Page 63 of Hot Streak

“Momma,” Jackson warned.

“I’m serious, Jackson. When Connor freaking Clark makes it to the majors, he’s gonna remember the stuff you told him.”

He’s gonna remember something, and it probably isn’t baseball.

But he couldn’t tell his mother that—even though she did know about his sexuality. Had known, even before she’d caught him making out with Billy King in his room when they were supposed to be studying.

Back then she’d said, why didn’t you just tell me?

He’d wanted to. But it hadn’t been easy for him. He’d been fatherless, in a household of women, his only male role model his coach. He’d known then, even at the age of fifteen, that all he wanted was to play baseball for a living. He’d been struggling with how he could do that and be what he was. But denying it was hard, too.

Especially when Billy King had those hooded eyes, promising all sorts of things, and a pair of biceps . . .

Well.

“Jackson,” his mother said, “are you even listening to me?”

“Yes,” he said, even though that wasn’t completely accurate. At least it was just a little white lie.

“Becca and I thought we’d bring the girls up, in a few weeks. How about that?”

“Can Becca get away from work?” His younger sister worked at the local diner, as a waitress, and despite all the arguments she’d made to the owner, had no vacation days.

“You know she started working for the insurance agent, now, Jackson,” his mom reminded him. “Last summer.”

Shit. He had totally forgotten.

“Oh yeah,” Jackson said. “How’s that going for her?”

“So good. He promoted her to office manager. I’m sure she wanted to tell you herself, but she’s been so busy, and well—you know I can’t keep a secret to save my life.”

Jackson chuckled. He did know.

“In any case, she’s got some vacation now. And so I thought we’d take a long weekend. Make a big to do of it. It’s been forever since you’ve seen the girls.”

Becca’s two little girls—Annie and Constance—were wonderful, and he loved spending time with them, he just hadn’t had many opportunities. The offseason was so short, and he always tried to find an invite to one of those training facilities with other players, to try to get the edge up.

It felt like he’d barely been home since they’d been born.

He kept telling himself he’d be a more present uncle—one who didn’t just send postcards from every city he was in—to one who took them to the park and spoiled them rotten with ice cream sundaes when he was out of baseball. But every year they grew older, and he kept hanging on, by his fingernails, to everything that he’d worked for.

Jackson swallowed another lump—this one comprised entirely of guilt. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Too long.”

“Well, it’s settled then. The Rogues will be in town for a home stand, and if you can get us some tickets . . .”

“Shouldn’t be an issue.” He’d sweet-talk Sheila into giving him extra tickets. And not just the regular seat kind of tickets, but the good kind of tickets. To the suite, maybe, with the free food buffet and the ice cream machine. The girls—all his girls—would love that.

“Now you just hang in there,” she said in that no-nonsense way of hers.

“Sure thing, Momma. Tell Becca and the girls hi and give ’em a big hug from Uncle Jackson.”

“Will do.”

After she’d hung up, Jackson sat for a long time, staring over at the other bed. The bed Connor hadn’t made this morning.

Not that his behavior was unusual. It wasn’t. The guy’s suitcase was a demilitarized zone, spilling out onto the worn carpet, clothes tossed every which way. He didn’t even carry a laundry bag with him, just tossed everything dirty in the vicinity of the corner.

He was annoying. Pretentious and egotistical and everything Jackson didn’t want to like.

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