12. Chapter 12

"And then you came back to the room and took your shirt off, even, and nothing? Nothing?" Tristan asked incredulously. So incredulously that might have been enough to boost Connor's mood, but it wasn't working today.

Nothing had made sense since Jackson had pushed him away.

"Yes," Connor said testily.

"Well, do it again then. Having seen your bare chest plenty of times, I can attest that it's tempting," Tristan said, his voice echoing. "Where is he right now?"

"I don't know. He left the room this morning and hasn't come back. He's probably working out like a crazy person, again."

"Not that we mind," Tristan pointed out. Then added thoughtfully, "Could be sexual tension he's working out, too?"

"Or he's just avoiding me," Connor said heavily. "He didn't even ask me if I was hungover. Which, of course, I wasn't. I didn't have that much to drink."

"Listen, you're a child. You don't get hungover. Hang on to that, and nurture it," Tristan said and then paused. "Have you considered just . . .letting it go?"

"Like forgetting about it? Forgetting about him?" Connor had. He'd tried. For a full twenty-four hours after Jackson's rejection, he'd tried to go back to the way he'd been before. Ignorant. Still convinced he was as straight as the day was long. But the problem with opening Pandora's box was that everything had spilled out of it and it wouldn't all fit back in, no matter how Connor tried to rationalize it.

"Yes, that's what I'm trying to say," Tristan said impatiently. "Just find another guy. Yes, this one's hot, but there's a lot of hot guys in the sea, Connor."

On day two, it had occurred to Connor that maybe there was no shoving his attraction back in the box and slamming the lid closed because he'd been thinking about Jackson in these terms from the very beginning. There was nothing to return to; there was only this. Especially not now that Jackson had admitted that this wasn't easy for him, either.

When Connor had first called Tristan, the morning after his big confession, Tristan's first bit of advice had been, "if it's meant to happen, it will,"—and his second, was to, in Tristan's words, "use what God gave you and convince him to change his mind."

So far, all his clumsy seduction attempts had done were drive Jackson away. And last night he'd practically laughed at him once they'd gotten back to the room. He'd been so sure he could make it happen in private, after what they'd been close enough to doing on a public sidewalk.

But no dice.

"Yeah, lots of hot guys I've never wanted anything to do with," Connor said morosely. "What is it about this one?"

"Maybe it's that he's unavailable. Or that hooking up with him might be a potentially monumentally bad decision. You like those."

"I do not," Connor retorted. But yes, certainly. He had leaned into these kind of choices before. Had still made them, even while knowing they were wrong.

"You definitely do. It's cute, but also a little catastrophic," Tristan said.

Connor flopped down on his bed. Eyed the one next to it—even though it was early in the morning when he'd escaped, Jackson had still made it perfectly. "You're the worst," he said.

"You ever think about why that might be?" Tristan asked cautiously.

Connor definitely did not want to talk about it. Tristan was supposed to be giving him seduction tips, not psychoanalyzing him.

"No."

"Come on, you're not an idiot, even though you enjoy acting like one sometimes," Tristan cajoled. "I know you've thought about it."

Actually, he'd tried not to think about it. Not that that was some kind of magical solution, because even Connor knew it wasn't, but it got him by, day to day.

"Can't we talk about Jackson?"

Tristan's voice was gentler than he'd ever heard it. "I think we are talking about Jackson."

"You think I'm trying to use him to self-destruct again."

"Maybe. He is pretty much the worst person you could hook up with," Tristan pointed out, still so gentle.

"And what about Wade? How was he any different?" Connor asked, bringing up Tristan's teammate and his boyfriend. His roommate, who he'd hooked up with at rookie camp.

"He just was. He wanted it too, and we have Coach and Beau, who understand," Tristan said stubbornly. "I'm just saying, you've tried. You told him you want him, more than once. You've tried to seduce him. Maybe you just accept it's not gonna happen."

Connor made a frustrated noise.

"I know," Tristan said. "You aren't used to not getting things you want. But Jackson is a person. He's allowed to tell you no. That he thinks it's a bad idea."

"Not even for him, for me," Connor said in a harsh exhale. "He said he didn't want me to ruin my career the way he did."

