Page 26 of Hot Streak

He’d never, not once, even felt a twinge of anything for sweet, slightly homely Charlie who let him get away with murder.

But he felt a whole lot of something for Jackson. Annoyance for one. Frustration for another. Acute dislike for a third.

And something else, too, his uncooperative brain added.

“You’re all twisted up again. Come on, breathe in and out.”

Connor glared at him, but he did it, breathing along with Jackson.

“Better,” Jackson said, patting him on the shoulder. “Let’s throw a couple of pitches, alright? The thick of the order’s coming up. I want to make sure your placement’s still solid. We’re gonna work around them.”

Connor just nodded. Didn’t really trust himself to speak.

Jackson jogged back to home plate, and Connor averted his eyes.

Not that he was worried what he might think if he looked at Jackson’s ass and thick, muscled thighs in those tight white pants.

Nope.

Not worried at all.

Jackson settled into his stance, held out his glove, and gave Connor the signal.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

He pulled back, fingers digging into the threading of the ball, grounding himself with how familiar the rough spots felt—like a friend—and threw.

The ball snapped into Jackson’s glove with a satisfying thud.

Jackson nodded. Gave him another sign.

They did three more like that, and Jackson gave him another nod, his chin lifting in approval.

It would be easy to fall into all those green lights Jackson was giving him.

Connor understood why Kevin wanted to. There was something infinitely reassuring about Jackson’s endorsement.

Like you actually knew what the fuck you were doing—even when you didn’t.

But there was another part of Connor who didn’t want to give in like that. Easy, like he was easy.

He didn’t want to like Jackson.

He definitely did not want Jackson to like him.

The ump walked towards Jackson, and he motioned for the batter to approach home plate.

Breathe.

In.

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