Page 117 of Hot Streak

Jackson took another shot and then another, the night swirling into a haze of booze and laughter. Every single time Connor looked at him, he knew it. Could feel it deep down.

Knew what was coming, even before they finally stumbled out of the Strike Zone, hours later.

“Hey,” Connor said, grabbing his arm. “I’m comin’ with you.”

“Are you?” Jackson raised an eyebrow. But he’d known it, known it from the first moment. “Can’t get enough, huh?”

“Yes, and no,” Connor hissed.

Who would’ve thought that the drunkest person at this party tonight would be him, and not Connor?

But it was true.

Nobody was sober, but there was no question that he’d done his level best to bury everything in booze. And that, Jackson realized, hadn’t been for what he’d already endured, but what was to come.

“Guess I won’t turn you away,” Jackson teased, the alcohol in his veins making it easier to make light of the situation, when all he wanted to do was fall to his knees, beat the sidewalk with his bare fists, and howl at how fucking unfair this all was.

Nobody looked surprised when Connor ended up trailing after Jackson, heading to his studio, and if Jackson was more sober, he’d have been a lot more concerned about the possibility that not only Deke had realized the truth, but the rest of their team suspected too.

The walk to Jackson’s apartment felt like it went by in a flash, and the moment they were alone, the door closed behind them, Connor’s expression turned determined.

Great.

“We need to talk,” Connor said, heading to the sink and filling two glasses with water. Handing one to Jackson, who left it on the counter as he bypassed to the fridge and grabbed a beer instead.

Connor made a face. “Is it so bad?” he demanded. “Is it so fucking bad I’m going to the majors that you have to get drunker than I’ve ever seen you to deal with it?”

“No. No.” Jackson hated that he’d made Connor feel this way—he’d intended the opposite. But just like everything else, he’d fucked this up too. He reached for Connor, who batted his hands away.

Okay. That was good. Jackson had to remind himself again that Connor pushing him away right now was the best possible thing. Meant that maybe he wouldn’t need to be the one doing the right thing in the end.

“You can’t do that shit right now. You touch me and I get . . . muddled. I can’t think straight. I want you too goddamned bad.” Connor took a deep breath. “I know what you’re trying to do, and all I wanted to tell you tonight is that it’s not gonna work.”

Jackson licked his lips. “No?”

“No.” Connor looked as stubborn as he’d ever been. He pushed the glass of water towards Jackson again. “You’d better drink that—and a hell of a lot more, if you don’t want to feel like shit in the morning.”

“Somehow, I think I’m gonna feel like shit, anyway,” Jackson muttered. “At least after this conversation.”

He didn’t need to say why. He could see the comprehension dawning on Connor’s face.

“Are you really gonna try to pretend this was just sex to you? And now you’re gonna push me away, say it’s over, and I just go along with it?”

“Yep.”

Maybe he wouldn’t have to actually say it. Maybe Connor would just get pissed off, annoyed at his behavior, and do it for him.

That wouldn’t be easy, but it would be easier.

“You’re such an asshole.” But Connor didn’t sound annoyed. Didn’t look annoyed either. There was something glowing in his eyes, written all over his fucking face, as he stepped closer to Jackson, cupped his cheeks with his palms. “Such an unbelievable asshole.”

Jackson swallowed hard. Looked away. “I know,” he said gruffly.

It was true, so why didn’t Connor look like he believed it?

“There’s something between us,” Connor continued. “I know you know it. You wouldn’t be so upset otherwise.”

“Maybe I’m just in mourning for the end of my career,” Jackson retorted.

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