Page 8 of Hot Streak

“Yeah.” Jackson scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d looked some of Connor’s stats up, looked up some footage of him, when he’d finally calmed enough to sit down. “But where am I fucking going?”

“You’re gonna keep coming here and keep getting paid.” Mikey leaned forward. “And you’re gonna get a chance at the history books. You think I don’t talk to Sheila?”

“I think Sheila talks to you,” Jackson said.

Mikey cracked a smile. “There you go.” There was a clear dismissal in his face, like he already knew what Jackson had decided.

That he couldn’t decide any differently.

Ugh.

Fuck this fucking game.

Jackson pushed himself out of the chair, heading towards the clubhouse. Because Mikey was right; he already knew what he was going to do. He couldn’t do anything else.

He wanted to believe that the record didn’t matter.

That all he cared about was stepping onto that field late this afternoon.

Smelling the popcorn, the peanuts, the sharp tang of the grass. Bright blue sky overhead. The pop of the lights when they came on.

The cheer that went up from the stands.

The way it all narrowed in when he crouched down, to just him and the guy opposite him, standing on the mound.

That was a lie though. He wanted the record, deep down in a place he tried to pretend didn’t exist most of the time.

Not last night, though. He’d nearly decided to come in and tell Mikey he could fuck himself, that he’d quit and take his ass off to Asheville. Figure out the next chapter of his life.

But could he really turn the page if this one wasn’t done?

If he didn’t get that record—and he knew if he put the time and the games in, he could—what did any of it mean? What had it all been for, if he had nothing to show for all these years of bad food and worse hotel rooms and bracing for the worst every time he walked into a clubhouse?

He wanted something to show for it.

Something solid. Something concrete.

Tomorrow someone could take it away, but even for a day, it was his.

“Heard you.”

Jackson glanced up as he pushed the clubhouse door open, and standing next to it was a short, squat balding man with sharp eyes.

“Andy Sadler,” he said, identifying the man before he bothered to introduce himself. “Good to see you.”

“And you’re Jackson Evans.”

Jackson nodded.

“You’re none too pleased with Clark.”

“And you are?” Jackson asked.

Andy laughed then, short and deep. “Kid’s got nothing going on but that arm. But what a fucking arm.”

I’m going to regret this. I’m going to regret this so hard. “You take care of the arm. I’ll take care of the rest.”

It was going to be hard. Scratch that. It was probably going to be fucking impossible, but when had Jackson ever given up because something was hard?

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