"So . . .he thinks coming out ruined his career?"

"Well, he didn't really come out, not the way you're thinking. He's not officially out; almost nobody in baseball is. Ryan Flores, who plays for the Dodgers, is, but I can't think of anyone else."

"I know," Tristan said, sighing heavily. "What is up with you guys? Why are you so fucking behind the times?"

"Good question." Though Connor had a pretty good idea why. Baseball was run by a bunch of old white guys who didn't want anything to change. Of course, football had been, too, but slowly, the league had changed. It had been slow—and then it had been very fast.

"That sucks he feels like his sexuality was held against him," Tristan said quietly. "But if he does worry that it'll burn you too, then that's proof he gives a shit about you, Connor."

"That's just his job. Turn me into a major league pitcher. I'm sure the straight part was just unspoken."

"Well, then become that pitcher, and then nobody can say shit," Tristan suggested. "Maybe not even him."

"Huh." Connor had not considered this tactic. "You think I should listen to him?"

"He have good advice? He know what the fuck he's talking about?"

"I mean . . ." Connor hesitated.

"Connor," Tristan prompted firmly.

"He might," Conor hedged. Everyone else certainly seemed to think he knew his shit—but Connor wasn't sure he was convinced, yet.

"Then give him a chance. You want him to fuck you. But you don't trust him to catch you? What the hell is that about, anyway?"

"I don't know if—"

Tristan laughed. "I don't mean literally fuck you, though trust me, you should try it at least once. I mean fuck in more of a figurative sense. You'd trust him with your body, but not with baseball?"

"I—"

"Exactly," Tristan said triumphantly. "I rest my case."

"Fine, fine, I'll give him a chance."

"Hey, and you never know. You said he mentioned you were a pain in his ass, right?"

"Yeah," Connor said.

"Then, maybe not being a pain in his ass will do you some favors."

"You ready?" Jackson strolled over after Connor walked out onto the field.

He was in shorts and T-shirt, his mask and helmet on, but he'd left off the chest plate. It was already hot, barely any breeze in the rural Louisiana stadium.

Don't be a pain in the ass, don't be a pain in the ass.

"Yep," Connor said.

Jackson gave him the side-eye as they walked over to where he'd set up.

"Not hungover?" Jackson asked casually.

"I'm perfectly fine," Connor said. Don't be a pain in the ass, don't be a pain in the ass.

It wasn't that he doubted Tristan's advice, he just wasn't sure how to suddenly be different.

"Alright, well, we're gonna see about that," Jackson said. "You warmed up and ready to go?"

"Yep," Connor said instead of I already told you I was, you idiot.

"Okay." Jackson shot him another suspicious look but he jogged back to the replica of the home plate.

And for the next hour, Connor threw every pitch Jackson called for. Hit—well, mostly—every corner he called for. Worked harder than he had in a long fucking time to do exactly what the catcher wanted him to do.

Finally, when it was over, Connor went over to the ledge, wiped the sweat from his face, and took a long drink of water.

Was surprised—but not all that surprised, actually—when Jackson walked up to him, a baffled expression on his face. "What the fuck was that about?" he demanded to know.

"I was throwing a simulated game and you know what? I think it went pretty damn well," Connor said.

"It did." Jackson frowned. "Really well. You keep that up, you're gonna end up in the show sooner rather than later."

"Sounds good," Connor said. Don't be a pain in the ass. Especially don't be an egotistical pain in the ass.

"What is wrong with you?" Jackson demanded to know. "I know this is some kind of angle, and I want to know what it is."

"What's wrong with me? I'm not standing here demanding to know what the problem is after a great pitching session."

"I just—"

"You're the one being a pain in the ass," Connor said, realizing it was true the moment he said it.

"No way. No way." Jackson shook his head emphatically.

"Didn't you want me to listen to you? That's all I did. For a whole freaking game. And even that wasn't good enough for you." Connor didn't want to sound so goddamn bitter, because then Jackson might realize how frustrated—how disappointed—he was. But he was. It was impossible to deny.

"You did it on purpose?"

