Page 124 of Hot Streak

There’d been no arrogance, only fear.

There was a part of Connor that was fucking furious with Jackson, who wanted to blame him for his performance today. That wanted to pin the fault on the distracting way they’d fought before he’d left Raleigh for Tampa, but he couldn’t.

None of this was Jackson’s fault. He’d given him the tools to get it done, to make it in the majors, but in the end, it had been Connor who just wasn’t good enough.

He choked down a single celebration drink, couldn’t face a second one, and escaped to his room before he finally unglued completely.

Before he could really make a decision one way or the other he was already dialing Jackson’s number.

He, who never called if he could text.

He, who fucking hated talking on the phone.

But he needed to hear Jackson’s voice.

He answered on the third ring. “Hello?” he answered groggily.

Connor didn’t even care that it was late, and Jackson had probably been asleep.

“You . . .fucking . . .asshole,” he choked out, unshed tears creating a lump in his throat.

“Connor.”

He didn’t think Jackson had ever said his name like that before. Like he was the most precious thing in the world.

“I . . .” Jackson started to speak again and then stopped. “I saw your stat line,” he said, finally.

That was worse.

Connor lost the battle with himself and broke down, crying with great wracking sobs into his hands.

“Oh God, oh God, I didn’t mean it like that, I swear I didn’t. I’m so fucking sorry,” Jackson said in a hushed voice.

“It’s . . .” Connor could barely speak through the waves of emotion wrecking him. It was like the adrenaline had held back the worst of the highs and the worst of the lows but now it was gone, evaporated out of his system, and he could only feel.

“It’s alright,” Jackson soothed. “I promise. Get it all out. I know it’s a lot.”

It was funny, because Connor hadn’t believed he’d stop crying anytime soon, once he’d let it out, but just hearing Jackson’s voice helped calm him down.

“I pitched like shit,” Connor croaked.

“Not like shit,” Jackson said sternly. “Like you were making your first major league appearance and you were terrified out of your fucking mind.”

“I—”

“No,” Jackson interrupted. “You can’t do that. You can’t go back and pitch that game again, even in your head. But I went through it, Connor, and when you actually settled down a bit—in the third inning, I think it was—for a few batters, you found that groove that I know you have. And you know what else, Connor? When you’re in that groove, you’re fucking unbeatable. You’ve got the purest aim, the best zip, the heat that nobody else can bring. You’re an ace, a Hall of Famer when you fucking stop thinking of how much everyone wants you to be. How much you want to be.”

Connor knew it.

But it wasn’t like he could just turn his brain off.

Brains didn’t work like that.

“If it was that easy, I’d do it, I’d just turn it off,” Connor said wryly, sniffling. He muted the phone and blew his nose.

Maybe talking to Jackson shouldn’t make him feel better. After all, they hadn’t talked about anything else—only baseball. They hadn’t discussed how Jackson had been the last time they’d seen each other. They hadn’t talked about what they were to each other.

But it didn’t matter.

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