Page 2 of Hot Streak

Jackson thought there wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening, but also . . .he was so close to Asheville. Closer than he’d been in years. Maybe it would be worth putting up with this wild kid, if it meant living in North Carolina again.

And wouldn’t you like to end your career the way you started it?

Every year, Jackson wondered if this one would be his last. The last time someone looked at him, thirty-three and nearly washed up but still fucking trying, and thought he had something left to give.

“Fine,” Jackson said.

“Batting practice tomorrow. Be here at eleven,” Mikey said. “Did Sheila get you squared away with a place to stay?” He referred to the team’s traveling secretary, who had emailed him the info about a small efficiency right by the ballpark. He could walk there, she’d said, and even walk down to the Strike Zone, which was the players’ favorite hangout.

“Yeah,” Jackson said, nodding.

“Well, you get settled in. Maybe we’ll see you at the Strike Zone tonight.”

Jackson wouldn’t be surprised if the whole team ended up there tonight. He knew how these things went. Team only had one real day off a week, Monday, but did that mean they got away? Or spent time with their families? No, because most of them didn’t have one. They had the team, and that was it. Nobody else to see, nothing else to do, but hang out and share some beers and shoot the shit.

Jackson had been around the minors too long to believe anything different.

“Sure,” Jackson said.

He spent another ten minutes after Michael left, just walking the field. Taking in the smell of freshly mowed grass and feeling the beat of the sun on his head. Charting the angles and the paths a ball could take.

It was a damn pretty ballpark.

On his way out, Jackson stopped by the little office marked “traveling,” and found a woman with curly bright auburn hair piled on the top of her head and a permanently exasperated expression etched on her face.

He’d never met her before, never seen a picture of her, even, but he didn’t need a diagram to tell him who she was. There’d been too many traveling secretaries like this, over the last fifteen years.

“Must be Jackson,” the woman said, glancing up at him.

“Yep, that’s me,” Jackson said, giving her his widest smile. He’d learned—the hard way—who to befriend, who to always show his best side to, if he wanted to make sure his way was nicely paved.

Sheila grinned back. “Sure, it is. Jackson Evans. Here in Raleigh. You’re gonna be good for Connor.”

It was hard for Jackson to wrap his head around being good for anyone. He always put the team first, because that had been drilled into his head for too many years to ever forget it, but he wasn’t the fucking pitcher whisperer.

He didn’t even know if he could be.

If he wanted to be.

“Sure,” Jackson said, instead, because he didn’t want Sheila to think he was ungrateful.

This was a good spot—Connor notwithstanding—and he didn’t want to fuck it up before it even began.

“You know,” Sheila said, leaning over the desk, “I looked you up.”

“Thought that was your job,” Jackson teased lightly.

“You’re only two dozen home runs away from the International League home run record,” she said. “Two hundred forty-seven. You have a solid few months here, you got it.”

“Two hundred forty-seven home runs in the minors. Pretty fucking dubious honor,” Jackson retorted, before he could stop himself.

“Still an honor,” Sheila said gently, and then she changed the subject. Pulling out his apartment keys, shifting into easy professional talk about utility bills and deposits.

He’d hoped that nobody knew about the record.

Back in Ohio, a few players had made noise about it, and the skipper had kept him in the lineup, trying to help him get there, even though he’d certainly never fucking asked for that. He’d only ever wanted what he deserved.

Sure, he could hit the long ball well. Could read pitchers pretty good. And Mikey Wilson was right too; he was a goddamn excellent catcher.

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