Page 53 of Hot Streak

Instead he’d have to wait and see if anyone else in the lineup could cash in on having two men on base with only one out.

That stung, but not nearly as much as his side as he dropped his bat and jogged down the first base line.

Two outs later, it was over, without a single run scored for Jackson’s pain.

“You alright?” Connor asked back in the dugout as Jackson winced, strapping on his catcher’s gear.

“I’m fine,” Jackson repeated. Maybe if he said it enough, it would be true for long enough to get him through this game and get some ice on this bruise, sure to be spectacular with half a dozen technicolors by the time they hit nine innings.

“Are you really sure about that? He nailed you,” Connor said. He didn’t look particularly happy about it.

Well, that made two of them. Jackson waved his hand. “Told you. I’m fine.”

Connor did not look convinced, but at least he jogged out, to get warmed up for what would probably be his final inning of the day.

Mikey caught him right as he headed out of the dugout.

“Hey, you get through this inning, I’ll sub Charlie in,” Mikey said.

“No need, I’m fine.” Jackson had said it enough times by this point that surely it had to be true?

Mikey still looked dubious. But not as dubious as Connor, at least.

Geez, he was thirty-three. He was tougher than he looked, and way harder to kill. He could take a little—or a lot—of pain.

Course that didn’t stop him from wincing a little as he settled down into his catcher’s stance, the straps that held on his breastplate pulling right against where that dickhead had nailed him.

Connor’s first warmup pitch was weirdly hesitant, without that usual zip of speed.

Jackson chalked it up to him having gotten a little cold during the longer inning. Called for another.

This one was just as sluggish.

He stood, mentally cursing these stupid pitchers and also how much his side was paining him as he jogged over to the mound. Didn’t Connor trust him enough to catch what he threw? He’d never let a ball by him yet. He could catch Connor in his fucking sleep—as long as Connor was behaving himself, anyway.

“What the fuck?” Jackson asked conversationally.

Connor shot him another one of those concerned looks.

“Don’t you dare take it easy on me ’cause of that little love tap,” Jackson continued. “I ever let you down?”

“No.” Connor’s chin jutted out stubbornly. “It’s just . . .you should be in the dugout. Icing that. Not out here, catching me.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “For the millionth fucking time, I’m fine. I’m a professional, aren’t I?”

Connor’s gaze hardened. “You shouldn’t have to be.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” A worse fear than Connor pitching easy coalesced deep inside him. It was annoyingly worrisome, but at least it distracted him from the pain in his side.

“I just mean, he lost control. Nailed you. It’s not acceptable. Not now. Not ever.”

Jackson, who’d been trying so goddamn hard to keep his distance, stepped right into Connor’s personal space. Watched as those glorious blue eyes widened. Dilated.

“Don’t you fucking dare do anything about it,” was all he said before he turned and walked back to home plate.

The first two batters, Jackson was pretty sure his warning had come across loud and clear. Connor threw with his normal speed, and he hadn’t shaken off any of Jackson’s signals.

All clear, Jackson thought, relaxing just a fraction. It’s gonna be alright. We’re gonna get through this without Connor Clark trying to be a fucking hero.

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