10. Chapter 10

It had come to this: Jackson sneaking to the bathroom before Connor woke up. And waiting to sneak out until after he'd left the room for breakfast.

It had been three days since Connor's confession, and the next morning, Jackson had fully expected him to act like nothing had changed. For him to be just as arrogant, just as stubborn, just as much a pain in Jackson's ass. And he was, but he was more than that too. When they were alone, which since they shared a room happened more frequently than Jackson would've preferred, he became downright ridiculous.

Flirty. Coy. Walked around without a shirt on most of the time, and even once with only his boxer briefs on, like the sight of his ass and dick outlined in gray material was going to be enough to convince Jackson to throw away ten plus years of mostly good behavior.

Spoiler alert: it was not.

In fact, it just annoyed Jackson.

For the obvious reasons, of course.

But also because he was tempted. There was a part of him that wanted to take what Connor was offering, and fuck the consequences.

Maybe if Jackson hadn't once paid the price himself, he'd have just done it. But Connor could be very stupid, and this was one of the stupider ideas he'd ever had—which was saying something. Wasn't Jackson officially here to save him from his worst impulses?

And this, undoubtedly, was a very bad impulse.

His phone rang in the main part of the room. Jackson, leaning against the bathroom door, heard it and sighed. There weren't many people who called him anymore. His agent had started sending texts. No doubt because delivering bad news via message was easier than doing it when he could hear Jackson's reaction.

It was probably his mom or his sister calling. And now he was going to miss it, because even though he was fully fucking clothed, he was afraid to walk out into the room while Connor was there.

It was cowardly—no question about it. Cowardly because he didn't want to have to look at Connor's pouty lower lip, or cowardly because he was actually afraid he'd be tempted?

That was the question.

He heard steps walking up to the bathroom. Braced himself.

"It's fine, you can fucking relax." Connor's voice was teasing, the promise of it licking right up his spine, and Jackson had to force his body not to shiver in response. "I'm going to grab some breakfast. You can stop hiding in there."

"I'm not hiding," Jackson exclaimed through the door.

But they both knew he was.

"You can come out and talk to your mom or whatever." Jackson could practically hear Connor's eye roll through the door. "I promise you won't have to worry about finding me delectable or tempting if you come out."

"I'm not . . .I don't—"

But the main door slammed shut behind Connor before Jackson could get the rest of the protest out.

"I don't," Jackson repeated for his own edification as he pushed the door open.

He found his phone, and yep, it had been his mom.

He hit redial and sat on the edge of his bed, phone on his knee.

"Hey, Momma," he said when she answered the phone with a bright, cheery hello.

"How're you doing, honey?" she asked. "How's that monster bruise?"

"Still a bruise." With ice, and the ointment he'd had to learn to put on himself, it was better, but it was still a rainbow full of nasty colors.

"No better then?" She sounded regretful. More than anyone else, Charlene Evans knew how much he loved baseball. Loved playing it. Loved living it. Loved just walking onto the field and smelling the freshly cut grass. It was why she'd never pushed him to give up on what was rapidly becoming an impossible dream and come home for good.

"I'm playing." But not as much as he'd hoped. Mikey had had him on the bench since the incident, ostensibly because of the injury—though Jackson had had much worse and caught through those—but Jackson worried it was more than that.

Sure, Connor was pitching well, but what else was he doing? Nothing. A whole lot of fucking nothing.

"You sound unhappy about that," Charlene said carefully.

Andy, no doubt sensing his boredom, had been having Jackson sit in on almost every bullpen session this week. It had helped, more than Jackson had imagined, offering feedback to the pitching staff—and unlike Connor, most of them had actually listened.

Of course, unlike Connor, most of them were fighting to make it, and didn't have a cannon for an arm that they'd be riding all the way to the majors.

"I . . .I've actually been doing a bit of coaching. Sort of. Not officially."

"Oh, you'd be good at that, honey," his mom said. "You are, aren't you?"

"Andy Sadler, he's like a freaking legendary pitching coach, he seems to think I've got something I can teach these guys."

"So not just Connor then." Charlene paused. "And how has Connor been taking that?" she asked archly.

"What do you mean?" He didn't want to talk about Connor with his mom. Especially now. Especially since Connor had looked at him with those big, guileless blue eyes and said, I'm attracted to you.

The very last thing Jackson had ever imagined driving Connor's flirtation was actual serious intent. And yet, despite all the corny flirting and posturing that had happened after that confession—did this bullshit behavior actually work for him?—he obviously meant it.

He wanted Jackson.

Jackson could still barely believe it was true.

"I mean, he's been pretty possessive of you. Not wanting you to help Kevin," Charlene pointed out.

"Just like Connor. Not wanting my help but not wanting me to help others." Except that was a little unfair.

"Is he really being that way?" Charlene clucked in disappointment.

Jackson regretted telling her all the stories he had about how much helping Connor sucked. She had way too much ammunition now.

"No," Jackson admittedly reluctantly.

No.

It would be easier if he'd been a self-centered ass about it. But instead, Connor had encouraged the other guys. Offered them high fives and butt slaps and a lot of positive comments after every bullpen.

And every damn time, after he'd done it, he'd looked right over at Jackson and he'd sworn the guy was thinking, See? Look. I can be slightly less of a pain in the ass.

"See? He can be reasonable," his mom said, her tone brightening.

For one insane moment, Jackson had considered using a possible hookup as a carrot for Connor's continued good behavior.

But that would be crazy, and while, sure, Jackson was aware that his place on the Rogues was dependent on Connor's continued development, he wasn't about to use sex as a bribing technique.

