Page 43 of Hot Streak

And while Connor gave him a look every few pitches, he hit every single pitch Jackson called.

"You should’ve come in and caught Kevin.”

Connor waited until they were back in the room—it had been a long day, and a long night, with the Rogues ultimately losing six to four to the home team. All because Kevin had given up a three run shot in the eighth.

Jackson glanced over at him. He looked about seventeen, sitting on the bed, mussed hair glinting in the dim light of the room, in a pair of loose gray sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt—with his high school name emblazoned across the front.

He felt old tonight. Especially old, when confronted with all this glorious youth.

Losing was never fun, but losing that way, when they’d had it in the bag the whole fucking game, that was the worst. Every time one of those losses happened, Jackson had to remind himself why he was doing this.

Why he still got up every morning and headed to the ballpark.

“That wasn’t my call,” Jackson said.

“You told me just today that you weren’t catching Kevin because you wanted to make sure I knew that you were my catcher.”

Jackson forced himself to not dwell on the possessive slant Connor gave his words.

He didn’t mean them that way.

“You were pretty pissed about that, just the other day,” Jackson reminded him.

“I saw what you did for Kevin. You settled him down. Charlie doesn’t have that ability. Sure didn’t today.”

He’d seen it. And did Connor think he enjoyed having to sit in the dugout and helplessly watch as the guy gave up three runs?

It had just about killed him, too.

Charlie had been catching the starting pitcher today, and Mikey had liked the matchup of Deke with the opponent’s starting pitcher, so all Jackson had done all game was twiddle his thumbs until the last inning when he’d been subbed in to make some magic happen.

The magic had not happened.

He’d lined out to third, and the Rogues had lost.

“He just needs some more work,” Jackson said, relaxing against the pillows.

Connor’s look was full of heat. “He needs you.”

“I don’t get to say when he does and doesn’t. That’s not my call.”

“You could tell skipper. He listens to you. Andy practically worships you.”

“Just ’cause I got him to put that radar gun away—”

“That’s not why. Well, not only why,” Connor interrupted. “I watch them with you. They listen to you.”

“Not enough,” Jackson grumbled. And hadn’t he felt that way for awhile now? That he was helpless and ultimately powerless? He could catch the shit out of a game, but if the manager didn’t put him in, not when it mattered, nothing changed.

“So you do feel it.”

Jackson turned to him. “Of course I fucking do.”

“You’re just so . . .I don’t know . . .stoic.”

Jackson laughed. “I am not.”

“You are though.” To Jackson’s surprise, Connor stood and then flopped down at the bottom of Jackson’s bed.

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