Page 112 of Hot Streak

It wasn’t none whatsoever, but Connor would take it.

“Good.” Connor wanted to say more—but it wasn’t like he had any more experience than Jackson had. Neither of them did relationships, but it was hard not seeing that this was rapidly becoming a situation you might call one.

“I was thinking,” Jackson said a long moment later, “about your pitching.”

Connor nearly groaned out loud. “I don’t want to talk about baseball right now.”

“Neither do I, really,” Jackson said wryly.

“Then why bring it up?”

“Because the thought just hit me. You just need . . .I don’t know . . .something . . .to take your head out of your head.”

“You mean like brain surgery?” Connor retorted.

“No, no. Like . . .get you to stop overthinking. Focus even a part of that uncooperative brain on something else. Something not pitching. Not baseball.”

“Hard to think of anything else when I’m up there, on the mound,” Connor admitted.

“I know.” Jackson didn’t even sound judgmental about it. More like . . .it was just a fact, a facet of who Connor was as a person, and it wasn’t something to be overcome by sheer force of will, but negotiated around.

It was . . .well, it was nice.

Usually coaches just told him to get the fuck over himself. Not how to do that.

But then, from the very beginning, Jackson had been different. Sure, he’d been an autocratic asshole at moments, expecting Connor to ask how high when he said to jump, but it had rapidly become clear to him that all Jackson was trying to do was make him a better pitcher.

Not even a different one. Just a better, more finely tuned version of himself.

“If you think of something, I’ll be willing to listen,” Connor said. Hoping that Jackson understood his words for what they were: a compliment on Jackson’s own abilities.

Connor could feel his smile against his bicep. “Yeah?” Jackson asked.

“I’m not that contrary,” Connor argued. Except that yeah, he kinda had been.

“Not now.”

“Guess you just finally figured out a way to tame me,” Connor teased. And it was so goddamn easy to turn his head, see the smile on Jackson’s face for himself, and kiss him again.

Chapter 18

The next day, after the game, Connor was sitting on the bench in the clubhouse, picking dirt out of his cleats when Mikey, their skipper, came in, and there was a different look on his face. One Connor didn’t think he’d seen before.

“Clark!” he shouted. “Come see me in my office.”

Normally at that kind of pronouncement, there’d be a teasing wave of ominous predictions. But nobody said a word.

Everyone knew what was happening. Even Connor knew what was happening as he obediently rose and followed Mikey into his office.

Shut the door.

Sat down.

Waited for him to say that he was moving on. Moving up. Taking the next inevitable step. It was the obvious conclusion—the end of all the steps he’d taken before this.

If anybody had told him a month ago that he’d feel conflicted about it, he’d have told them they were fucking crazy. That he’d worked practically his whole life for this, for a chance to be a major league pitcher.

But now, instead of feeling unconstrained joy, it was tinged with something that might’ve been regret, if Connor had looked at it too closely.

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