Page 81 of Hot Streak

Physically.

But mentally was a whole other story. He knew he was overthinking. But it wasn’t like he could call time out and have his meltdown and take the time to get over it. No, he had to pitch now. He had no other choice.

Buck up, Connor told himself fiercely. This is what you do.

Jackson called the first pitch and he threw it, trying not to think at all.

But that didn’t work because it missed the corner he’d been trying to hit.

Normally, Jackson might make him try it again, but this time he seemingly shrugged it off. Probably because he’d been pitching so well all game, Jackson wasn’t worried.

But he should be worried.

Then Connor missed the next one, the umpire calling it a ball. And the next one after that.

Only then did Jackson rise to his feet, gesturing to the ump that they were taking a quick time out. He jogged out towards Connor.

“What’s up?” he said. “You okay?”

Sometimes Jackson came out here and talked about something entirely unrelated to baseball to get him to calm down. Today, though, Connor could see the genuine concern in his face. A matching set for his own.

“I’m fine,” Connor said, even though he wasn’t supposed to lie to Jackson. Even though he didn’t want to lie to Jackson.

“You could’ve hit that corner in your sleep. You’ve been hitting it all game. You barely had any time to get cold, on the bench. So what gives?”

“I heard Charlie and Skip. There’s a major league scout here.”

“Yeah, so?”

Connor made a face.

“He shit like the rest of us?” Jackson continued.

Connor grimaced even harder. “I don’t want to think about the scout shitting, thank you very much.”

“Just sayin’, he’s only a guy. Just like anybody else. You got this. You had this last inning, you had this all game.” Jackson put the ball in his hand. “You just gotta find it again.”

“If it was only that fucking easy,” Connor muttered under his breath as Jackson returned back to home plate and took his stance again.

Jackson must have realized he hadn’t quite settled down, because he called for something easier, and that pitch Connor couldn’t quite say he nailed, but the guy still swung and missed.

On that one, and the next. But then Connor hit a wall again. A pitch he tried to hit inside slipped too far in, and the umpire called it a ball.

“Shit,” Connor swore.

Tried it again, even though Jackson had called for something else.

Jackson shot him a look across the field. And okay, he’d mostly stopped shaking off Jackson’s signs, but he wanted to get this fucking pitch right.

There was no way around it: it was an ugly inning.

When Connor finally left the mound to return to the dugout, he’d given up two walks, a hit, and somehow managed to not give up a run.

But it had been close, and he could only imagine what that scout would be writing about it.

“Well, you wiggled out of it,” Jackson drawled as he collapsed onto the dugout bench and leaned over to unbuckle his shin guards.

He didn’t even feel like he had. He expected if he looked over at the scoreboard, it would read like he’d given up five runs.

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