1. Chapter 1

In Jackson Evans' mind, there was nothing more precious or more sacred than the first time he walked into a ballpark.

His meemaw had always referred to it as the ‘church of baseball' and from the first moment he'd stepped onto the grassy field, as a five-year-old, wobbly and uncertain, he'd felt that pull.

That need.

This was a damn pretty ballpark, too. Long, gracious lines that cradled the leaf green turf in its arms, the dark brick buildings towering around the field shadowing part of the outdoor stands. It was big and it was beautiful, and Jackson had waited a long time to come back to North Carolina to play here.

"See you found the field alright."

Jackson turned, and Michael Wilson, the manager of the Raleigh Rogues, was leaning against the dugout fence.

"Yeah, yeah. I did. Looks great." Jackson didn't need to plaster a fake smile on. Moving on—especially being traded—had never been his favorite thing, but when the Toledo Mud Hens had told him he was being traded to Raleigh, he'd been excited.

Raleigh was only a few hours away from Asheville, where he'd grown up and where his mom and sister, with her kids, still lived. Where, someday, when baseball finally finished chewing him up and spitting him out, he would retire. To do what, he didn't know, because all he fucking knew was this game.

"You look good in it," Mikey said and reached out a hand, and they shook briskly.

"You gonna tell me why I'm here?" Jackson asked.

He wasn't stupid. He wasn't some highly sought after prospect. He'd spent the last fifteen years bouncing around the minors—with a few short, but memorable, stints in the majors. Nobody would ever know the name Jackson Evans, and he'd long since made his peace with that. He just wanted to get paid for going to church every night.

"We got a new guy, a pitcher. He's got an arm on him like a fucking rocket," Mikey said, shrugging.

"But?"

"Million dollar arm, five cent head. He's out of his depth, Evans. Doesn't know how to string together a start. And those idiots who traded him to us? They did a shit job setting him up."

Jackson had known, of course, that he wasn't being brought to Raleigh for his ability to hit the long ball or his catching skills. Still, it would've been good for Mikey to at least pretend that the Rogues wanted him for him.

No.

He was only here as a means to an end.

"Like yesterday. Struck out eighteen. Walked eighteen. New league record. For both." Mikey made a face.

"Shit," Jackson said with a laugh, rubbing his face. "He that bad?"

"He hit the mascot. Twice."

"I can't fix his mechanics," Jackson said. Well, he could, but did he want to? Not particularly.

"Shit, no. We got Andy for that. Andy Sadler? You know him?"

Had he heard of Andy Sadler? Sure, Jackson fucking had. You couldn't spend any time in the minors and not hear of the great Andy Sadler. Refused promotions. Didn't want to manage players. Instead, he just moved around, coaching the young pitchers in minor leagues across America. He was infamously idiosyncratic, even for a baseball guy.

"Sure, I heard of Andy Sadler."

"But you, I want you to teach him how to have a fucking head on his shoulders. To think when he needs to, but mostly to just throw the goddamn ball without over thinking. And he's wild, goddamn he's wild. I can't keep an eye on him. You're gonna do that too. Room with the kid on the road. Make a player, a player like you, outta him. A real fucking pro."

Jackson made a face. "You want me to be a glorified babysitter."

"Yeah. Yeah. Okay. I do. But I got a great fucking catcher out of the deal, too."

"Shit, man," Jackson complained.

"Just meet the kid. See what you think of him. Maybe you'll hit it off."

Jackson thought there wasn't a chance in hell of that happening, but also . . .he was so close to Asheville. Closer than he'd been in years. Maybe it would be worth putting up with this wild kid, if it meant living in North Carolina again.

And wouldn't you like to end your career the way you started it?

Every year, Jackson wondered if this one would be his last. The last time someone looked at him, thirty-three and nearly washed up but still fucking trying, and thought he had something left to give.

"Fine," Jackson said.

"Batting practice tomorrow. Be here at eleven," Mikey said. "Did Sheila get you squared away with a place to stay?" He referred to the team's traveling secretary, who had emailed him the info about a small efficiency right by the ballpark. He could walk there, she'd said, and even walk down to the Strike Zone, which was the players' favorite hangout.

