Page 80 of Hot Streak

Connor watched, barely seeing as Jackson hit a gorgeous double, dropping it down just out of the reach of the left fielder.

But like the Rogues’ luck had gone lately, it was a waste.

Nobody else got on base, and Connor hefted himself up, readying for the fourth inning.

He didn’t want to get mad at these guys, but some run support would be nice.

Would be nice too, if the scouts didn’t come watch your every fucking move, too.

Connor hated it when the scouts showed.

When they dissected him, clocking every single pitch, making notes on every move he made.

Suddenly, he wished he’d been more fucking careful earlier in the game, in the second inning, when that pitch had hung too long, and the guy had cranked it out of right field.

He’d hear about that later. And every other tiny mistake he made.

Connor swallowed hard.

“What’s wrong?” Jackson asked as he grabbed his chest plate and buckled it on with a few quick movements.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Connor muttered. But everything was wrong. There was a scout here. And he was going to get called up before he was ready.

How can you not be ready? You’ve been ready since the day you were drafted.

He wanted so fucking badly to believe that was true, but Jackson had held up a mirror and made him look at himself unflinchingly. He wasn’t quite ready. Close, yes, but his game could use some improvement. They’d been working through some things, and he was better. Especially with his placement. Refusing to rely so heavily on his speed.

Even his attitude—about not just baseball, but about himself, who he was as a person, deep down—was better.

But if they called him up, if he went to the majors, he’d do it alone.

It was funny, because less than a month ago, Connor hadn’t even wanted Jackson to catch him.

But now he couldn’t imagine anyone else doing it.

“Well,” Jackson said, resting a hand on his shoulder, “then let’s get out there and get you warmed up. Get you ready.” He didn’t mention the scout. In fact, until this inning, Connor hadn’t heard a word of his appearance at the game.

Which meant, Jackson had deliberately not mentioned it. Same as he’d made sure Andy didn’t always clock him with the radar gun every time he practiced.

God—it was the worst fucking thing to be seen so easily. And also the best.

“You got this,” Jackson said, an extra dose of reassurance as Connor headed towards the mound.

But do you? Will you? What happens when you’re deep in your first major league start and Jackson’s not there? What if they take you deep and you can’t get over it?

Sure, he’d managed to get over it today.

And now suddenly, he didn’t feel over it at all.

He felt consumed by it.

One tiny mistake and he’d given up a run, just like that.

He could only imagine what the scout would write in his report.

And now, of course, that was all he was imagining.

He threw one warmup pitch to Jackson. Then another. And finally a third. He’d barely been in the dugout, the other half of the inning speeding by, because Jackson had been the only guy to make it on base, so he didn’t need much time to get set up.

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