Page 73 of Hot Streak

“You ready?” Jackson strolled over after Connor walked out onto the field.

He was in shorts and T-shirt, his mask and helmet on, but he’d left off the chest plate. It was already hot, barely any breeze in the rural Louisiana stadium.

Don’t be a pain in the ass, don’t be a pain in the ass.

“Yep,” Connor said.

Jackson gave him the side-eye as they walked over to where he’d set up.

“Not hungover?” Jackson asked casually.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Connor said. Don’t be a pain in the ass, don’t be a pain in the ass.

It wasn’t that he doubted Tristan’s advice, he just wasn’t sure how to suddenly be different.

“Alright, well, we’re gonna see about that,” Jackson said. “You warmed up and ready to go?”

“Yep,” Connor said instead of I already told you I was, you idiot.

“Okay.” Jackson shot him another suspicious look but he jogged back to the replica of the home plate.

And for the next hour, Connor threw every pitch Jackson called for. Hit—well, mostly—every corner he called for. Worked harder than he had in a long fucking time to do exactly what the catcher wanted him to do.

Finally, when it was over, Connor went over to the ledge, wiped the sweat from his face, and took a long drink of water.

Was surprised—but not all that surprised, actually—when Jackson walked up to him, a baffled expression on his face. “What the fuck was that about?” he demanded to know.

“I was throwing a simulated game and you know what? I think it went pretty damn well,” Connor said.

“It did.” Jackson frowned. “Really well. You keep that up, you’re gonna end up in the show sooner rather than later.”

“Sounds good,” Connor said. Don’t be a pain in the ass. Especially don’t be an egotistical pain in the ass.

“What is wrong with you?” Jackson demanded to know. “I know this is some kind of angle, and I want to know what it is.”

“What’s wrong with me? I’m not standing here demanding to know what the problem is after a great pitching session.”

“I just—”

“You’re the one being a pain in the ass,” Connor said, realizing it was true the moment he said it.

“No way. No way.” Jackson shook his head emphatically.

“Didn’t you want me to listen to you? That’s all I did. For a whole freaking game. And even that wasn’t good enough for you.” Connor didn’t want to sound so goddamn bitter, because then Jackson might realize how frustrated—how disappointed—he was. But he was. It was impossible to deny.

“You did it on purpose?”

“No, it was an accident,” Connor retorted sarcastically.

He didn’t know what he’d expected, exactly, but not this. Not Jackson’s baffled confusion. He’d expected . . .well, gratitude, he supposed. He’d expected Jackson to be thankful he’d shaped up. Not to question it.

“Why do you have to be this way?” Jackson complained.

“For once, it’s not actually my fault,” Connor retorted.

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Why, ’cause I didn’t fall to my knees and thank God that you actually listened to me for once?”

“If you wanted to,” Connor hissed under his breath, “I certainly wouldn’t argue.”

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