Page 25 of Hot Streak

Charlie was like the easygoing dusk, sliding without complaint or issue, into night.

But Jackson was the bright spotlight of day—turning his brightness on Connor and refusing to let either of them flinch.

The Rogues were up six to zero, middle of the fourth inning, when Connor walked back out to the mound.

He’d given up two hits and a walk, but so far, it hadn’t been a bad game. In fact, other than the necessary adjustments to Jackson’s firm and uncompromising style, it had actually gone pretty well.

And like Jackson realized he needed the time, he’d actually left him alone in the dugout, gathering on the other end with the rest of the team.

Jackson, catching gear strapped on, jogged out of the dugout now, joining Connor before he got to the mound.

“Feelin’ good, huh?” Jackson said. Apparently now he wanted to get chatty.

Connor looked over at him.

Backwards cap. Dark hair a little too long, curling against his neck. Intense eyes with the entirety of their focus on Connor. Scruff dusting his jaw. Jackson hadn’t taken advantage of the morning off to shave. Normally, Connor would just think that looked lazy and sloppy, but instead, the scruff sharpened his jawline, making him look rough and wild, and hot.

The dream that had woken up him, shaken, hadn’t just been a pitching naked dream, like he’d told Jackson earlier.

It had been. Or at least it had started that way.

Then, as he’d shifted, uncomfortably, butt ass naked on the same pitching mound that he was approaching right now, Jackson had jogged up.

He’d been as naked as Connor.

And there’d been no mistaking the flare of attraction he’d felt as his gaze had skimmed the other man’s muscled body. Jackson had taken a step closer, then another, looking at Connor like he was right now, all that intensity focused on him.

Just before Jackson had touched him—or had he been about to reach back and touch him first?—Connor had woken up in a sweaty, shocked heap.

As he’d lain there, shaken to the core, he’d told himself that it was only Maya’s insinuation that had put the idea in his head and his subconscious had run with it.

He wasn’t attracted to Jackson. He couldn’t be. Because he wasn’t attracted to men.

Still, he’d only fallen back asleep uneasily and tossed and turned the rest of the night, worried what else his brain might dredge up.

“Well, shit,” Jackson said, interrupting his reverie.

“What,” Connor snapped.

“You’re looking all out of sorts again,” Jackson said, grinning.

Connor wanted to tell him to take a fucking step back—he was just too close, too big, too much—but if he did, he’d have to admit why, even to himself.

And he wasn’t ready to do that.

Not by a long shot.

Jackson had a wife and kids. He’d said just last week that his family was in Asheville. What was Connor doing looking at him like he might be interested in taking a bite?

Because he sure as fuck wasn’t.

You need to get laid.

Clearly, he did.

“I’m not,” Connor retorted. But he was.

That was the biggest difference between Jackson and Charlie.

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