"No, it was an accident," Connor retorted sarcastically.

He didn't know what he'd expected, exactly, but not this. Not Jackson's baffled confusion. He'd expected . . .well, gratitude, he supposed. He'd expected Jackson to be thankful he'd shaped up. Not to question it.

"Why do you have to be this way?" Jackson complained.

"For once, it's not actually my fault," Connor retorted.

Jackson rolled his eyes. "Why, 'cause I didn't fall to my knees and thank God that you actually listened to me for once?"

"If you wanted to," Connor hissed under his breath, "I certainly wouldn't argue."

Jackson looked like he'd been hit by a ninety-eight mph fastball.

He didn't say anything, just stared at Connor—and this time Connor recognized the flare of it in his dark eyes.

He wants you. And he doesn't want to want you.

But even knowing what that look meant didn't fix anything. It only frustrated Connor more, because he knew when they were alone, next, it wouldn't matter, because Jackson would never reach out and take what they both wanted.

"What's going on?" Andy approached, the semi-regular crease between his brows deepening. "Everything alright?"

"Sure," Jackson said flippantly.

"Doesn't seem to be."

"It's really fine. Don't worry about it," Connor said, even though his temper hadn't cooled.

"Well, your pitching was real fine today, Connor," Andy said, still looking confused.

"Sure was," Jackson said. To anyone else, he might seem happy about that, but Connor could tell he was annoyed.

Annoyed when Connor had gone out of his way to be nice, to be pliable, to not be a pain. Annoyed, even, when Connor had pitched his ass off just now. Had done every single fucking thing he said.

It was unfuckingbelievable.

"Well, you should be set for your start tomorrow," Andy said. "Be sure to stretch now. Don't want you coming in with any soreness."

"Got it," Connor said.

Andy gave both of them one more searching look—like he could figure out what the fuck was going on—then shook his head and walked off.

Jackson turned and started to walk off, probably to get ready for batting practice, but because Tristan was probably right and he had a whole slew of self-destructive tendencies, he followed. He knew Jackson was pissed off—not why, of course—but that it was a certifiable fact. And he followed him anyway.

The clubhouse was basically empty. TJ was finishing up changing, and he took one look at Jackson charging in and Connor trailing after him and he smartly got out of there, grabbing his mitt and letting the door swing closed behind him.

"I want to know why you're pissed at me now," Connor insisted. "I did every single fucking thing you said. I became the little pliant pitcher you wanted. Every sign you gave, I nodded and said, yes, sir. I gave you everything you wanted. Every. Single. Fucking. Thing."

Well. Every single thing except the one thing Jackson was resisting taking.

Jackson turned to him, eyes blazing with temper.

Connor didn't get it.

"Because you didn't do it for you, you fucking idiot," Jackson said, rounding on him, and pushing him backwards out of his space. "You did it to get in—"

He stopped abruptly, like he'd just realized where they were.

There wasn't anyone in the clubhouse they could see, but that didn't mean they were truly alone.

"What?" Connor retorted. "What did I do it for? You gonna say it or not?"

He was goading Jackson now. He knew he was. And just like Tristan had claimed, he kept pushing—and this time it wasn't just him, but Jackson, too—right into the dumpster fire.

Jackson stared at him, chest rising and falling with each hard breath.

"Guess you're not. Guess I'm not surprised, considering—"

This time Connor didn't get the rest of his sentence out. Jackson grabbed him by the arm and literally dragged him—like he weighed fucking nothing, which sure shouldn't have been a turn-on, but was—through the clubhouse and into the shower room. This stadium had slightly nicer facilities than most, and each stall was delineated by tile walls, with a flimsy, slightly molded plastic curtain pulled across the front.

Jackson shoved him into one of the stalls, though they all seemed to be unoccupied at this time of the day, and yanked the plastic curtain closed.

"What—"

But Jackson didn't let him speak. Instead he pressed one palm against Connor's mouth and the other against his chest, pushing him deeper into the stall.

"I sure as fuck want you to do what I say," Jackson said in a low, frustrated, furious voice, "but I want you to do it for you. Because you respect yourself. Because you respect the game. Not to butter me up. Not to get into my pants."

