Page 16 of Hot Streak

And again.

And again.

Twenty minutes later, Connor finished throwing his bullpen and Jackson knew exactly why he’d been brought in. This guy had more talent than he knew what to do with.

And yet Jackson had convinced him to do it by shooting him that unimpressed, challenging look after every single pitch, each more glorious than the one before it.

“Well, that was an adventure,” Andy said when Connor finished and was wiping his face with a towel.

“He did it, didn’t he?” Jackson said, rising to his feet.

“It’s not gonna work every time,” Andy cautioned.

“Nope,” Jackson agreed.

Jackson didn’t even want to push him like this. He was used to pitchers who respected what he brought to the table and at least vaguely listened to what he had to say. No question—it would be better for everyone, all around, if they could be partners.

But Jackson also knew Connor was going to fight him every inch of the way.

“Guess if he’s gonna fight someone, he might as well fight you. You can take it,” Andy mused.

“Who’s fightin’ who?” Connor asked, as he walked over.

The kid clearly had a seventh sense, knowing exactly when people were talking about him.

Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. “You, fightin’ the world.”

Andy chuckled, but Connor frowned. “No way,” Connor spluttered. “I don’t fucking do that.”

“You challenged me to a fight within ten minutes of meeting me,” Jackson reminded him.

“So? I didn’t know who the fuck you were.”

Except he had. What Connor wasn’t saying was that he’d never heard of Jackson, so assumed he was nobody, and nobody should ever challenge him—the soon-to-be-great Connor Clark.

Lucky for Connor, Jackson had never bought into any of that prestige shit.

“I wanna talk about your breathing,” Andy said, interrupting them.

“What about my breathing? All my chakras or whatever the fuck you call them were nice and open,” Connor complained. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“No, you were pissed off. You were pitching like you were fighting.”

Connor made a face. “Not my fault if this catcher’s contrary as fuck.”

Jackson didn’t say anything. Connor knew perfectly well—and knew that Jackson knew, too—that he’d pushed him into that corner.

But that was okay, because Jackson had been forged in much hotter fires than an upstart pitcher who had a chip on his shoulder and an arm like a fucking comet.

“Comet,” Jackson said, this time interrupting Connor and Andy arguing under their breath about what kind of bullpen session it had been. Connor no doubt was pissed off because he knew how damn good it had been. Andy was pissed off because pitching angry could be a recipe for disaster.

“What?” Connor said, twisting his head around to look straight at Jackson.

Maybe someday he’d get used to that heated dark blue gaze. All that golden light turned on him. But someday was not today.

Jackson took a long drink of water. Swallowed. “Your nickname. Ro and TJ said you were looking for a nickname. They’re right, you know. You can’t rush these things. And you can’t give it to yourself.”

“Right, I know that.” Connor sounded testy. “Did you say comet?”

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