Page 61 of Hot Streak

And this, undoubtedly, was a very bad impulse.

His phone rang in the main part of the room. Jackson, leaning against the bathroom door, heard it and sighed. There weren’t many people who called him anymore. His agent had started sending texts. No doubt because delivering bad news via message was easier than doing it when he could hear Jackson’s reaction.

It was probably his mom or his sister calling. And now he was going to miss it, because even though he was fully fucking clothed, he was afraid to walk out into the room while Connor was there.

It was cowardly—no question about it. Cowardly because he didn’t want to have to look at Connor’s pouty lower lip, or cowardly because he was actually afraid he’d be tempted?

That was the question.

He heard steps walking up to the bathroom. Braced himself.

“It’s fine, you can fucking relax.” Connor’s voice was teasing, the promise of it licking right up his spine, and Jackson had to force his body not to shiver in response. “I’m going to grab some breakfast. You can stop hiding in there.”

“I’m not hiding,” Jackson exclaimed through the door.

But they both knew he was.

“You can come out and talk to your mom or whatever.” Jackson could practically hear Connor’s eye roll through the door. “I promise you won’t have to worry about finding me delectable or tempting if you come out.”

“I’m not . . .I don’t—”

But the main door slammed shut behind Connor before Jackson could get the rest of the protest out.

“I don’t,” Jackson repeated for his own edification as he pushed the door open.

He found his phone, and yep, it had been his mom.

He hit redial and sat on the edge of his bed, phone on his knee.

“Hey, Momma,” he said when she answered the phone with a bright, cheery hello.

“How’re you doing, honey?” she asked. “How’s that monster bruise?”

“Still a bruise.” With ice, and the ointment he’d had to learn to put on himself, it was better, but it was still a rainbow full of nasty colors.

“No better then?” She sounded regretful. More than anyone else, Charlene Evans knew how much he loved baseball. Loved playing it. Loved living it. Loved just walking onto the field and smelling the freshly cut grass. It was why she’d never pushed him to give up on what was rapidly becoming an impossible dream and come home for good.

“I’m playing.” But not as much as he’d hoped. Mikey had had him on the bench since the incident, ostensibly because of the injury—though Jackson had had much worse and caught through those—but Jackson worried it was more than that.

Sure, Connor was pitching well, but what else was he doing? Nothing. A whole lot of fucking nothing.

“You sound unhappy about that,” Charlene said carefully.

Andy, no doubt sensing his boredom, had been having Jackson sit in on almost every bullpen session this week. It had helped, more than Jackson had imagined, offering feedback to the pitching staff—and unlike Connor, most of them had actually listened.

Of course, unlike Connor, most of them were fighting to make it, and didn’t have a cannon for an arm that they’d be riding all the way to the majors.

“I . . .I’ve actually been doing a bit of coaching. Sort of. Not officially.”

“Oh, you’d be good at that, honey,” his mom said. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Andy Sadler, he’s like a freaking legendary pitching coach, he seems to think I’ve got something I can teach these guys.”

“So not just Connor then.” Charlene paused. “And how has Connor been taking that?” she asked archly.

“What do you mean?” He didn’t want to talk about Connor with his mom. Especially now. Especially since Connor had looked at him with those big, guileless blue eyes and said, I’m attracted to you.

The very last thing Jackson had ever imagined driving Connor’s flirtation was actual serious intent. And yet, despite all the corny flirting and posturing that had happened after that confession—did this bullshit behavior actually work for him?—he obviously meant it.

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