Connor wanted to laugh. But he couldn't. His breath was caught in his lungs.

Because Jackson kept moving closer and closer, until he was right in Connor's space and Connor hadn't even had to coax him there.

He'd come willingly.

Jackson might be strong, but Connor was strong too. He reached up, wrapping his fingers around Jackson's wrist and with an effort lowered it. But even when he let go, Jackson didn't move his hand. His fingertips brushed against Connor's damp T-shirt, fingertips lingering.

He looked every which way Connor felt.

"You said I was a pain in your ass," Connor finally said quietly. "You said you didn't even like me."

"I think you said you didn't even like me," Jackson retorted. "And I don't like you."

Connor wasn't much of a student of human nature, but in the last few weeks, he'd become a student of Jackson Evans. He studied him, even when he didn't want to. And he knew how close he was to breaking.

"Liar," Connor whispered.

He barely got the word out before Jackson kissed it right off his mouth.

There was heat and light and pressure. Jackson's body pressing into his. His strength unmistakable. And his lips weren't gentle on his, they were fierce and demanding, like they could steal Connor's breath, steal the rest of his meager self-control.

It was a kiss like he'd never experienced before. But it wasn't just that he'd never kissed another man before—though that was true—but it was that he hadn't kissed Jackson before.

Now he'd never be able to pretend he didn't know. He'd never be able to forget.

Jackson's hands curled into his shoulders, fingers digging into the cotton of his T-shirt, his mouth moving hotly and confidently against Connor's, tongue dipping into his mouth.

Connor heard someone groan. Was it him? Was it Jackson?

For a second he cared, because surely he should care that they were kissing here, in the baseball facilities, where anyone could catch them—but then Jackson slid his hands down, around his waist, and yanked him closer. Connor's brain whited out with desire, and if this was what kissing a guy was like, Connor didn't think he'd ever be able to settle again.

Jackson had taken kissing and stamped himself all over it, proclaiming forever that anyone else was merely mediocre.

Even the hard press of Jackson's cock against his thigh didn't scare him; Connor only felt the exhilaration that crested through him when he realized what it was. That his own was aching in his shorts. That he craved, desperately, Jackson's touch.

One second they were kissing, and the next they weren't, Jackson moving backwards, horror dawning across his face—the exact opposite of what Connor hoped for.

He wanted Jackson to want to do it again and again, but instead, his lips had compressed into a tight, unyielding line.

"Shit," he muttered, and the self-recrimination in his voice made it clear that unlike the way Connor had hoped he'd express a desire to do it again and again and again, he was instead gearing up to explain, again, why they couldn't.

"Don't even say it," Connor said.

"How do you know—"

"You don't exactly look happy that it happened. That we kissed. That we almost did more," Connor muttered.

"We shouldn't have." Jackson sounded annoyingly self-righteous. Connor wanted to slap him. Or maybe just kiss him again.

"So you say," Connor said.

"I lost my temper. I lost the train of thought. I lost . . .myself."

"Sure you did." Connor shouldered Jackson out of the way and pulled the shower curtain back with such force it ripped. But he didn't look back as he charged right out of the showers.

If Jackson wanted to continue pretending that this wasn't happening, even after that kiss—that kiss—then he could fuck right off. Connor wasn't going to be around for taking, not forever. He'd just do what Tristan said. Plenty of hot men in the sea.

I lost my temper. I lost the train of thought. I lost . . .myself.

Jackson's own words echoed through his head on an insanely frustrating loop all through batting practice and then the game.

He attacked the ball with a ferocity that even had TJ asking him after he'd nailed his second home run of the game if everything was okay.

"You just seem . . ." TJ hadn't finished his sentence.

"Determined? Focused? Driven?" Jackson had retorted in clipped tones as he stripped his gloves off.

"Something," TJ observed.

It probably would've been more accurate if Jackson had said: Angry? Frustrated? In sexual torment?

Because he was furious with himself for crossing the line. He hadn't just lost himself. He had self-control; he fucking prided himself on it.

Liar. Even in his head, the voice sounded like Connor's. You didn't lose yourself; you found yourself.

