Page 125 of Hot Streak

Somehow, Jackson had become his person. The single person he could trust and rely on. The person he loved.

Even if he felt it, Connor knew he couldn’t say it. Not yet. Even if they hadn’t argued before he’d left, Connor didn’t want to say it now, when they weren’t on the same page, and when they weren’t even in the same fucking state. But it was there, an undeniable truth echoing in his mind, all the same.

“I know. I know,” Jackson said. “But I did . . .I did actually have a thought.”

“What is it?”

“Andy mentioned something the other day, offhandedly, about a pitcher he knew who’d put a pebble in his cleat, to distract him when he was getting caught up in his own thoughts and couldn’t silence them enough to pitch.”

“I’m not putting a pebble in my shoe,” Connor retorted.

And yeah, nothing was fixed between them—but everything was, anyway.

“No, no, you wouldn’t want to. I told Andy that was fucking stupid, anyway. Why would you want to give yourself a bruise like that? You wouldn’t. But . . .it got me thinking. We just need to give your brain something else to latch onto.”

“You’re talking like you know what it is, and yet you don’t want to say it, so it must be pretty bad. Just say it.”

“I know, I am,” Jackson said, chuckling under his breath. “I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”

“Is it gonna help?” Connor demanded.

“I really don’t know. But it can’t hurt.” Jackson paused. “Probably.”

“Great.”

“Hey, it’s not gonna be a pebble in your shoe. Just . . .uh . . .”

“Just spit it out,” Connor said, and it was some kind of miracle, but he was actually smiling now. “I know you’re more of the swallowing type, but take one for the team this time.”

Connor could feel Jackson’s smirk over the line, even if he couldn’t see it. “It’s underwear.”

“I wear underwear, you idiot. You of all people are familiar with exactly what kind of underwear I’m wearing.”

And just like that, that was all it took for arousal to bubble in Connor’s veins.

God, why hadn’t he just kept kissing Jackson that last night? Jackson had been drunk, sure, but he’d wanted it too. One last night, together, pressed skin to skin. He swallowed hard.

“Not the kind you usually wear. Lace underwear.”

Connor nearly dropped the phone.

“You mean like women’s underwear? What kind of kinky bitch do you think I am?”

“It’s to help you pitch better, Connor. Not to get you off,” Jackson said reasonably. Like Connor couldn’t hear the sudden gruffness in his voice that he’d learned always meant Jackson was thinking about sex.

“Why not both?” he teased.

Jackson laughed slash coughed. “Come on, Connor.”

Connor considered it. “I guess I’d do it. If you think it would help.”

“I don’t know if it would. But it’s worth a try, right?”

“Yeah, what’s the worst case scenario? I end up with a pair of blue balls and a shitty ERA?”

“Connor,” Jackson chided.

“Sure, I’ll try it. But . . .how on earth do I find that in my size?”

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