Page 18 of Hot Streak

Jackson rounded first and then jogged back in front of the bullpen, and damn the guy, he looked right over, eyes meeting Connor’s.

Even though Connor wasn’t doing anything wrong—wasn’t doing much of anything, because he wasn’t starting today—he still felt Jackson’s judgment wash over him.

What gave this dick the nerve to act like he was Connor’s superior?

He sure as fuck wasn’t.

“Charlie knows how to work with me,” Connor said.

“Oh, cut the shit. You can boss Charlie around, and he lets you do it,” Kevin said. “Jackson just won’t let you shake off his signs. Why not just throw what he wants you to throw? The dude knows what he’s doing.”

“So he says,” Connor retorted.

TJ grounded into a double play, and the inning ended, the Rogues’ mascot prancing around in front of the bullpen.

“I can’t get over how ridiculous this dude is,” Kevin said, but he was laughing as Rocky the Racoon, the Rogues’ mascot, started twerking to the mid-inning music.

“You love him,” Connor said, hearing the sullen note in his own voice. “Kinda how like you’re in love with the new catcher.”

“Hey, he gonna make me a better pitcher? Then, yeah, I love him. Wanna have his babies.”

“Now you sound like my sister,” Connor said.

“You sure you’re related, then?”

Connor made a face. “Pretty fucking sure.”

“So what’s wrong with Jackson making you a better pitcher?” Kevin sounded like he was actually asking, which was more than a little galling.

There was a reason Kevin’s nickname was Tarzan. He was big and wild and threw more balls than he did strikes. But he could usually pull it off, at the last moment, loading the bases and then recording three straight strikeouts. But his loose cannon behavior was why Skip had moved him from a starting position in the rotation to the bullpen.

But Connor knew how much he wanted to get back into the rotation.

Being a reliever was a fucking chore, except if you were a closer, and there was no way any manager would make Kevin a closer, not with the chance he could walk the bases loaded and then give up a run—or four.

“You need him to make you a better pitcher,” Connor said.

Kevin elbowed him in the side. “Hey, don’t be a shithead,” he said, without heat. Kevin was remarkably low-key about his struggles. He didn’t seem to obsess about them. Of course, neither did Connor, publicly. But secretly?

Every walk he threw felt like he was slipping closer to the edge of obscurity.

Like he was going to end up being a waste. A bust. A failure.

The more he thought about it, worried about it, obsessed over that potential, the harder it seemed to do what he knew he was capable of.

But Kev didn’t have any of those hangups. He just took every opportunity as it came and worked hard, trying to reverse his fate, without letting it eat him up.

“Sorry,” Connor said quietly. He genuinely liked Kevin. He was just . . .well, jealous, he supposed, of Kevin’s lack of hangups.

Of course, Kevin also hadn’t been drafted in the first round, with all the fanfare and expectations that came with that. You like Kevin, Connor reminded himself, you like him nearly as much as Ro and TJ. Don’t let Jackson fucking Evans come between you.

“Hey, I know you’re stressed. But you got this,” Kevin said, patting him on the knee.

God, was his angst that obvious?

“Did he appoint you to talk to me? Reason with me?” That would make it worse.

“Of course not.” Kevin scoffed. “Would I?”

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