Page 54 of Hot Streak

But then, on the first pitch of the third batter, Connor elevated his fastball more than Jackson had called for. It hadn’t gotten all that close to the batter’s helmet, but it had been near enough.

Jackson threw the ball back to Connor and gave him a glare—what he hoped was an effective reminder against what he’d already warned him about doing.

Next pitch, it went even higher.

The batter was shifting uncomfortably now in front of Jackson, like he knew he might have to take a dive to avoid the very thing that had just happened to Jackson.

“Swear to God,” Jackson tried, joking, shooting another probably pointless glare in Connor’s direction, “I don’t really know where it’s going.”

But that was a lie.

Even as he called for a fastball, low and inside, he knew exactly where it was going.

Connor didn’t even bother shaking off his sign. He just fucking ignored it completely, and let the ball fly off his fingers, right towards the hitter’s shoulder.

He swerved, like any smart man who’d been warned twice, but Connor’s speed was deadly, and it hit in the same spot, so close that the batter ducking had almost not been enough.

“Shit,” Jackson muttered and stood, pulling his face mask up. “It’s all good,” he soothed, right into the angry batter’s face as he sprang up.

“He’s a fucking lunatic,” the guy spit at him. “You gonna take care of him?”

“Jackson, you said you’d take care of him,” the ump warned again.

“Yep, I’m gonna,” Jackson retorted under his breath—and jogged back to the mound.

Connor was scuffing the dirt underneath his cleat. Looking angry, not contrite.

“I can strike him out still,” Connor said, like that was Jackson’s concern, not some stupid old-fashioned notion of retribution that as far as Jackson believed, should have died out ages ago.

“I don’t give a fuck if you get him swinging,” Jackson spat out. “Don’t fucking try that shit ever again, okay?”

Connor frowned. “But—”

“No. No. Retaliation is dumb as hell. Did that guy hit me?” He gestured towards the batter taking a few test swings while he waited for Jackson to straighten Connor out.

“No,” Connor said sullenly.

“Exactly. He didn’t fucking hit me. And the guy who did? Probably didn’t mean to start something. We’re gonna be the bigger people here, alright? Pitch what I tell you to pitch.”

“Fine.” Connor didn’t look pleased, but he did look like he’d finally given in.

Jackson returned to home plate.

“You sure it’s all good this time?” the ump asked.

Jackson nodded.

He gave Connor a steady look—a promise that if he didn’t do exactly what Jackson told him to do, they’d be discussing this later—and called the next pitch.

Sure enough, Connor actually got him swinging three pitches later. Which . . .yep, it was annoying how good Connor was, at least when he applied himself.

The next batter approached with trepidation, which Jackson could hardly blame him for. But not shockingly, Connor’s control miraculously improved with this next at-bat, and he retired the next two batters without breaking a sweat.

“That,” Jackson ground out as Connor met him on the way into the dugout, “was fucking bullshit.”

“You should’ve let me—” Connor started to argue, but before he could get into it, Mikey held up his hand to shut him up.

“Save it for after the game,” Mikey said ominously. “We still got a W to put together.”

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