"Yeah," Jackson said, nodding.

"Well, you get settled in. Maybe we'll see you at the Strike Zone tonight."

Jackson wouldn't be surprised if the whole team ended up there tonight. He knew how these things went. Team only had one real day off a week, Monday, but did that mean they got away? Or spent time with their families? No, because most of them didn't have one. They had the team, and that was it. Nobody else to see, nothing else to do, but hang out and share some beers and shoot the shit.

Jackson had been around the minors too long to believe anything different.

"Sure," Jackson said.

He spent another ten minutes after Michael left, just walking the field. Taking in the smell of freshly mowed grass and feeling the beat of the sun on his head. Charting the angles and the paths a ball could take.

It was a damn pretty ballpark.

On his way out, Jackson stopped by the little office marked "traveling," and found a woman with curly bright auburn hair piled on the top of her head and a permanently exasperated expression etched on her face.

He'd never met her before, never seen a picture of her, even, but he didn't need a diagram to tell him who she was. There'd been too many traveling secretaries like this, over the last fifteen years.

"Must be Jackson," the woman said, glancing up at him.

"Yep, that's me," Jackson said, giving her his widest smile. He'd learned—the hard way—who to befriend, who to always show his best side to, if he wanted to make sure his way was nicely paved.

Sheila grinned back. "Sure, it is. Jackson Evans. Here in Raleigh. You're gonna be good for Connor."

It was hard for Jackson to wrap his head around being good for anyone. He always put the team first, because that had been drilled into his head for too many years to ever forget it, but he wasn't the fucking pitcher whisperer.

He didn't even know if he could be.

If he wanted to be.

"Sure," Jackson said, instead, because he didn't want Sheila to think he was ungrateful.

This was a good spot—Connor notwithstanding—and he didn't want to fuck it up before it even began.

"You know," Sheila said, leaning over the desk, "I looked you up."

"Thought that was your job," Jackson teased lightly.

"You're only two dozen home runs away from the International League home run record," she said. "Two hundred forty-seven. You have a solid few months here, you got it."

"Two hundred forty-seven home runs in the minors. Pretty fucking dubious honor," Jackson retorted, before he could stop himself.

"Still an honor," Sheila said gently, and then she changed the subject. Pulling out his apartment keys, shifting into easy professional talk about utility bills and deposits.

He'd hoped that nobody knew about the record.

Back in Ohio, a few players had made noise about it, and the skipper had kept him in the lineup, trying to help him get there, even though he'd certainly never fucking asked for that. He'd only ever wanted what he deserved.

Sure, he could hit the long ball well. Could read pitchers pretty good. And Mikey Wilson was right too; he was a goddamn excellent catcher.

But the majors were full of skilled catchers hitting three hundred, and not only had Jackson never been particularly trendy or special, there'd been one very big strike against him. Something that in the end, he hadn't been able to help.

It had been too hard to completely bury his sexuality, even though he'd tried. That was the thing about baseball. Once one person knew, everyone knew, even if they never talked about it.

He'd been lucky, Jackson supposed, because he'd never had more than a handful of hissed insults shoved his way. But then, he'd made sure he wasn't ever going to be a target. He'd bulked up, until nobody would ever be stupid enough to confront him face-to-face.

But he'd known, every time he walked into the clubhouse, they were all thinking about it.

It was why he was convinced he'd never gotten the chances he'd wanted.

Why the few chances he had gotten had ended as abruptly as they'd begun.

Nobody had wanted that queer catcher on their team.

Now, fifteen years in, he wasn't bitter, really, anymore. Just resigned.

The efficiency was, like Sheila had promised, just down the street, and furnished with the basics. Worn-out couch. Coffee table covered in old glass rings, the corner of it slightly busted. Tiny kitchenette, even though Jackson knew he wouldn't be doing much cooking. Bed and dresser in the second room. Bare white walls.

It looked like every place he'd stayed in for the last fifteen years—though some of those had been much worse shitholes than this. At least it was clean.

He dumped his bag on the bed. Walked into the attached bathroom. It was also clean, thank God. He decided he'd take a shower, wash off the road, and maybe find that bar.

