Page 77 of Hot Streak

“If you’re sure,” Deke said.

It would be the right decision to ask Deke right now if he’d meant what he’d offered the other night. If he was still willing to swap roommates.

Mikey and Andy wouldn’t be happy—they’d wanted him specifically to room with Connor, but they’d be willing to listen if Jackson told him he couldn’t anymore. He’d earned that right as a long-time veteran.

But he already knew Connor’s reaction would be terrible.

As bad as it was earlier today. Maybe worse.

Jackson didn’t know if he could face that. But also didn’t know if he could walk into that hotel room tonight and not torment himself endlessly over how Connor looked and smelled and tasted.

He didn’t think he’d lose control again—but then he hadn’t thought he’d lose control before, either.

“I’m sure,” Jackson said.

But he wasn’t sure at all.

He wasn’t sure until he walked into the hotel room fifteen minutes later and found Connor on his bed, wearing a T-shirt and gray sweatpants, the TV on and turned to a football game.

“What’s this?” Jackson asked, trying not to sound overly worried.

Connor glanced up. “Preseason game. Piranhas versus the Rams.”

“Didn’t know you liked football,” Jackson said. See? He could be friendly and casual and not want to pin Connor to his bed and kiss him until neither of them could think straight anymore.

“You don’t know much about me,” Connor retorted, but his tone was just as light as Jackson’s. Like this afternoon in the showers hadn’t happened at all.

Like Jackson hadn’t seen the happiness and hope and light die out of Connor’s eyes when he’d told him it wasn’t happening again.

“True,” Jackson was forced to admit.

He should bring up the kiss again. Reiterate it wasn’t going to happen again. That it couldn’t happen again. But maybe he wouldn’t have to. Surely the fact that Connor was essentially fully clothed and on his own bed and watching TV like he didn’t have a care in the world meant he didn’t need to.

Thank God.

“You know Tristan Nicholson?” Connor asked, waving at the screen as a tall, slender man launched himself into the air and caught a football pass like it was nothing.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

In some ways, it was nice to look over at professional football and see all the progress they’d made towards acceptance. Tristan Nicholson was one of those leading that charge. And in other ways, it almost made it worse—because baseball hadn’t caught up to football yet, and Jackson still felt way too fucking alone.

“He’s a friend,” Connor said. “Met him a few years back, at a party in LA, and we hit it off.”

“You hit it off,” Jackson repeated dully. He set his bag on the floor and tried forcing himself to look at the TV. At the handsome face underneath the helmet. And then Tristan pulled his helmet off, returning to the sideline, and the vague pulse of jealousy he felt spiked into something a lot more unpleasant.

“Yeah,” Connor said.

Jackson didn’t think Connor had ever smiled like that about him. Because you never let him, that uncooperative voice in the back of his head added.

“I thought—” Jackson started to say, but I thought I was the first. The only guy you’d ever been attracted to. Or was that just a lie to seduce me, too?

God, maybe he’d been worked over by an expert. If he had been, maybe he could feel less bad about losing his self-control today. But then he thought of all Connor’s clumsy seduction attempts. The ridiculous lines. The over-the-top looks. The way he’d waggled his eyebrows every time he’d taken his shirt off.

“Oh. Oh.” Connor laughed a little bitterly. “No, no, not like that. We never hooked up. When I met him, he was already dating his boyfriend. And while they might’ve been . . .into sharing, I wasn’t. Not then. Not with them, anyway. We’re just friends.”

“Ah. Okay.” Jackson felt a little pulse of humiliation that Connor had identified his jealousy that easily. Was he that obvious? Ugh.

He settled down on his own bed, leaning against the headboard, and even though football was not really his thing, he was happy enough to watch the game in silence.

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