Page 9 of Hot Streak

Never. That was when.

And besides, what else was he gonna do while he was chasing the record?

“Not what I heard,” Andy said, raising his chin. “From what I hear, you can straighten out any pitcher. Brain, heart, and arm.”

“Funny,” Jackson said, “’cause that’s exactly what I heard about you.”

Andy shot him a knowing look. “Guess we’re in this together, huh?”

“Considering what I saw last night, I wouldn’t be surprised if it took both of us.”

“Here’s the thing. The catchers we got don’t know what to do with him out there,” Andy said, as Jackson pushed the clubhouse door open and they walked through it. “He’s all set before his start. We work all week, and he looks good. Looks fucking great. Then he gets up there, and it goes to hell.”

“Overthinking, huh?” Jackson said. He stopped in front of his locker. Someone had taken a stretch of blue painter’s tape and stuck it above, scribbling his last name on it.

“He thinks too much and not enough, all at the same time.” Andy flashed Jackson a fleeting smile. “Makes me want to tear my fuckin’ hair out, that’s what he does.”

“I gotta tell you, you don’t got much to spare,” Jackson said seriously.

“Oh man, I like you. I knew I would. But I like you.” Andy slapped him on the back, with zero hesitation, zero compunction.

“Feeling’s mutual,” Jackson said. “I think we can do this.”

Andy nodded, and something in the vicinity of Jackson’s heart clenched.

Not everyone touched him so easily.

Like a friendly fucking pat on the back might lead to more. Like it might give Jackson ideas.

Well, newsflash to the fucking ball club, he would rather die than ever look at any of them—players, coaches, staff—with anything resembling desire.

He’d never shit where he ate, no way, and he wouldn’t do it even if he wasn’t worried about his reputation. It wasn’t right. Baseball was one thing. His sexuality was something else, and he knew what got the majority of his attention. When was the last time he’d had more than a quick, dirty handjob in a gross bar bathroom?

He couldn’t even remember.

There’s plenty of time for that later. When you’re done with baseball.

But when he finally hung up his glove, would he be too fucked up to have a relationship even if he ever met someone who made him want to try for one?

It seemed likely.

Players started filtering into the clubhouse for batting practice.

Most of them barely gave Jackson a second glance. They were too used to guys coming and going, and he was just another name, just another face.

Then TJ and Ro sauntered in, chattering about last night.

“You heard from him this morning?” Jackson heard TJ ask Ro as he stepped up to his locker, only two over from Jackson’s.

It wasn’t hard to figure out they were talking about Connor.

“Not yet, but he’s not startin’ til Friday.”

“He’s still got a bullpen today,” Ro said.

He’d tell Connor to keep Ro—terrible nickname and all—around, next time he saw him. The guy was looking out for him more than he deserved.

“He’ll be here,” TJ said dismissively. He flipped his bat, back and forth, with the rhythm of someone who’d been doing it for years.

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