The Strike Zone, Mikey had called it.

Connor was fucking lit.

"Two minor league records," he crowed, lifting his arms up. He'd lost his shirt two rounds and twenty minutes ago, when the bartender had finally listened to him and played the new Drake track.

Ro rolled his eyes. "You really want to brag about that shit, Clark?"

"Fuck yes," Connor said, turning a chair around and dropping onto it, settling his elbows on the back. "Now, tell me, you think of a good nickname?"

"I don't know, man, nicknames gotta be organic-like? You can't plan a killer nickname."

"All the greats got 'em," Connor said. And that was the one thing he was very sure of—no matter how much whiskey was flowing through his veins—he was going to be great.

Hadn't he just set the record today for most strikeouts in a game?

And okay, sure, he could work on his control, because he'd also set the record for the most walks, but that shit happened.

Brilliance couldn't be fucking contained. Not Connor's brand of brilliance anyway.

"And you're gonna be great?" Ro laughed, like this was the funniest thing he'd heard in ages.

He didn't give a shit if some two-bit shortstop, who'd spent years now in triple A, waiting for a call that hadn't come yet, thought he wasn't going to own this fucking league, because he was.

"Fuck yes I am," Connor boasted.

"Might be lacking in control but not in confidence," Tommy Juarez—who they liked to call TJ—said.

"Damn fucking straight," Connor said.

Ro's full name was Roland, and when Connor had found out about it, he'd declared that he wasn't ever going to make it, because no fucking major leaguer was named Roland.

Maybe that was why Ro wasn't all-in on this nickname thing. Sure, Connor kept insisting on calling him Roland. If he found out his middle name, he was going to use that too. It was probably something equally as ridiculous, like Bartholomew. Roland fucking Bartholomew.

Ro and TJ weren't all bad though. They were good for a laugh and a drink and even to flail around on the dance floor.

Maya, his younger sister, would roll her eyes and tell him that he kept Ro and TJ around because they weren't as hot as he was.

Maybe that was true, but it wasn't a crime, was it? To make sure every eye in the place swiveled in his direction whenever he walked in?

Hell no.

Millie, the sweet blond waitress who he had unsuccessfully been flirting with for two months now, sashayed over, three more shots on her tray.

"Hey, y'all, I got a round for you," she said, setting the glasses down on the table.

"We didn't order these," Ro said, frowning. That was also why he'd never make it in the majors, Connor thought, he always looked before he leaped. Notoriously risk-averse.

'Course that hadn't stopped Ro from getting somewhere with Millie, when he certainly never had.

"From that guy, over by the bar," Millie said, gesturing towards the bar, to a dark-haired guy sitting on the last barstool.

"You recognize that guy, Connor?" Ro asked. "Maybe he's trying to drug us."

"Don't be a stupid shit, Millie poured the drinks," Connor said, picking up one and gesturing to the guy. Waving him over. He didn't swing that way, but maybe he was a fan. Maybe he was here to celebrate Connor's twin records.

"Just said he was with the team," Millie said over her shoulder as she headed to the next table. She gave Ro a last lingering look that made it clear who'd be going home with her tonight, too.

Argh.

"Shit, he's with us?" TJ said, gesturing to the guy as well.

He didn't come over right away. Slid off the barstool a few minutes later, when Connor had nearly forgotten he existed, lost in a haze of tequila.

But then he approached, and Connor nearly swallowed his tongue. He wasn't tall—not many men were tall compared to Connor, who told everyone he was 6'5" but that was typical, right? Everyone inflated their stats in the pros. But what he didn't have in height, he made up for in width. The man was fucking built, broad shoulders, and beefy forearms.

"Hey," Ro said to the guy. "Shit, you're big."

He chuckled darkly.

"Wait," TJ said, "I recognize you. Jackson, right? We played a few games together back in Cincinnati, before I got sent to Montgomery."

"Tommy Juarez," the guy said, shaking TJ's hand, his light hazel eyes traveling over Ro and then falling on Connor.

