Page 136 of Hot Streak

And the next pitch? Jackson saw it coming, right down the middle, fastball, almost no spin, and he launched it, arcing the ball right over center field, and sending it out of the park.

It was really hard not to pump his fist as he jogged around the bases. He only had a handful more of these left to go to set the record and if this was grandstanding a little, well he was allowed, wasn’t he?

When Jackson returned to the dugout, to plenty of back slaps and a chorus of celebratory approval, it was impossible to miss the look Andy gave him.

What would it mean if he’d been wrong this whole time?

Not entirely wrong, he wouldn’t go that far, but even if he’d been a little bit wrong, that would change everything.

Was it still frustrating that he hadn’t made it in the majors? It was. But he couldn’t blame himself any longer. He’d done everything he was capable of. For so long he’d believed that if he’d just been different—normal—then he wouldn’t have gotten stuck in the minors.

But maybe that wasn’t why. Or maybe that wasn’t only why.

Chapter 21

Connor was slowly going out of his mind.

He’d tugged the underwear on in his hotel room—he could’ve done it in the clubhouse; God only knew how many weird rituals he’d witnessed his teammates participating in—but at least this first time, it felt too personal and too private for him to share with anyone else.

“You good?” Alejandro asked him, as he tried desperately not to squirm on the bench in the dugout.

So far, he’d managed to warm up and then pitch the opening inning. He understood why Jackson had suggested this tactic. Because he was only thinking of what he was doing with about half his brain.

The other half?

Thinking about the itch—both literal and metaphorical.

And how Jackson was not currently here to scratch it.

“I’m fine,” Connor said, but confusion crossed Alejandro’s face and he realized he hadn’t sounded even remotely fine. “Honestly,” he continued, “I’m okay. Trying some new stuff. To not . . .not think so much.”

“Well, it’s working,” Alejandro said, flashing him a grin as he patted him on the knee. “You’re pitching great.”

“Glad it’s working,” Connor said weakly. By the end of this game, he was going to be a wordless, blubbering mess, desperate for someone—something—to touch him that wasn’t the underwear.

They hugged his hips, wide swaths of lace on either side, and cupped his dick in all the right ways, the faint scratch of the lace reminding him every moment that he was wearing them.

He wanted to forget, but there was no fucking way he could.

It was exactly what Jackson had had in mind, but Connor still wanted to fly straight to Raleigh and press him into the nearest flat surface and show him just how insane this idea had made him. How wild for sex. And not just any sex. Jackson sex.

But it wasn’t just sex he wanted. He craved Jackson— the way he made him feel, not just how he touched him.

The inning came to a close, and Connor stood, feeling a little drunk and hoping that he didn’t noticeably wobble as he jogged out to the mound.

But then Alejandro settled into his stance, behind home plate, and like before, he fell into the routine, as easy as anything.

He hadn’t been sure if he’d make it a single pitch in, but the longer the game went on, the easier it got—like his brain had been divided in half, and one half was understandably distracted, but the other half, it had been honed to a sharp edge.

“Shit, man, that was some gorgeous pitching,” Alejandro told him after the game, when he was sitting in the clubhouse, wondering how soon would be too soon to call Jackson.

“Thanks,” Connor said, half-expecting Alejandro to move on after he’d given the compliment—Alejandro had been politely friendly but they hadn’t exactly become friends. He hadn’t found that open willingness to be friends with anyone on the team yet, and he’d been here two weeks now. But when he’d brought it up to Jackson, he’d reminded him that major leaguers saw so many players come and go, they were naturally a bit more reserved.

“But they’ll come around,” Jackson had promised.

Connor had thought that was all a bunch of bullshit—after all, nobody saw more players come and go than the minors—but it meant something Jackson had tried to reassure him. So he’d tried to be patient.

Alejandro settled down next to him. “I wasn’t sure of you right away,” he said with a blunt honesty tempered with the kind smile on his face. “Thought you were a bit erratic, to be honest.”

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