Page 64 of Hot Streak

But then every so often, he did something that made him nearly irresistible.

Like as angry as it had made him, defending Jackson after that pitcher had nailed him.

Paying for the other guys’ tabs without ever letting them know he was taking care of them.

Grabbing ice. Offering to put on the numbing ointment.

Even the other day, picking him up a Coke when Jackson hadn’t even asked for one. Just knew you’d want one, he’d said when Jackson had raised a questioning eyebrow.

It was so much easier to resist him when Connor was being his normal smug self.

So much harder when he let that persona fall and Jackson saw the real guy behind the facade.

Hopefully, this road trip would end before Jackson was front and center to any more Connor-behaving-well stunts. His self-control couldn’t take it.

Chapter 11

Another day. Another loss.

Jackson didn’t know if it had been better or worse that Mikey had finally pulled him off the bench and given him a designated hitter slot for the night. Trying to get this team out of its slump, he’d said when he’d posted the lineup.

Deke and Jackson had exchanged glances, and it was clear from Deke’s wry smile that he hadn’t blamed Jackson for taking his slot. After all, it wasn’t like Deke had been getting it done at the plate—but then nobody else had, either, which was why they were currently in this mess.

“Hey,” Deke said, coming over to him, “let’s grab a beer.”

This time he didn’t ask, he just stated it, and this time Jackson didn’t argue.

He didn’t want to go back to the room and deal with Connor. He’d either yell at him or do something else . . .something he really wasn’t supposed to do.

Besides, he’d wanted to hang out with Deke for awhile, and the two of them hadn’t had a lot of time to talk since he’d been traded to the Rogues.

“Sure,” Jackson said. “Let me grab my stuff.”

As he finished getting ready, pulling on a clean T-shirt and running a hand through his still-damp hair, he could feel Connor’s eyes on him.

Maybe if Connor hadn’t been so goddamned frustrating during the last few days, he’d have stopped by his locker and told him he was going out with Deke, but he didn’t.

There’s no point, he told himself, as he and Deke exited the ballpark and headed down the street towards a bar Deke said he’d found.

It had a nice open-air seating area, with lights crisscrossing the courtyard, and wooden benches and tables. They ordered a bucket of beers and settled down at one of the empty tables.

“So,” Deke said, his muscled tan forearms resting against the tabletop, “how’s it going? You settlin’ in okay?”

“Yeah, fine enough,” Jackson said.

It was weird. Looking at Deke was like looking at himself, a few years back—when he’d still had hope that maybe he might make it out of minor league purgatory. And if he could focus on consistency, Jackson felt like Deke might have a real chance of doing it. His swing was a thing of beauty—but sometimes he went on dry streaks, like right now—and no major club wanted to take on that kind of liability.

But he still had time. A few more years, maybe, to straighten out and get to the show.

“Rooming with Connor must be an experience. I know Ro did before, but he balked at some point, and til now, he wasn’t sharing with anyone.”

“Yeah, he’s sort of a slob,” Jackson admitted. Didn’t really want to admit more. It wasn’t his right to out Connor, if his sexuality was as much on the down-low as it seemed to be.

“Sort of?” Deke laughed. “And everything else? Nobody givin’ you a hard time, right?”

“Nope.”

Deke nodded approvingly. “Didn’t think they would, but never hurts to ask.”

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