"They call me TJ here," Tommy said. "Guys, this is Jackson Evans. That's Ro—don't you fucking call him Roland, or he'll have your ass."

"Nice to meet ya," Ro said with a smile. "Thanks for the drink."

"And this must be Connor Clark," Jackson said, his gaze skimming over Connor. No doubt finding him lacking, though that was unusual.

People rarely looked at him and didn't love what they saw.

They looked at his blond hair, his blue eyes, his long, lean build, and the face that Connor knew from his mirror was fucking memorable.

"Never heard of you," Connor grumbled.

TJ smacked him on the back of the head. "Don't be an ass, Connor."

"He can't help it," Ro said. "He comes by it naturally, like all that pretty boy hair."

He hadn't taken his eyes off Connor. Had barely even blinked. Who was this guy?

"I'm supposed to be your new catcher, but . . ." Jackson grinned slowly. And Connor was not used to having any competition for being the most attractive person in a room. Not that he swung that way, because of course he didn't. But it was just a fact. An unassailable fact. Jackson Evans was really fucking attractive.

Maybe even more so than Connor himself.

Connor ground his teeth together.

"But what," he retorted.

"But I'm thinkin' anyone who signs up for that duty is gonna regret it."

Connor leapt up. "I'm fucking great. They drafted me in the first fucking round. Right out of high school. When I pitched, the stands were full of scouts. They practically tripped over themselves to get to me. And after? I was the fucking king of the minors, back in California."

"I'm sure you were." Jackson looked amused still, like he was taking nothing Connor was saying seriously.

And, more than anything, that dismissal set Connor's teeth on edge.

"I've got a fucking Jaguar out there, in the parking lot. What do you got?"

"A brain." Jackson finished his drink in one swallow and set it down on the old, rickety wood table in front of Connor. "This is hopeless. This is fucking hopeless. A Jaguar. Who the fuck cares what you're driving? Who cares how many assholes came to see you pitch in high school? High school."

Connor opened his mouth and then slammed it closed.

"Ouch, man," TJ said weakly.

"I don't know," Ro said, tilting his head, "I like this dude."

Of fucking course Ro would. By the end of the night, Ro would probably be worshipping at his feet.

Connor was disgusted.

And jealous.

A twist of envy he couldn't understand, could barely even identify, wound its way around his heart, and squeezed. What would it feel like, be like, to walk into a room like this and not have to posture and brag. To just be and know, deep down, that you were solid, that you were good. That you had value. To never worry about what you brought to the equation.

Jackson Evans didn't give a single shit what anyone thought of him.

And Connor was at the top of that list.

"We were just trying to figure out Connor's nickname," Ro said, trying to defuse the situation, because that was Ro for you.

"You can't figure out a nickname," Jackson said, sitting down, even though Connor had very much not invited him to. What a smug prick, thinking that buying one round of shots was enough to entitle him to a seat at their table.

"That's what TJ said," Ro said. "Millie likes Pokey."

Connor made a face. Fucking Pokey.

"A nickname's gotta be a thing that just happens." Jackson leaned in and snapped his fingers, right in Connor's face. "Like magic."

"You'd know something about that magic, huh, Clark?" TJ teased.

Connor could take the fun TJ and Ro and some of the other guys poked at him. But this new asshole? There was something in his knowing gaze that Connor hated and Connor wanted to flinch from.

And when had he ever flinched from anything?

"I'm all about that magic, baby," Connor boasted, taking care to make his voice smugger even than normal. All to rile up this new guy.

Jackson. His name's Jackson.

That same, deep down part of him, reminding him of his name, tried to warn him off. But Connor had taken too many shots and was recklessly skating right on the edge of too drunk to give a shit about what he should do.

He just wanted to get right into this guy's face and make him eat his words.

Jackson chuckled. "I just bet you are."

"Oh, I got it," Connor growled.

"Must be why you keep striking out with Millie," TJ said.

"Like you're doin' any better." And yeah, the waitress' rejection hadn't felt wonderful, but if he walked into any bar in this town, he knew he could get whoever the fuck he wanted.

And maybe what he wanted these days was a little bit of a challenge with his hookups.

He was tired of it being so easy.