He couldn't even blame Connor. The guy hadn't even meant to push him, but somehow he'd done it by being nice. By doing everything he was supposed to.

That was the worst of it. The only one to blame for this was himself. He'd lost it all on his own. He'd wanted and consequences be damned, he'd taken.

Not that Connor hadn't been an enthusiastic participant. Even for a guy who'd never kissed another man before, he'd given as good as he'd gotten.

Now, the worst thing was Jackson knew what Connor tasted like. What he felt like. And how easily he surrendered, giving himself completely over to Jackson's kiss.

"Funny look for a guy who hit two home runs tonight," Deke said, and Jackson glanced up from where he sat on the bench in front of his locker.

He'd showered as fast as he'd ever done in his life. Not wanting to spend a second longer in one of those stalls than he needed to. Even then, with deliberately cold water and his hands rough as he washed up, he'd still gotten half-hard, just because everything about this place would remind him of Connor now.

"Just tired. Long road trip. And tough loss again." They'd lost by one. With Jackson's homers, they'd been tied heading into the ninth. And one of the newbie pitchers had given up a solo shot in the bottom of the ninth.

Jackson didn't want to know how many losses this was on the road trip that wouldn't fucking end, but it was a lot. It was too many.

"You shouldn't be bummed," Deke pointed out dryly. "Heard Connor pitched great this afternoon. Lookin' good for tomorrow."

"We need more runs," Jackson said.

"I'll see what I can do tomorrow," Deke said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Maybe follow your lead."

"Sure you will. You got this," Jackson said, faking an enthusiasm he didn't feel.

At this point, it felt like the players weren't pulling for the team as much as they were pulling for themselves, trying to find the silver lining in the dumpster fire that was this losing streak, focusing instead on individual stats, trying to figure out how they'd make it to the next level, the next team. Attempting to make sure this wasn't the end of their baseball careers.

Jackson had been on plenty of teams where that happened—and it never failed to depress him, even as he was forced to do the same thing. Advocate for himself and his own career over the team's future.

That was the fucking minor leagues for you.

Deke lingered. "Are you sure everything's alright with you?" he asked.

Jackson knew what he was really asking. Did something happen with Connor?

"I'm fine," Jackson said.

Liar.

"If you're sure," Deke said.

It would be the right decision to ask Deke right now if he'd meant what he'd offered the other night. If he was still willing to swap roommates.

Mikey and Andy wouldn't be happy—they'd wanted him specifically to room with Connor, but they'd be willing to listen if Jackson told him he couldn't anymore. He'd earned that right as a long-time veteran.

But he already knew Connor's reaction would be terrible.

As bad as it was earlier today. Maybe worse.

Jackson didn't know if he could face that. But also didn't know if he could walk into that hotel room tonight and not torment himself endlessly over how Connor looked and smelled and tasted.

He didn't think he'd lose control again—but then he hadn't thought he'd lose control before, either.

"I'm sure," Jackson said.

But he wasn't sure at all.

He wasn't sure until he walked into the hotel room fifteen minutes later and found Connor on his bed, wearing a T-shirt and gray sweatpants, the TV on and turned to a football game.

"What's this?" Jackson asked, trying not to sound overly worried.

Connor glanced up. "Preseason game. Piranhas versus the Rams."

"Didn't know you liked football," Jackson said. See? He could be friendly and casual and not want to pin Connor to his bed and kiss him until neither of them could think straight anymore.

"You don't know much about me," Connor retorted, but his tone was just as light as Jackson's. Like this afternoon in the showers hadn't happened at all.

Like Jackson hadn't seen the happiness and hope and light die out of Connor's eyes when he'd told him it wasn't happening again.

"True," Jackson was forced to admit.

He should bring up the kiss again. Reiterate it wasn't going to happen again. That it couldn't happen again. But maybe he wouldn't have to. Surely the fact that Connor was essentially fully clothed and on his own bed and watching TV like he didn't have a care in the world meant he didn't need to.

Thank God.

"You know Tristan Nicholson?" Connor asked, waving at the screen as a tall, slender man launched himself into the air and caught a football pass like it was nothing.

