Page 135 of Hot Streak

“No, but ugh, kid, that’s a tough thing to carry around with you, all this time,” Andy said and patted him on the back.

No shit.

“I’m not saying nobody gives a shit about you and Connor, but I think as long as you’re vaguely cautious . . .” Andy shrugged again. “I think he’s gonna be fine. And you’re about to set the record. Any number of teams might want you after this. Or . . .”

“Or what?” Jackson demanded. He was still trying to realign his whole life. All those years of grinding away and not making it, resenting the very core of his being, for why he couldn’t quite get there.

“Do you even know how many teams would hire you to coach their pitchers and their catchers?”

Jackson had a vague idea, because it wasn’t like nobody had ever made overtures to him before. But he’d always dismissed them out of hand because he didn’t want to coach. He wanted to play.

But he wasn’t going to be able to play forever, and now, flirting in the back of his mind, was the idea that if he kept playing, there was no way he and Connor were going to make it. Maybe they wouldn’t, anyway. But if they ended up on different teams—looking extremely likely—then there was almost no chance. Of course, if he did end up coaching, then they’d probably end up on different teams, anyway.

“Yeah,” Jackson said. “Not sure I want to guarantee myself a bunch more years in the minors, this time as a coach, not even playing.”

Andy elbowed him, hard. “Who says you gotta restrict yourself to just one team, Evans?”

“What?”

“You think if you hung out your shingle, they wouldn’t be linin’ up, just for a few weeks with the pitcher whisperer?”

“That’s not what they call me,” Jackson retorted.

“Sure as heck, they do,” Andy said. “I could’ve done it, too, but I didn’t have much else in my life. But you’re different than me, kid. You got other things goin’ on.”

“Huh. I guess I never thought about it,” Jackson said.

He didn’t know how to deal with both of these revelations, one hitting right after the other, shifting his whole paradigm.

“’Course you didn’t.” Andy rolled his eyes. “You were still tryin’ to make it as a player. But you’re more than that, Evans. We always knew it. You just had to keep up.”

“Huh.”

Kevin finished off his side, coming off the field with a fist pump, and Jackson was the first to greet him at the dugout entrance, giving him a high-five and a back slap.

“Lookin’ great,” Jackson said.

“Thanks,” Kevin said, settling on the bench. “Go out there and get us some runs, man.”

Jackson shot him an exaggerated wide-eye look. “We already got five, and we’re up four. How many more do you want?”

“All the runs, man, all the runs,” Kevin joked.

Jackson still had his words—and Andy’s words—echoing in his head as he made his way to the plate.

It was funny, he’d carried this guilt, this denial of who he was, for so long, he felt different as he walked up. Lighter, almost, and freer. Less worried, at the back of his mind, about what anyone had heard about him. What anyone thought about him.

He only cared what he thought about himself.

Jackson took a few swings and then strode towards home plate.

Settling into his stance, he looked out towards the mound. Took in the pitcher and his body language, watched as he tensed, getting ready to throw the first pitch.

Jackson rarely swung at that first pitch, and like usual, he let this first one sail by him.

Behind him, the umpire called it a ball.

Jackson grinned.

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