"Sure," Jackson said grumpily.

"You're going to knock this assignment out of the park, no puns intended," she said with a chuckle, "and you're gonna get those home runs. Then on to bigger, better things."

Jackson didn't have the heart to tell her there probably wouldn't be any bigger, better things. There was a reason his agent had stopped calling and only texted now.

Someday, probably soon, he'd hang it up and come home and figure out what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life. Hopefully his mom was as enthusiastic then, when he was crashing on her couch, as when she was encouraging him to make all his major league dreams come true.

"Not sure what that's gonna be," he said semi-jokingly.

"If that means you come home, that means you come home," she said firmly. "You know you've always got a place here, with me and Becca."

It was exactly what he'd wanted to hear, but somehow, he still hated it.

Not her. Never her.

But the idea of it.

How could he be so tired and just hanging on, hoping to grab the home run record, and also, feel like giving up would be the worst thing to ever happen to him?

Jackson didn't know.

"Thanks, Momma. Means a lot to me," Jackson said.

"Well, of course. I didn't think I needed to say it, but it occurred to me that maybe I did," she mused. "You always did put too much pressure on yourself to succeed. Didn't want you to think that coming back home wouldn't be a success."

"Momma, it wouldn't be." Jackson tried to laugh it off, but it didn't quite work.

"Jackson Calvin Evans, don't you dare think that way. You've had a long career doing somethin' you loved. You been lots of places. Seen all kinds of people. Did things nobody else from back here could dream about. That's success, and don't let yourself think otherwise."

"Thanks, Momma," Jackson said, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat.

"Just 'cause you didn't make it to the majors for a long time and didn't become some millionaire doesn't mean you didn't leave a mark. Every one of those kids you coach, they're gonna remember you."

"Momma," Jackson warned.

"I'm serious, Jackson. When Connor freaking Clark makes it to the majors, he's gonna remember the stuff you told him."

He's gonna remember something, and it probably isn't baseball.

But he couldn't tell his mother that—even though she did know about his sexuality. Had known, even before she'd caught him making out with Billy King in his room when they were supposed to be studying.

Back then she'd said, why didn't you just tell me?

He'd wanted to. But it hadn't been easy for him. He'd been fatherless, in a household of women, his only male role model his coach. He'd known then, even at the age of fifteen, that all he wanted was to play baseball for a living. He'd been struggling with how he could do that and be what he was. But denying it was hard, too.

Especially when Billy King had those hooded eyes, promising all sorts of things, and a pair of biceps . . .

Well.

"Jackson," his mother said, "are you even listening to me?"

"Yes," he said, even though that wasn't completely accurate. At least it was just a little white lie.

"Becca and I thought we'd bring the girls up, in a few weeks. How about that?"

"Can Becca get away from work?" His younger sister worked at the local diner, as a waitress, and despite all the arguments she'd made to the owner, had no vacation days.

"You know she started working for the insurance agent, now, Jackson," his mom reminded him. "Last summer."

Shit. He had totally forgotten.

"Oh yeah," Jackson said. "How's that going for her?"

"So good. He promoted her to office manager. I'm sure she wanted to tell you herself, but she's been so busy, and well—you know I can't keep a secret to save my life."

Jackson chuckled. He did know.

"In any case, she's got some vacation now. And so I thought we'd take a long weekend. Make a big to do of it. It's been forever since you've seen the girls."

Becca's two little girls—Annie and Constance—were wonderful, and he loved spending time with them, he just hadn't had many opportunities. The offseason was so short, and he always tried to find an invite to one of those training facilities with other players, to try to get the edge up.

It felt like he'd barely been home since they'd been born.

He kept telling himself he'd be a more present uncle—one who didn't just send postcards from every city he was in—to one who took them to the park and spoiled them rotten with ice cream sundaes when he was out of baseball. But every year they grew older, and he kept hanging on, by his fingernails, to everything that he'd worked for.

Jackson swallowed another lump—this one comprised entirely of guilt. "Yeah," he admitted. "Too long."

"Well, it's settled then. The Rogues will be in town for a home stand, and if you can get us some tickets . . ."

"Shouldn't be an issue." He'd sweet-talk Sheila into giving him extra tickets. And not just the regular seat kind of tickets, but the good kind of tickets. To the suite, maybe, with the free food buffet and the ice cream machine. The girls—all his girls—would love that.

"Now you just hang in there," she said in that no-nonsense way of hers.

"Sure thing, Momma. Tell Becca and the girls hi and give 'em a big hug from Uncle Jackson."

"Will do."

After she'd hung up, Jackson sat for a long time, staring over at the other bed. The bed Connor hadn't made this morning.

Not that his behavior was unusual. It wasn't. The guy's suitcase was a demilitarized zone, spilling out onto the worn carpet, clothes tossed every which way. He didn't even carry a laundry bag with him, just tossed everything dirty in the vicinity of the corner.

He was annoying. Pretentious and egotistical and everything Jackson didn't want to like.

But then every so often, he did something that made him nearly irresistible.

Like as angry as it had made him, defending Jackson after that pitcher had nailed him.

Paying for the other guys' tabs without ever letting them know he was taking care of them.

Grabbing ice. Offering to put on the numbing ointment.

Even the other day, picking him up a Coke when Jackson hadn't even asked for one. Just knew you'd want one, he'd said when Jackson had raised a questioning eyebrow.

It was so much easier to resist him when Connor was being his normal smug self.

So much harder when he let that persona fall and Jackson saw the real guy behind the facade.

Hopefully, this road trip would end before Jackson was front and center to any more Connor-behaving-well stunts. His self-control couldn't take it.