Page 147 of Hot Streak

There’d been a time when it was hard for him to move between two different mentalities—catching, which meant he needed to not only manage the game from behind home plate, but manage whoever was pitching; and batting, which was a one-on-one battle, pitting his own wits and skill against the opposing pitcher’s—but he’d learned. He’d also learned what knowledge he could borrow from one to give to the other.

Becoming a great catcher had made him a better hitter, and vice versa.

“Kill ’em dead,” Connor said, shooting him a smile as he headed towards the front of the dugout. Jackson nodded and turned back to the field, just in time to see Ro hit a little flare of a single over the first baseman’s head.

It was a good sign, the leadoff hitter getting on base. Not only that it took the zero off the board for the Rogues, but that it was hard on a pitcher to give up a hit to the first hitter of a game. Demoralizing, even.

Jackson’s grip tightened on his bat. He dug into the dirt near the dugout, giving a few practice swings as he watched TJ bat.

He was a smart hitter, generally, and this time was no exception, as he took the pitcher to a full count, hitting foul ball after foul ball, keeping his at-bat alive. But even though Jackson could only imagine how much TJ was frustrating the pitcher, he got his revenge in the end, getting TJ to chase a low and away fastball, striking him out.

But Ro was still sitting on first, waiting for Jackson to come up to bat.

He gave the bat another warmup swing and then settled down at home plate.

Eyed the pitcher across the expanse of the field. He wasn’t quite shaken, but he wasn’t happy about how the game was going—Jackson could tell from his carefully blank expression and the tenseness of his body as he leaned back to throw.

His first pitch was a high fastball, and he didn’t even bother swinging, though Jackson was gratified when the ump indicated it was a little too high, calling it a ball.

Second pitch looked better. He swung. Barely missed.

But the third one was exactly what he wanted. He nailed it with every single bit of his strength, not surprised from merely the sound of the bat hitting the ball, that glorious crack that everyone wished for but so rarely got, that he wasn’t going to be running fast around the bases but taking them at a nice slow jog as he celebrated tying the home run record.

The crowd roared as he rounded first, hitting the edge of the bag and digging into the dirt, and Jackson lifted his head in time to see the ball soar out of the stadium. He slowed down then, allowing himself a fist pump. After all, it wasn’t every day that you tied a record that had stood for a few decades.

He’d wanted it before, but he’d been almost ashamed of it, same as his own sexuality. Even as he’d tried to claim he embraced being gay, he’d struggled with the feeling that somehow it had been the thing holding him back.

But nothing was holding him back now.

All of him was Jackson Evans, and that name would rest in the record books.

The whole dugout greeted him, including Connor, who wore the brightest smile Jackson could ever remember him wearing.

“One more,” Deke called out to him. “You gotta get one more, man.”

Ro elbowed him. “He tied the record. That’s a damn good thing.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said, his own smile probably eclipsing even Connor’s. “But I want it. And I’m gonna go get it. I’m not big on sharing.”

TJ patted him on the back. “You got this, man.”

And it felt like he did.

It was unbelievable how much difference just a change in attitude could make. Before, he’d have waited for the other shoe to drop, for reality to come charging in, bringing ugly consequences. But now even if he didn’t hit another home run, Jackson knew he’d made his peace. With the game, and with himself.

Connor hadn’t been sure how he’d react to Jackson tying the record. He was already working to maintain that necessary balance between distraction and focus—and even as he’d desperately wanted Jackson to hit another home run, he’d worried that maybe it would knock him off kilter.

But he’d worried for nothing.

When he returned to the mound, he pitched even better.

Even Jackson thought so. He could tell from the approving glint in his eyes after each pitch hit his glove.

Of course, with every glance Jackson gave him, awed and impressed and loving, the arousal in him heated up another few degrees.

When the game finally ended, the Rogues winning seven to one, Connor pitching six and a half innings of one hit shutout ball, he was wild with it, desire bubbling fiercely just under his skin.

In the clubhouse, Deke announced that the entire team was heading to the Strike Zone for a drink—to celebrate Connor’s pitching and Jackson tying the record. Jackson looked over at him, shrugging helplessly, because Deke was right. They really did need to lift one in celebration. More Jackson than him, because as far as Connor was concerned, he’d only done his job. Jackson was really the extraordinary one.

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