Page 21 of Hot Streak

Jackson laughed—and pushed down the ping of awareness that Connor had been looking at him. That Connor found him . . .attractive.

Funny how it had never even been an issue with Deke. He didn’t even know if Connor was queer, and yet already his stomach was unsettled and jumping at the thought.

“I eat ice cream,” Jackson said. “I work hard in the gym, and at the weights, ’cause I wasn’t that good of a hitter when I was drafted. Had to get better. Had to be the best, or else I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“You’re a good catcher. A pain in the ass catcher. But I know you’ve been helpin’ Kevin.”

Jackson had sensed Connor watching as he’d worked with Kevin earlier this week. “He could use the help.”

“Yeah, he could,” Connor agreed. “I know he wants to get back into the rotation. Maybe you can make that happen for him.”

“And what about you?” Jackson said, before he could help himself.

They’d been walking along pleasantly enough, but at this comment, Connor stopped, frowning. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, what do you want that I could help you with?”

“Leave me alone, that’s what you could do that I want,” Connor retorted. “Let me pitch the way I want.”

Jackson chuckled. “Sorry. Not happening.”

“You’re an ass,” Connor said, making a face.

“Yeah,” Jackson agreed. If it was easier for Connor to believe that than it was for Connor to acknowledge that he could use the help Jackson provided, then fine.

They were quiet for another minute as they turned the corner down a side street and there was the brightly lit window Jackson had been told to look for.

“Here it is,” Jackson said, pointing. They stopped in front of the menu, hung above the wide sliding window that opened across the whole storefront.

“Ro told me about this place too but I hadn’t made it over here,” Connor said. “You gonna try one of those crazy flavors? Sweet potato pie? Pickle?”

“Nope. I’m a vanilla kind of guy,” Jackson said, walking up to the window.

“Wait,” Connor said, and a second later, he was next to him, already pulling out his wallet.

Oh hell no.

“No,” Jackson said under his breath. “You might pick up your teammates’ bar tab, but you are not buying me an ice cream like I can’t buy it for myself.”

Connor didn’t say anything but gave Jackson a nod.

Five minutes later, Jackson was slurping away on his vanilla cone and Connor was digging into his dish of chocolate rocky road while they sat on one of the benches near the ice cream shop.

“How did you know?” Connor asked, finally.

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Overheard them talking about how Millie keeps ‘losing their tabs’. But she’s a veteran waitress. That much was clear from the moment I walked into the Strike Zone. You’re payin’ their way and not even telling them.”

“Yeah,” Connor said, looking suddenly uncertain.

“And I stopped by the night after your little stunt with the window and made sure you’d paid for it.”

“Of course I fucking paid for it. I told you I did,” Connor squawked, sitting up, outrage obvious in every tense line of his body.

“Course you did,” Jackson said. “And when I asked, Millie said she wasn’t worried. That you took care of her and the other guys. I’d suspected before that, but then I knew.”

“You’re not gonna tell them and make it awkward, are you?”

Jackson leaned back on the bench. “No. It’s a thoughtful thing to do, Connor. Really. You clearly got more money than you know what to do with. But why not tell them? Why pretend you’re not doing it?”

---