But instead, he said, “Guess I remember what it was like when I was young. Couldn’t get enough.”

Connor elbowed him in the side. “’Cause you’re an old man now and aren’t keeping up?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” Jackson said, shrugging.

But at night, after they had sex—sometimes twice; once, memorably Connor had come three times—they lay in bed and Connor couldn’t just hear Jackson’s heart beating, but sometimes he swore he could hear Jackson’s brain working overtime.

He wanted to ask him what he was thinking about, but he didn’t, because he was afraid of the answer.

He was afraid that saying it out loud would scare Jackson off. Would convince him that what was happening couldn’t keep happening. And the sex was so goddamn good, so completely addicting, Connor didn’t know how he’d handle living without it. Because he would have to. There was a reason the scouts were here, every time he started a game. Because he was this close to being called up. All it would probably take was an open slot on Tampa Bay’s pitching roster, and he’d be there.

“So this compartmentalization just comes naturally to you, then?” Connor teased, trying to lighten his own increasingly morbid thoughts.

This is everything you wanted. Everything you’ve been working towards.

He wouldn’t let . . .whatever this thing was between him and Jackson . . .derail it. He couldn’t. But the temptation still existed.

“I’m good at everything, darlin’,” Jackson retorted back.

Connor wanted to argue, but it was impossible to deny the truth.

Jackson kinda was good at everything. Not extraordinary, maybe, but a solid, reliable guy. Good at throwing, good at catching, good at hitting. The thing he was amazing at was something the baseball world still didn’t really value—bringing out the very best in a pitcher. More than once, Connor had wondered if that had been why he’d never “made” it, not because baseball had discovered his sexuality.

Because that was another conversation going nowhere.

“I’m gonna assume your stunned silence means you agree,” Jackson said, nudging him. “Come on, game’s startin’.”

Connor didn’t need Jackson to tell him he was struggling with overthinking.

It was obvious, in how long he took between each pitch.

He wasn’t necessarily shaking Jackson’s signs off—he’d finally stopped doing that shit—but he was taking his sweet ass time to throw each one.

Like the longer he thought, the better the end result might be.

Like if he ran the pitch clock down to nothing, each pitch might guarantee him a spot on the major league roster.

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