"Uh, yeah, I guess so."

In some ways, it was nice to look over at professional football and see all the progress they'd made towards acceptance. Tristan Nicholson was one of those leading that charge. And in other ways, it almost made it worse—because baseball hadn't caught up to football yet, and Jackson still felt way too fucking alone.

"He's a friend," Connor said. "Met him a few years back, at a party in LA, and we hit it off."

"You hit it off," Jackson repeated dully. He set his bag on the floor and tried forcing himself to look at the TV. At the handsome face underneath the helmet. And then Tristan pulled his helmet off, returning to the sideline, and the vague pulse of jealousy he felt spiked into something a lot more unpleasant.

"Yeah," Connor said.

Jackson didn't think Connor had ever smiled like that about him. Because you never let him, that uncooperative voice in the back of his head added.

"I thought—" Jackson started to say, but I thought I was the first. The only guy you'd ever been attracted to. Or was that just a lie to seduce me, too?

God, maybe he'd been worked over by an expert. If he had been, maybe he could feel less bad about losing his self-control today. But then he thought of all Connor's clumsy seduction attempts. The ridiculous lines. The over-the-top looks. The way he'd waggled his eyebrows every time he'd taken his shirt off.

"Oh. Oh." Connor laughed a little bitterly. "No, no, not like that. We never hooked up. When I met him, he was already dating his boyfriend. And while they might've been . . .into sharing, I wasn't. Not then. Not with them, anyway. We're just friends."

"Ah. Okay." Jackson felt a little pulse of humiliation that Connor had identified his jealousy that easily. Was he that obvious? Ugh.

He settled down on his own bed, leaning against the headboard, and even though football was not really his thing, he was happy enough to watch the game in silence.

But Connor only was to a point. Because when the game went to commercial, he hit the mute button on the remote and turned to Jackson.

"Are we going to talk about it?"

"Uh, talk about what?" Jackson asked stupidly. Realizing, far too late, that he'd been lulled into complacency, but only until Connor decided to strike.

"You know what about," Connor retorted.

"We said everything that needed to be said," Jackson said cautiously. "It's a mistake. For you. For me. We can't do this. Even in here, in private. It's . . .it's too messy. And you've got too much to risk."

"And you've got nothing to risk then?" Connor asked archly.

Jackson sighed. "I'm not going to lie to you or to myself. I know my career's nearly over. I'm not ever gonna be a major league success. Best I can hope for is to get through this season. Maybe play somewhere next year, if I'm lucky. That's it. But you, you've got a stellar future ahead of you, Connor. Even today, when you pissed me off so much I could barely stand it, I knew how goddamn amazing you pitched."

"Tristan thinks you worrying about me means you give a shit about me," Connor said.

"You talked to Tristan about me?"

Jackson didn't know what to think about this. Tristan Nicholson, who'd set records his rookie year, who had millions of followers on social media not just for his football prowess but because he was a beacon of queer hope to so many, knew his name. Knew his situation.

There was a momentary awe over it—and then of course, the fear came sliding in. What did Tristan really think of him? Did he think he was a coward? Did he think less of him because Tristan had come out and Jackson never had, officially?

"Yeah, I hope that was okay. I didn't . . .well, I didn't share a lot of details," Connor said, suddenly looking nervous and picking at the blanket.

"It's not like I'm some big secret, Connor," Jackson said wryly.

"So is he right, then?"

"Of course I give a shit about you. I give a shit about everyone on this goddamned team," Jackson muttered.

"Right." Connor didn't look happy about his answer, but what else could Jackson have said? Of course you're special, of course you're different than TJ or Ro or Kevin.

If he did, then Connor wouldn't let this go.

He'd drag them both in, no matter how Jackson fought it.

But even then, even knowing what he knew about the situation and about Connor's stubborn streak, Jackson still nearly said, no, wait. I didn't mean it. Come over here, and I'll show you how much I don't mean it.

Instead, Connor turned the mute button off and returned his gaze to the TV like that was all he cared about.

But somehow Jackson didn't feel like the crisis was averted; it only felt delayed.