Page 153 of Hot Streak

He wasn’t happy.

He was frustrated.

He’d wanted that one. For sure, he’d wanted his pitch back.

Each at-bat was like a chess match, and whoever won, paired with their inherent physical skill, would emerge victorious.

A cloud of dust rose up as Jackson twisted his cleat in the dirt. Raised his bat.

Next the pitcher threw a slider, low and away.

Jackson let it go. That wasn’t his kind of pitch. He could hit it, but it wouldn’t get him on base, not the way he needed to be.

Strike two.

It was serious now. One more strike, and Jackson would be finished, and he’d have to walk back to the dugout, having failed these guys when they needed him the most.

Maybe another day, he’d have accepted that.

He’d already accepted it dozens of times. Probably hundreds of times, over the course of his career.

Not today.

The pitcher pulled back and threw again.

Way high.

Jackson wasn’t even tempted to swing at that kind of shit.

On the mound, the pitcher frowned. Had he actually believed that Jackson would chase that shit? He was Jackson Evans.

He saw that coming a mile away and didn’t hesitate, his fingers circling the bat, forcing them to stay loose. Alert, ready to swing, but loose.

The guy was going to give him something; it was inevitable. He just had to wait for the right pitch and then hit it just the right way.

You can do this.

Jackson slowed his breathing, settling back into his stance.

And then it came.

Textbook fastball. Jackson was pretty sure he’d meant it to be lower, but it hung just enough, just enough for him to swing, dipping the tip of his bat down a hair, to dig it out and send it out of the park.

He hadn’t been swinging for a home run.

He’d only wanted to get on base, to help the team.

Jackson watched it, incredulously, as it just cleared the right field fence, his legs moving like he was in a trance as he rounded the bases. He could already see the team gathering at home plate, jumping in excitement, at his walk off homer.

Setting the record.

And winning the game.

Connor didn’t think he breathed once during Jackson’s last at-bat.

He’d watched intently, as the man he loved battled this pitcher who thought he could own them. Own him.

But nobody owned Jackson Evans.

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