Page 123 of Hot Streak

But the tiny threads of doubt and uncertainty that had always been there—what if you don’t make it; what if you don’t live up to your potential; what if you end up being a disappointment—had grown in the last year or so. They’d grown so thick, so strong, until these days, sometimes it felt like they were choking him.

Before, when Jackson had come, he’d been able to fight them, batter them back, until he’d been sure, right up until now, that he’d mostly conquered them. That he owned them, not the other way around.

But he’d been wrong. Wrong this whole time. It hadn’t been him who’d done it, it had been Jackson’s courage and his own will, lent to Connor when he needed it most.

Today, right now, was the worst the fears had ever been, like they’d wound their way around his throat and wouldn’t let go. Diving deep into his stomach and threatening to yank it right out.

He settled himself on the mound, desperately repeating fear and arrogance, fear and arrogance, in an endless rhythm in his head, like the words might summon Jackson.

But he’s not here. He’s not gonna be here. It’s just you. Just you.

Connor latched onto that thought, holding on to it as the first batter approached.

Alejandro signaled the pitch.

His fingers were trembling around the ball, and to get them to stop shaking, he clamped down, not holding it the way Andy had always cautioned him to.

Just get it down there. Just get it down there.

Connor pulled back and let the ball fly.

Let out an unsteady breath when the batter swung and missed.

But he didn’t need to see Alejandro’s concerned look as he tossed him the ball back that he’d missed the spot he’d called for. Not by a lot, but this was a game of inches.

Even missing the spot by an inch was enough to make the difference between a strikeout and getting fucking rocked.

Not that he’d really expected differently but each and every pitch Connor threw was agonizing. Every single one was a fucking struggle, a war between his belief in what he was capable of and a yawning chasm of doubt.

He teetered right on the edge of it more times than he wanted to count, sweat trickling down his back. He gave up a single and then a double, leading to a run. And then walked someone, giving a home run on a fast ball that he’d let hang just a moment too long in the middle of the strike zone.

It wasn’t a bad outing, necessarily. He didn’t get slammed. But it was so much rockier than he’d hoped, holding each breath after every pitch.

By the time his five innings were over and the skipper came out, grabbing the ball, Connor felt like crying.

He’d given up four runs in five innings.

Not terrible.

But not the kind of performance everyone had expected out of their new rookie phenom. Only Connor—and probably Alejandro, and a few of the other players—knew it could’ve been a lot worse. He’d fooled a lot of players with his sheer heat, and that wouldn’t keep working. Major league batters were too smart to be fooled by speed forever. Connor didn’t need Jackson’s voice in his head to remind him of that.

Then there were the handful of really fantastic fielding plays that had saved at least a run or two.

Never before had Connor relied on the defense behind him to get the job done, and while he was grateful, he fucking hated it all the same.

He should’ve been the one to get it done. Him and him alone.

Slumping down on the bench in the dugout, only pride kept Connor from losing it completely.

Everyone was nicer than they needed to be, coming up to him in the clubhouse after the game, slapping him on the back, giving him encouragement that Connor could barely hear, never mind acknowledge.

Then he reached for his phone, and in the middle of a ton of texts from friends and family wishing him good luck in his first start, there was the one he’d hoped for.

Hey, a little bird told me your first start was today. Good luck. Remember. Fear and arrogance. You got this.

He wanted to cry.

He hadn’t had this at all.

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