Page 146 of Hot Streak

He’d agonized over that truth for a few minutes, until he’d realized that the only distraction that could really unravel Connor at this point would be if he tried denying the love between them.

He’d met Mikey’s gaze during the pregame, and his approving nod had given him the blessing he’d needed.

“Just a sec,” Jackson said, rising to his feet again and jogging over to the bullpen, down the first base line.

But Connor wasn’t in there, either.

Where the fuck was he?

Jackson headed back to the dugout and into the clubhouse through its connecting hallway.

Just in time to see Connor emerge from the bathrooms. “There you are,” he said. “You alright?”

Connor made a face.

“What is it?” Jackson asked in a low voice, putting a hand on his elbow.

“I’m . . .” Connor grimaced again. “I put them on. And it was one thing, to wear them, when I was in Tampa, and you were here, like a thousand miles away, but it’s different when we’re here together, and you’re gonna be looking at me.”

“I’m supposed to look at you,” Jackson teased.

“I know, but ugh, like that,” Connor protested. “Like you can’t wait to get me naked.”

“I look at you like this all the time.”

“Exactly,” Connor said with a groan.

“Just . . .relax. Let them do their job. It’ll fade. The point is the distraction.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts.” Jackson grinned. “Well, maybe some buts, later.”

Connor elbowed him. “You’re the worst. You’re supposed to be encouraging me. Making sure I pitch great today.”

“I know you will,” Jackson said, making sure he sounded serious. Because he did believe in Connor. “You’ve come a long way. You’ve found your groove. You know you can pitch. So, just go out there and do it.” He paused, the corner of his mouth tilting up into an undeniable smirk. “And then after, maybe I’ll do you.”

“Ugh.” Connor half-groaned, half-laughed. “I kind of hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Jackson said.

“No.” Connor tipped his head towards Jackson’s, and the love on his face was undeniable. “No, not even a little.”

But by the time they returned to the field, Connor had found his game face, and whatever it had taken—Jackson’s pep talk or something else entirely—when he warmed up, Jackson catching him behind home plate, he’d also found his focus.

The game started, Connor looking as dialed in as Jackson had ever seen. Each pitch came in with a healthy zing, hitting his glove with a decisive thud. And his placement was about as good as Jackson had ever seen from him.

He struck out the side, and as they returned to the dugout, Connor glanced over at him.

“See?” Jackson said. “You got this.”

“I’m half focused. Half going out of my goddamn mind.” Connor smiled, his expression helpless but happy. “I love it and I hate it.”

“Well, I’ve never seen you like this. This how you pitched in your last start?” Jackson had seen the stat line, of course, because he’d been watching for it. He’d read the commentary about how well Connor had pitched in that game. But being front and center for it was something else, entirely.

Connor shook his head as he sat down on the dugout bench. “Never pitched like this before. I can feel it, in here,” he said. “Like that fear isn’t gone, but it’s . . .it’s MIA.”

“Well, keep it up,” Jackson said, beginning to shed his catching gear. He was set to bat third, unusual for a catcher, but not as Mikey had told him last week when he’d moved him on the lineup card, for someone who was hitting as well as Jackson was right now.

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