Page 27 of Hot Streak

Out.

Jackson crouched down again.

Connor would give him this—he was a master at framing the plate, at framing the pitches. Way better than Charlie was.

It was tough to admit, but Jackson made him look better than he was. And Connor knew he could look pretty goddamn good.

Jackson called the first pitch.

Fastball. High upper inside.

Almost impossible to hit, if he placed it right.

But it was hard to place just right, and the ump had been an ass nearly the whole game, not always giving him the edge the way he wanted.

He didn’t give this one.

Jackson framed it flawlessly, and it looked damn good to Connor, but the ump called it a ball.

Fuck.

Connor was expecting Jackson to call a different pitch. Fastball down the middle, maybe. He was throwing enough heat this game he could probably sneak it by the hitter.

But instead, Jackson called for the exact same pitch.

Connor wanted to make a face, shake him off, but maybe they could finesse it this time.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

This time, he was pretty sure it was an even better pitch. The way Jackson framed it was a fucking work of art, and the ump hesitated before raising his fist to indicate a strike.

Even behind the mask, Connor could see Jackson smile, like the cat who’d just stolen the cream.

The rest of the at-bat went like clockwork. The guy hit a few defensive fouls, trying to stave off the inevitable strikeout, but on the sixth pitch, Connor got him looking.

Next guy hit a nice little dribbler to first, which Calvin, the first baseman, picked up no problem.

Connor could tell when the third guy came up to bat that Jackson worried more about him than anyone else. From the way he shifted in his stance, like he was tensing and then trying to forcibly relax, to the insistent tone of his signals.

He threw a curve, then a fastball, and then slightly miscalculated and the player hit it hard, sending it to the outfield, the ball dropping into the grass in the sweet spot between the left fielder and TJ’s spot in center.

Jackson tilted his head, resting his forearm against his thigh, shrugging a little, like, well, yeah, you definitely let that one sit a little too high—and you know it.

Okay, he knew it.

The next guy came up. Jackson called for the pitch—that same high outside, nibbling around the zone, but Connor was tired of this. He wanted to finish these assholes off. He had two outs, he just needed one more, and if the ump called any of these pitches balls, he might walk the guy—or worse, be forced to throw something that he could hit.

He shook off Jackson’s call.

Jackson’s eyes narrowed and when he signaled it again, his movements were emphatic, and this time when he tilted his head, it wasn’t vaguely amused, but definitely annoyed.

And Jackson’s annoyance became even more pronounced when Connor shook him a second time.

Wasn’t really all that surprised when Jackson shot to his feet, calling for a time-out, and jogged out towards the mound.

---