Page 24 of Hot Streak

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Jackson asked, keeping his tone pleasant.

Connor shot him a glare, and Jackson sighed.

He’d woken this morning still feeling vaguely optimistic about the chances of them being on the same page. After all, hadn’t they found some common ground last night? Hadn’t they managed to grab an ice cream and chat like well . . .not like friends, but like friendly acquaintances, at least?

Of course, it hadn’t ended well, but Jackson had still hoped that Connor’s temper spike would soften after a morning off.

Not so much.

He was even pricklier than he’d been last night.

“Seriously,” Jackson said, walking closer and lowering his voice, “what’s up?”

For a long minute, Connor was quiet. Just kept stretching.

But finally he spoke up. “Didn’t sleep great. Had weird dreams.”

Jackson understood then. “The pitching naked dream, huh?”

Connor glanced up, surprise etched on his handsome features. “How did you know?”

“You forget, I’ve been around this game a long goddamn time. And yeah, I get them too, sometimes.”

“But you’re—”

“Freaking awesome? Ridiculously confident? Sure that I know what the fuck I’m doing?”

Connor rolled his eyes. “Modest, too, turns out.”

“Hey, takes one to know one. You got this.” He tossed Connor a ball. “You’re ready. Come on, let’s do this.”

“I don’t know . . .” Connor hesitated.

“You know how I think of it?” Jackson took a step closer and dropped his voice. God, Connor’s eyes should be banned; nobody should have eyes that fucking shade of blue. “If I was out here naked, they’d get a pretty damn good show, wouldn’t they? And I bet you wouldn’t have anything to worry about, either.”

Connor’s gaze narrowed. “No? You sayin’ I’m hot stuff, Evans?”

“I’m saying, own it. Be proud. Walk out there like you stroll into the Strike Zone. Like everyone wants a fucking piece of you.”

“Everyone does want a piece of me,” Connor said.

It wasn’t even a boast, probably. Jackson knew it wasn’t. Considering how Connor looked, they were probably lining up five-deep for a chance in his bed.

That shouldn’t have annoyed Jackson. It certainly shouldn’t have made him jealous, because why the fuck would he want to bother with this guy, who was so ridiculously smug and overconfident ninety-nine percent of the time?

It was that stupid one percent, Jackson realized, as the shadows in those otherworldly blue eyes faded away. It made Connor human. It made him even more attractive, a fucking embarrassment of riches.

“There you go,” Jackson said, patting him on the shoulder. “Think of it that way. You walk out there, they want a piece of you. And what are they gonna be feeling after you’re done with them?”

Shadows dismissed, Connor’s gaze hardened. “That they don’t want to fuck with me.”

Jackson gave him a sharp nod. “Okay,” he said, “let’s get to work.”

Connor had complained to Kevin that part of his Jackson dislike stemmed from the fact he wasn’t anything like Charlie.

It was an adjustment, the most drastic change he’d ever experienced moving from catcher to catcher. Most catchers were pretty similar. They ran things similarly, had similar attitudes. Connor wouldn’t say they were necessarily interchangeable, but they kinda were.

But Jackson and Charlie were freaking night and day.

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