Page 13 of Hot Streak

“Damn, Evans,” Deke said when he returned back to the dugout. “You don’t fuck around.”

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

If he fucked around, he wouldn’t still be here, at thirty-three.

“Fuck around and find out,” Jackson said, laughing.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled and he turned.

Out of the corner of his eye, there was Connor, staring at him like he wanted to take him apart, one molecule at a time.

Andy waved him over, and he exchanged his bat for his catching glove and headed over to where he was standing, next to Connor.

“You all set?” Jackson asked.

Connor didn’t say anything, just glowered.

“He’s ready,” Andy said. “Come on, Clark. Let’s show ’em what you got.”

Connor headed towards the top of the bullpen.

“Am I gonna need pads?” Jackson asked Andy once he was mostly out of earshot.

“I heard that!” Connor called out, and the first pitch he threw whistled right by Jackson’s ear.

Jackson didn’t need to have the experience and the knowledge he did to know that had been a fucking brilliant pitch. Speed, velocity, movement—and a deadly pinpoint accuracy.

So, Mikey hadn’t been lying—and neither had those videos he’d watched late last night. The kid had a million dollar arm. When he figured out how to use it.

Jackson raised himself out of his crouch and walked over to where Connor stood, sunglasses still reflecting the bright sun.

“You can throw, okay. Noted.”

Connor opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again at the look Jackson shot him.

“But if you ever throw at my head again on purpose, we’re gonna have a problem, you and I.”

“I thought we already had a problem,” Connor retorted, but the heat had mostly leaked out of his voice.

“No. You had a problem with me. I didn’t have a problem with you, not til you threw that pitch.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Jackson said. “We can do this the easy way. Or we could do it the hard way. I’m here, either way. Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Connor said in a hard voice.

And Jackson realized that yes, he had, and Connor had known it before he did. He didn’t want to do this the hard way. It did matter to him. He wanted to straighten Connor out, easy as pie, and get his record and then go on his way, all without breaking a sweat.

“How ’bout this? Shit’s gonna be hard, because that’s how life goes. Always throws you a curve, when you’re expecting a fastball. So don’t make it tougher.” Jackson tossed Connor the ball and he caught it. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Connor muttered.

“And no, I’m not gonna go put my pads on. It’s eighty-five out here already, and God knows what kind of fucking humidity. Don’t make me regret not sweating my ass off. Don’t miss.”

“Fine, fine, it’s not like I want to miss.” Connor’s face had fallen into sullen lines, but Jackson thought maybe this was the first step to acceptance.

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