Page 116 of Hot Streak

“You’re not going to,” Deke said, comprehension dawning across his face.

“I . . .can’t.” Jackson’s voice cracked, embarrassingly.

“You don’t just care about him. You love him.”

“Thank you, I’d managed to not use that word, yet,” Jackson said, tossing the rest of his whiskey back. Gestured to the bartender for another. “Guess it’s hard to put it back in the jar, once it’s out.”

“Yeah.” Deke’s expression was so painfully sympathetic. Jackson hated it.

“I guess it’s also pretty fucking selfish for me to sit here and mope about it,” Jackson said.

“You said it, not me.”

If he really loved Connor, if he cared about him the way he must, what kind of person would he be if he stayed over here, sulking?

Surely he could do this, one more time, if it was in service to someone he cared about?

A man worthy of Connor Clark would do it.

And that was what decided him.

The bartender slid another short glass, half-full, across the bar. Jackson reached for it, gripping it like a lifeline. If he was going to do this, he’d need plenty of booze. “Alright,” he said to Deke. “Let’s go.”

The way his heart beat when Connor saw him approaching, joy and delight lighting up his handsome face, would’ve told him everything he needed to know if he hadn’t already had his realization.

“Look who’s decided to join us,” TJ said wryly.

“Just had to get the party started early,” Jackson said, tipping the edge of his glass against Connor’s shot glass. “Congrats, Connor. You deserve it.”

“Not the song you were singing when you showed up,” Connor said. It felt like he was saying something more with his eyes. Asking a question. Was it, are you okay? Or maybe it was more of a plea than a question: I need you to be okay.

Jackson didn’t know which it was. Felt a pulse of shame that his first reaction had been to hide. To bury his feelings—to bury everything—in booze.

There was not enough booze in the world to cauterize this wound.

Jackson already knew that.

But if it meant Connor going off to the majors with a smile, he’d bleed all over this fucking bar.

“What can I say?” he said, waving his glass. “You’re like fucking mold, Clark. You grow on a man.”

Connor grinned, all the questions, all the pleas, all the shadows disappearing out of his eyes. And Jackson knew that even if this hurt like hell, it would be worth it.

Millie showed up again with more shots.

He took one, even though he should know better than to mix tequila with whiskey.

Should’ve known better than to mix love and baseball, too.

“Do you know the difference between a major leaguer and a lifelong minor leaguer?” Jackson asked, because get enough booze in him, he apparently couldn’t stop talking. Or maybe that was the pain. It was easier distracting himself from it than focusing on it.

“I’ll tell you,” Jackson continued. “It’s fifty fucking points. Hitting .250 means you’re in the minors for life. But you hit .300? Different fucking story. And you know how many hits that is? Twenty-five. Twenty-five hits in five hundred at-bats is fifty points. Six months in a season. That’s about 25 weeks. That means if you get just one extra hit a week, you’re not slumming it out here in the bus leagues, you’re in Yankee Stadium.”

Everyone around the table nodded, most looking solemn. Too solemn. God, why was he like this? Had sticking his dick into Connor changed him that much?

No, that didn’t change a goddamn thing. You were already fucking gone.

“If y’all don’t listen to Jackson here, you’re stupider than I realized,” Connor said, loyally, wrapping an arm around Jackson’s shoulders.

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