Page 79 of Hot Streak

Connor would never tell Charlie this, but Jackson was better at it than him. Better, too, at making small talk with the ump and disarming him with a clever quip or an unexpected compliment. As a result, Jackson got away with stuff Charlie never did.

Maybe Jackson would never make it in the majors, but he was an exceptional catcher. Funny how that worked—all the little things Jackson did to make him that way, nobody seemed to put as much store in as they should.

Pulling back his arm, Connor focused on the strike zone and then on the exact spot he wanted, before letting the ball fly.

The umpire called it a strike, and the batter made a disgusted face, spitting into the dirt next to home plate.

Jackson signaled for the next pitch. More heat. Low in the zone.

Connor could always tell when a batter pissed Jackson off—he’d always call for the most aggressive round of pitches. And if Jackson really didn’t like them, he’d do everything in his power to make the guy strike out without even swinging.

Low was always hard. Because it was so easy for the pitch to go too low, but Connor wasn’t just any pitcher. He wound up and threw, his speed hitting the top of his zone, because at this point in the game he was nice and warm and hadn’t hit any muscle exhaustion yet.

The batter swung. Missed.

Connor could see Jackson mouth something to the batter, and him mutter something back.

Trash talk, no doubt.

Jackson looked straight at Connor and called for the finishing blow. His best pitch, a high inside fastball that nobody could hit.

But it was even more challenging than the low fastball, with even less room for error.

Connor pulled back and gave the pitch everything he had.

But he could tell, no matter how well Jackson framed it with his glove, selling the strike, it had just missed the zone. Not surprisingly the umpire called it a ball.

Jackson must really hate this guy, because he called for the same pitch again.

Connor shot him a dubious look, but Jackson looked right back, nodding. Like he knew he could do it.

And this time he did, the guy tried to swing, but stopped the bat before it came all the way around. Connor held his breath. He didn’t want to go full count with this batter. That would be entirely his advantage then. It had been a risky call, but Jackson must’ve known what he was doing, because the umpire paused and called it a strikeout.

Connor yelled and pumped his fist. He’d gotten the guy. Even Jackson looked pleased as he jogged in from the mound.

“Hell of a pitch, that last one,” Jackson said as they walked down the stairs into the dugout.

“Felt good,” Connor said.

“Yeah, you’re pitching like an ace tonight,” Ro said, patting him on the back as he walked by to his regular spot on the dugout bench.

“Thanks, dude,” Connor said, smiling.

It was a weird dichotomy. He did want to get called up. Wanted to hit that pinnacle he’d been chasing most of his life. But if he did, it would mean leaving these guys who’d come to be his friends.

It would mean leaving this team—and even though they were losing and that felt like shit—he’d started to almost feel at home in Raleigh.

Jackson made some crack about the other team’s mascot, and it was ridiculous, a fighting shrimp of all fucking things, and the dugout all laughed.

That was when it hit Connor.

If he got called up, he’d leave Jackson behind.

He didn’t like the thought of leaving Ro and TJ and Kevin behind. But leaving Jackson? Felt goddamned wretched.

He’d barely caught his breath from that realization when he heard someone else—Charlie or Deke?—say they weren’t surprised the big club had sent a scout down for Connor’s start today. And Mikey said something about how maybe this might be the last time Connor even started for the Rogues.

On the heels of the other, unpleasant realization, this one had claws and it tore right into him.

---