Page 3 of Hot Streak

But the majors were full of skilled catchers hitting three hundred, and not only had Jackson never been particularly trendy or special, there’d been one very big strike against him. Something that in the end, he hadn’t been able to help.

It had been too hard to completely bury his sexuality, even though he’d tried. That was the thing about baseball. Once one person knew, everyone knew, even if they never talked about it.

He’d been lucky, Jackson supposed, because he’d never had more than a handful of hissed insults shoved his way. But then, he’d made sure he wasn’t ever going to be a target. He’d bulked up, until nobody would ever be stupid enough to confront him face-to-face.

But he’d known, every time he walked into the clubhouse, they were all thinking about it.

It was why he was convinced he’d never gotten the chances he’d wanted.

Why the few chances he had gotten had ended as abruptly as they’d begun.

Nobody had wanted that queer catcher on their team.

Now, fifteen years in, he wasn’t bitter, really, anymore. Just resigned.

The efficiency was, like Sheila had promised, just down the street, and furnished with the basics. Worn-out couch. Coffee table covered in old glass rings, the corner of it slightly busted. Tiny kitchenette, even though Jackson knew he wouldn’t be doing much cooking. Bed and dresser in the second room. Bare white walls.

It looked like every place he’d stayed in for the last fifteen years—though some of those had been much worse shitholes than this. At least it was clean.

He dumped his bag on the bed. Walked into the attached bathroom. It was also clean, thank God. He decided he’d take a shower, wash off the road, and maybe find that bar.

The Strike Zone, Mikey had called it.

Connor was fucking lit.

“Two minor league records,” he crowed, lifting his arms up. He’d lost his shirt two rounds and twenty minutes ago, when the bartender had finally listened to him and played the new Drake track.

Ro rolled his eyes. “You really want to brag about that shit, Clark?”

“Fuck yes,” Connor said, turning a chair around and dropping onto it, settling his elbows on the back. “Now, tell me, you think of a good nickname?”

“I don’t know, man, nicknames gotta be organic-like? You can’t plan a killer nickname.”

“All the greats got ’em,” Connor said. And that was the one thing he was very sure of—no matter how much whiskey was flowing through his veins—he was going to be great.

Hadn’t he just set the record today for most strikeouts in a game?

And okay, sure, he could work on his control, because he’d also set the record for the most walks, but that shit happened.

Brilliance couldn’t be fucking contained. Not Connor’s brand of brilliance anyway.

“And you’re gonna be great?” Ro laughed, like this was the funniest thing he’d heard in ages.

He didn’t give a shit if some two-bit shortstop, who’d spent years now in triple A, waiting for a call that hadn’t come yet, thought he wasn’t going to own this fucking league, because he was.

“Fuck yes I am,” Connor boasted.

“Might be lacking in control but not in confidence,” Tommy Juarez—who they liked to call TJ—said.

“Damn fucking straight,” Connor said.

Ro’s full name was Roland, and when Connor had found out about it, he’d declared that he wasn’t ever going to make it, because no fucking major leaguer was named Roland.

Maybe that was why Ro wasn’t all-in on this nickname thing. Sure, Connor kept insisting on calling him Roland. If he found out his middle name, he was going to use that too. It was probably something equally as ridiculous, like Bartholomew. Roland fucking Bartholomew.

Ro and TJ weren’t all bad though. They were good for a laugh and a drink and even to flail around on the dance floor.

Maya, his younger sister, would roll her eyes and tell him that he kept Ro and TJ around because they weren’t as hot as he was.

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