Page 40 of Hot Streak

“Maybe? I don’t know. That shit you pulled during the game did piss me off.”

Jackson chuckled under his breath. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“But there’s other stuff too. We’re . . .” Jackson watched as Connor swallowed hard. “We’re rooming together. That’s a hard adjustment.”

Oh, Connor didn’t even know the half of it.

He wasn’t going to have to adjust to falling asleep and waking up next to all that gorgeousness every single fucking day.

Not for the first time—more like the millionth—Jackson wished that he wasn’t who he was. That he’d been born different, somehow.

But your queerness is part of what makes you you.

It was. But it was also goddamned inconvenient.

Or maybe that was just Connor Clark.

“Sure, but we’re both adults, we’ll manage.”

“I thought I was a kid,” Connor teased, and there was a glimmer of that smile Jackson was still pretending wasn’t haunting his thoughts.

“You can definitely be both,” Jackson said wryly.

Wishing, more than a little, that he could actually pin that kid label on Connor and make it stick.

But when Connor glanced over at him, that knowing look in those stunning eyes, it was hard to remember that he was both twenty-two, way too young for Jackson and straight to boot.

“Alright. Let’s throw some.” Connor stood and, throwing his arms above his head, stretched. His T-shirt rose and Jackson had a front row seat to a swath of slim, tan torso. Not as cut as his own, but undeniably muscled. The slight dusting of hair under his belly button was as blond as the hair on his head.

Jackson swallowed and turned away.

He supposed, as he stood and followed Connor down towards the bullpen, that he should be counting his lucky stars that this was only happening now. After Davy, he’d never been attracted to a teammate. Why it had to happen with this one was beyond him, because he still wasn’t sure he even liked Connor Clark. But there was something undeniable about the guy. Hadn’t he dragged a reluctant and frankly unwilling Jackson right into this hell?

He shook off his frustration, as he picked up his mitt and did a few stretches.

He’d gone to the hotel gym this morning, getting a workout in, and he still felt loose-ish, but he knew his thirty-three-year-old catcher’s knees wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t limber up.

“Don’t worry about your pads,” Connor said, glancing over as he did his own stretches, warming up his arm and the rest of his body.

“Feeling good this morning?” He hadn’t intended to put his pads on. Connor was too good to lose control.

“Better, anyway,” Connor admitted.

“Good.” He’d hoped by clearing the air between them—and not just reminding Connor of why he’d done it, but admitting his own misstep—they could move beyond it. Finally find a decent rhythm together.

Jackson watched as Andy settled down, near to where they’d been sitting, and pulled out his radar gun, clearly hoping to clock the speed on Connor’s pitches.

Noticed that as soon as he did, Connor’s shoulders tensed.

“Hey, you still good?” Jackson asked, a few minutes later, as Connor was getting set up on the bullpen mound.

Connor shot him a strange look. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just tensed back there. When Andy pulled out the radar gun. You don’t want that today?”

Connor scuffed the dirt under his cleats. “No, it’s not that I care about that.”

But it was obvious, now that Jackson was looking for it, that he did. “Feel free to lie to yourself,” he said, lowering his voice, “but don’t lie to me, okay? Why does Andy pulling out the radar gun bother you?”

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