Which was why he kept not-so-subtly suggesting to Millie she go home with him, even though he knew she'd been not-so-secretly hooking up with Ro.

"Ro's doing better than both of us," TJ said regretfully. "She's actually payin' him some attention."

She sure was and it didn't make any fucking sense to Connor. He was way fucking better looking than Roland.

"Probably cause she assumes you fuck like you pitch," Jackson said, one corner of his mouth turning up in a grin. "Kinda all over the place."

"You're such a fucking dick," Connor growled and slammed his glass down. Took a step closer and then another, sliding right into Jackson's space. Ignoring the warning bells flashing in those light eyes, ignoring the warning bells clanging in his own mind.

This asshole needed to know who was in charge.

And it wasn't a fucking no-name catcher without a Jaguar.

"You need to take a step back," Jackson said, still calm, but he'd stood now. He'd tensed, but there was still that slow, molasses drawl to his words. Like Connor wasn't even worth getting worked up over.

And it lit him on fire, from the top of his head, all the way to his toes.

That was probably why he lifted his hands and shoved Jackson back, even though he'd been the one who'd crowded in close.

"Watch it, rook." Warning in his voice now, not just his eyes.

"You watch it," Connor yelled.

"Take it outside," the bartender called out. "No fightin' in my bar. You know the rules."

"Yeah, asshole, let's take it outside," he spat at Jackson.

Connor didn't look back—just strode out of the bar, out the front door, and stopped on the sidewalk.

When he turned, Ro and TJ had followed, along with a handful of others. Just when he thought Jackson wouldn't even show, the door opened and he strolled out.

Connor raised his hands. He knew how to throw a punch. Sort of, anyway.

He ignored the flashing red lights in his head, warning that Jackson looked like he definitely knew how to both throw one and take one.

"I don't believe in fighting," Jackson drawled, leaning against the brick wall of the bar.

"Well, you'd better get on the page, because I don't hit nobody first," Connor said, taking a step and then another.

"Then how 'bout this," Jackson said, all unruffled calm. He pulled a baseball out of his pocket. Tossed it up and caught it. "Hit me with this."

"Oh man, no," TJ interjected. "He's got an arm on him. He'll break your ribs."

Jackson blinked slowly. Did this man do everything slowly, deliberately? He made Connor want to scream. "Yeah, I'll fucking annihilate you. You don't want me to throw at you." He'd wanted to rough the guy up a bit, make him regret not taking him seriously, but he didn't want to hurt him.

He wasn't a monster.

"Don't I?" Jackson tossed the ball and caught it again. "'Cause from what I hear, you couldn't hit water if you fell out of a fucking boat."

Shit. Connor saw red.

It was only instinct that made him put out his hand and catch the ball that Jackson tossed at him.

His fingers clenched around it.

"Come on, rook," Jackson cajoled. "Show me I'm wrong. Hit me. Hit me."

Suddenly slippery with sweat, his fingers slid across the leather surface of the ball.

"You're fucking crazy," he said.

"Hey, you started it," Jackson retorted. "If you're so great, you should be able to hit me no problem."

He should.

But the longer they stood there, Jackson facing off against him like it was nothing, like Connor couldn't do some serious damage, the more he wasn't sure.

More people had joined TJ and Ro by the door. They were all looking on, some interested, some doubtful.

Nobody was worried.

Only Connor.

He threw the ball.

Jackson didn't even blink.

Too many years as a catcher, Connor thought rebelliously, but the truth was he didn't have to, because the ball sailed right by him, not even coming close to hitting him, and hit the window next to him instead, shattering it in a burst of glass.

"Shit," Connor muttered. Humiliation surged through him in a sickening wave.

The dismissal in Jackson's eyes was blunt. "Guess you might need me after all," Jackson said. "Rule number one, stop thinking."

And he turned and walked away, down the street.

Connor didn't know which part stung more: Jackson's dismissal or that he'd been right.

"Come on, Connor. You better see Millie about the broken window," TJ said, and he went, because it was easier to do that than to keep staring down the street, feeling that little jolt of annoyance and frustration every time Jackson passed under a streetlight.