Page 55 of Hot Streak

Even though it was currently tied at zero, Jackson really thought they had a chance at this one. Connor had pitched great, so well he’d kept the other team off the board, but the Rogues couldn’t seem to put together a string of hits, at least not enough to make a run.

And then, in the bottom of the ninth, Kevin let a ball hang a little too high in the zone, and instead of the guy striking out, he hit it out of the park.

“Shit,” Jackson said with a sharp exhale.

Kevin’s head was already slumped down as the guy jogged around the bases.

He’d been so much better, and Jackson knew what a point of honor it had been for Mikey to put him in during this game, when it was tied, when they were angling for a win.

It had spoken of a lot of faith at how much he’d been coming along, and how much better he did pitch when Jackson was catching—Connor was not wrong about that, as much as it pained Jackson to admit it—but there was nothing to do now but to watch as the opposing team celebrated and the Rogues slunk into the clubhouse to lick their wounds.

In Jackson’s case, the wounds weren’t just metaphorical, but physical, too.

“Sorry, man,” Kevin said as Jackson carefully pulled his shirt over his head, groaning a little as the bruise on his side screamed.

“It’s alright. I knew it was a risky pitch. Could’ve finished him off or . . .”

Kevin sighed. “Gone the other way. I know. I thought I had it. I really did.”

“You did. You were fucking solid through a few innings. Three innings is a lot for a reliever.”

“But not that many for a starter,” Kevin said morosely.

That was true, too. Jackson didn’t know how to tell him he’d probably kissed that chance goodbye—at least for now. But he probably didn’t have to, he realized, because the look on Kevin’s face said it all.

God, this day had fucking sucked, all around.

And now Mikey was striding into the clubhouse, fury and frustration etched on his face.

“Y’all got the get up and go of a bunch of pokey horses bound for the glue factory,” he exclaimed, his voice carrying, full of heat. “Our startin’ pitcher gives us a game like that and you fucking waste it. You’re not playing with any urgency. Lollygagging around, barely jogging it out to first. Not approaching at-bats with confidence. Sure, Kevin gave up that home run at the end—” Skip’s eyes grew hard. “But he never should’ve been in that spot. We should’ve been up half a dozen runs by then. We had the base runners. Y’all just fucking blew it.”

They had. Jackson knew it.

“In fact,” Mikey continued, “the only one of you with any drive this game was Connor.”

Jackson froze.

“He made sure that they know the Rogues mean business. And he didn’t have to hit someone to do it.”

Jackson hated the slow smile that was dawning on Connor’s face. The realization that he wasn’t going to get yelled at after all for his dumbass move, but praised.

That was the cherry topper to this whole shit sundae, that was for fucking sure.

Connor’s smugness was going to be unbearable now.

Someone nudged his elbow, and Jackson looked over. It was one of the trainers. “Take a shower,” he said, “and we’ll take a look at your side.”

“It’s just a nasty bruise,” Jackson said shortly. Frankly, it hurt less than everything else, right now.

“Sure, but we gotta check it out. Make sure you didn’t bruise a rib or anything.”

“Just give me some of those painkillers,” Jackson said. Even though he wasn’t going to use them. He hated the way they made him feel numb. Numb and dependent.

“Exam first,” the guy insisted, and Jackson sighed.

He took his shower, spending more time in the hot water than he should, but what else was awaiting him? A likely-to-be-painful exam, and a smug Connor Clark.

But the trainer had an unexpectedly soft touch, and as Jackson had assumed before, it was just a bruise.

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