Page 23 of Hot Streak

It occurred to Jackson that maybe he was actually nervous as hell, and instead of letting that out, getting rid of it and moving past it, he was internalizing all of it.

Well, shit.

“How about you?” Connor asked. “What about your family?”

“They’re actually here. In Asheville. About four hours from here.”

“Must’ve been happy to get traded here, then.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said.

Jackson was of two minds over this—one, yes, it was great to be back home. Or close to home. Two, his job was a hell of a lot more complicated because of Connor.

Because he was a pain in the ass.

Because, as much as he tried to deny it, tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, he was attracted to his stupid pretty boy exterior.

When he’d believed Connor was just a selfish, brash asshole, he hadn’t even considered what that zing at the base of his spine was. But now that he knew Connor wasn’t entirely irredeemable, it was harder to deny.

Not that he’d do a thing about it.

He wasn’t stupid, even if the craziest thing of all happened and Connor actually was interested.

Which he wasn’t.

“Hey,” Jackson said, when they made it back to the players’ parking lot, “do me a favor.”

Connor turned, his handsome face shadowed. “What?”

“Don’t be a dick tomorrow.”

Connor snorted. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

Jackson shrugged. “Just sayin’. You could try it.”

For a second, Jackson thought Connor might actually be considering it. But then his expression hardened. “Trying to soften me up, huh? So tomorrow’s easier on you? Not fucking likely.” Connor opened the door of his car, started the engine, and Jackson was left, watching as he zoomed away, tires squealing on the gravel.

“No,” Jackson huffed under his breath. “I was just tryin’ to help you, asshole.”

Chapter 4

“How’re you feelin’, Comet?” Andy said.

Jackson leaned against the fence and didn’t say anything, just listened as Connor mumbled to his pitching coach. “Fine, I’m just fine, so stop worrying over me like a little old Nana.”

Connor was halfway through his warmup. Jackson had already finished his. On days he was catching, he liked to be the first one on the field, always totally ready for whenever his pitcher was finished with his own routine.

“You got this,” Andy reminded him, slapping him on the back. “Just remember to breathe—”

“I know,” Connor retorted testily.

Not a great sign.

“Come on, let’s get finished. See some pitches.” Andy glanced over at Jackson. “You ready to go?”

“Yep,” Jackson said.

“’Course he fucking is,” Connor griped.

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