Page 14 of Hot Streak

Jackson trotted back to his spot. Dropped down into his stance, put his glove out. Gave the universal sign for fast ball, upper right corner.

He could feel Andy falling into place behind him, in the same spot where the umpire would normally stand.

“Nice and easy now, Connor,” Andy cajoled. “Remember what we talked about.”

Jackson didn’t know what they’d discussed but he could guess. Control came from form.

And God, Connor Clark had a gorgeous one. Long and lean and golden in the sunlight.

For a split second, Jackson was almost distracted by the gloriousness of it, but then the ball came shooting out of his hand and it took all his focus to place it and then catch it solidly in his glove.

Yeah, that hadn’t been even remotely close to the upper right corner.

It had been in the right corner of the zone, and it had definitely been up. Maybe a foot above anything an ump might call a strike.

“Shit,” Jackson heard Connor mutter.

“Down a foot,” Andy cajoled from behind him.

“Or two,” Jackson said under his breath.

He gave Connor the same sign.

The next pitch was a little better, but still too high, still out of the zone.

The next five were all the same.

Between each, Andy offered support and encouragement. Enough for both of them, Jackson decided. But no matter what his pitching coach said—and what his catcher didn’t—Jackson could see Connor’s movements becoming increasingly jerky and agitated. His flawless form suffered.

The next pitch went wild, Jackson turning away at the last second to avoid it hitting him square on the knee.

“Fuck,” he exclaimed.

“You alright?” Andy said, putting a hand out to help him up. “I should’ve suggested the pads but . . .”

“But what?” Jackson asked, eying Connor down the bullpen lane, watching as he stalked around, muttering to himself.

“He’s got better control than this. I know it. He knows it.”

“He had better control than this before we even started.”

Andy met his gaze frankly. “Yeah, I saw that.”

“Could hardly miss it. Maybe he’s just adjusting to the idea of a new catcher.”

“He can hit the high corner every time, if he wants to.”

Jackson glanced down at Connor again. He was frowning now. Staring at his glove, like it contained all the secrets in the universe.

“So why doesn’t he want to?” Jackson asked.

Before Andy could answer—because Jackson had a feeling Andy couldn’t answer—Jackson walked down to where Connor stood.

“What’s going on?” he asked, keeping judgment out of his voice.

If Connor lost his temper or lost control of his emotions even more than he was now, they might as well kiss this bullpen session goodbye.

“I just—” Connor looked up, expression hardening. “You’re not Charlie.”

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