Page 17 of Hot Streak

“Got a nice ring to it,” Andy said, tilting his head. “Nice and alliterative.”

“There’s never been a pitcher named Comet. Sounds like a fucking reindeer,” Connor said, frowning.

“Never been a pitcher quite like you either, Comet,” Jackson said, patting him on the arm and walking away—because walking away was better than all the alternatives.

Chapter 3

“The new catcher’s got a fucking swing on him, doesn’t he?” Tarzan—known to the rest of the world as Kevin Marzan, one of the relief pitchers—poked Connor in the arm, once, twice and then three times. Like he was trying to get Connor to look up from his spot on the bench in the bullpen, the patch of dirt he’d become intimately familiar with, to watch Jackson’s at-bats.

He didn’t need to see him play. Didn’t want to acknowledge he was any good, ’cause maybe if he wasn’t, Skip would take him out of the lineup. Maybe even send him down to Montgomery, to double A ball.

Then, Connor could get back to normal, without Jackson, a near-constant source of irritation, bothering him.

“Deke’s not even that pissed he’s DHing in some of these games,” Kevin said. “Can you believe that?”

“Deke got mad at the mascot a few weeks ago.” How was it possible that everyone and their fucking dog loved Jackson except for him?

Didn’t they see what an ass he was?

Didn’t they see how difficult he was making Connor’s life?

Or maybe they did see and they just didn’t give a crap.

Connor made a face.

“I don’t give a fuck about Jackson Evans,” he muttered.

“Oh, don’t even try that shit, not with me,” Kevin retorted. “You won’t fucking shut up about him.”

“That’s not true,” Connor said automatically, even though it probably was.

His sister, Maya, had complained yesterday about how it felt like every other word he said was Jackson.

“He’s been there less than a week, and you haven’t even had to start rooming with him yet on the road, and you’re already talking about him nonstop,” she’d complained. Then she’d paused. “Is there something you want to tell me, Connor?” she’d then asked archly. “Do you like him?”

“What? No? No,” he’d spluttered “I’m not gay. You know that.”

He suddenly wondered if he’d mentioned how fucking attractive the asshole was, even as he rode Connor’s ass about his pitches.

“You know everyone’s on a spectrum, Connor,” she’d chided. “Even you.”

“I’m not on a fucking spectrum.”

She’d stopped arguing, but he’d still felt the weight of her argument pressing down over the thousands of miles separating them. Maya was a freshman at USC, but even before she’d started school, she’d already acted like she knew everything. And when she’d gone to college and then discovered she not only liked boys, but girls, too, and even the non-binary person in her psychology class, she’d been more than a little know-it-all.

And now Kevin was pressing him too, about Jackson.

Of course, Kevin wasn’t saying what Maya had. He was just saying he was hung up on the guy’s presence—which he very much was.

It felt like since the moment Jackson had shown up in Raleigh, he hadn’t even had a moment to fucking breathe.

“I don’t know, you usually won’t shut up about Jackson,” Kevin said. “And he’s a pretty damn good catcher. You know he caught me yesterday in my practice game, and phew, that guy can call a good game.”

“I like Charlie,” Connor said stubbornly. Pointedly not watching as Jackson hit a curveball like he was born to do it, the ball arcing over the field before finally getting caught right at the warning track.

It would’ve been easier if the guy sucked—but even Connor, pissed off as he was about him, couldn’t say that.

“Of course you like Charlie, he lets you get away with a monumental amount of shit,” Kevin said, chuckling.

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