13. Chapter 13

Connor dug his cleat into the mound and, under the brim of his hat, eyed the batter. Behind him, Jackson's gaze was steady, reassuring even, as he held out his mitt, ready for the ball.

A moment ago, Jackson had given Connor the pitch signal. Slider, outside left corner. It was the middle of the third inning. In the second, he'd let a fastball hang a little too high, fingers slipping on the leather of the ball, and the asshole had hit a home run off him, but that was the only run he'd given up.

It had been a good outing so far. Jackson hadn't even given him any pointers between innings other than a gruff, "Keep it going."

He hadn't even ragged on him about that fastball. He'd just shrugged, like, that happens sometimes. And it did.

Connor even thought he'd done a good job getting past it. They were already two outs down in this inning—a really nice fly ball TJ had caught and a strikeout when the batter hadn't had a clue what to do when Connor brought the real heat.

Now they were on the fourth batter of the order, the best hitter on the team.

Even if Connor hadn't learned, Jackson's demeanor would identify him as clear as day. He always shifted a bit, crowding the guy in at the plate as much as the ump would allow, and he took his sweet time giving the signals.

Charlie had told him once catchers did that because the best hitters were patient—and it was always important to test that patience as much as possible, because if you could make them lose it, they'd lose their advantage.

Connor would never tell Charlie this, but Jackson was better at it than him. Better, too, at making small talk with the ump and disarming him with a clever quip or an unexpected compliment. As a result, Jackson got away with stuff Charlie never did.

Maybe Jackson would never make it in the majors, but he was an exceptional catcher. Funny how that worked—all the little things Jackson did to make him that way, nobody seemed to put as much store in as they should.

Pulling back his arm, Connor focused on the strike zone and then on the exact spot he wanted, before letting the ball fly.

The umpire called it a strike, and the batter made a disgusted face, spitting into the dirt next to home plate.

Jackson signaled for the next pitch. More heat. Low in the zone.

Connor could always tell when a batter pissed Jackson off—he'd always call for the most aggressive round of pitches. And if Jackson really didn't like them, he'd do everything in his power to make the guy strike out without even swinging.

Low was always hard. Because it was so easy for the pitch to go too low, but Connor wasn't just any pitcher. He wound up and threw, his speed hitting the top of his zone, because at this point in the game he was nice and warm and hadn't hit any muscle exhaustion yet.

The batter swung. Missed.

Connor could see Jackson mouth something to the batter, and him mutter something back.

Trash talk, no doubt.

Jackson looked straight at Connor and called for the finishing blow. His best pitch, a high inside fastball that nobody could hit.

But it was even more challenging than the low fastball, with even less room for error.

Connor pulled back and gave the pitch everything he had.

But he could tell, no matter how well Jackson framed it with his glove, selling the strike, it had just missed the zone. Not surprisingly the umpire called it a ball.

Jackson must really hate this guy, because he called for the same pitch again.

Connor shot him a dubious look, but Jackson looked right back, nodding. Like he knew he could do it.

And this time he did, the guy tried to swing, but stopped the bat before it came all the way around. Connor held his breath. He didn't want to go full count with this batter. That would be entirely his advantage then. It had been a risky call, but Jackson must've known what he was doing, because the umpire paused and called it a strikeout.

Connor yelled and pumped his fist. He'd gotten the guy. Even Jackson looked pleased as he jogged in from the mound.

"Hell of a pitch, that last one," Jackson said as they walked down the stairs into the dugout.

"Felt good," Connor said.

"Yeah, you're pitching like an ace tonight," Ro said, patting him on the back as he walked by to his regular spot on the dugout bench.

"Thanks, dude," Connor said, smiling.

It was a weird dichotomy. He did want to get called up. Wanted to hit that pinnacle he'd been chasing most of his life. But if he did, it would mean leaving these guys who'd come to be his friends.

It would mean leaving this team—and even though they were losing and that felt like shit—he'd started to almost feel at home in Raleigh.

Jackson made some crack about the other team's mascot, and it was ridiculous, a fighting shrimp of all fucking things, and the dugout all laughed.

That was when it hit Connor.

If he got called up, he'd leave Jackson behind.

He didn't like the thought of leaving Ro and TJ and Kevin behind. But leaving Jackson? Felt goddamned wretched.

He'd barely caught his breath from that realization when he heard someone else—Charlie or Deke?—say they weren't surprised the big club had sent a scout down for Connor's start today. And Mikey said something about how maybe this might be the last time Connor even started for the Rogues.

On the heels of the other, unpleasant realization, this one had claws and it tore right into him.

Connor watched, barely seeing as Jackson hit a gorgeous double, dropping it down just out of the reach of the left fielder.

But like the Rogues' luck had gone lately, it was a waste.

Nobody else got on base, and Connor hefted himself up, readying for the fourth inning.

He didn't want to get mad at these guys, but some run support would be nice.

Would be nice too, if the scouts didn't come watch your every fucking move, too.

Connor hated it when the scouts showed.

When they dissected him, clocking every single pitch, making notes on every move he made.

Suddenly, he wished he'd been more fucking careful earlier in the game, in the second inning, when that pitch had hung too long, and the guy had cranked it out of right field.

He'd hear about that later. And every other tiny mistake he made.

Connor swallowed hard.

"What's wrong?" Jackson asked as he grabbed his chest plate and buckled it on with a few quick movements.

"Nothing's wrong," Connor muttered. But everything was wrong. There was a scout here. And he was going to get called up before he was ready.

How can you not be ready? You've been ready since the day you were drafted.

He wanted so fucking badly to believe that was true, but Jackson had held up a mirror and made him look at himself unflinchingly. He wasn't quite ready. Close, yes, but his game could use some improvement. They'd been working through some things, and he was better. Especially with his placement. Refusing to rely so heavily on his speed.

Even his attitude—about not just baseball, but about himself, who he was as a person, deep down—was better.

But if they called him up, if he went to the majors, he'd do it alone.

It was funny, because less than a month ago, Connor hadn't even wanted Jackson to catch him.

But now he couldn't imagine anyone else doing it.

"Well," Jackson said, resting a hand on his shoulder, "then let's get out there and get you warmed up. Get you ready." He didn't mention the scout. In fact, until this inning, Connor hadn't heard a word of his appearance at the game.

Which meant, Jackson had deliberately not mentioned it. Same as he'd made sure Andy didn't always clock him with the radar gun every time he practiced.

God—it was the worst fucking thing to be seen so easily. And also the best.

"You got this," Jackson said, an extra dose of reassurance as Connor headed towards the mound.

But do you? Will you? What happens when you're deep in your first major league start and Jackson's not there? What if they take you deep and you can't get over it?

Sure, he'd managed to get over it today.

And now suddenly, he didn't feel over it at all.

He felt consumed by it.

One tiny mistake and he'd given up a run, just like that.

He could only imagine what the scout would write in his report.

And now, of course, that was all he was imagining.

He threw one warmup pitch to Jackson. Then another. And finally a third. He'd barely been in the dugout, the other half of the inning speeding by, because Jackson had been the only guy to make it on base, so he didn't need much time to get set up.

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.

A whole fucking grand slam.

"Listen, sometimes you take the win," Jackson continued. "You got flustered. But you still hit enough of what you needed to that they couldn't score. That matters. Remember this later, when . . ."

Jackson didn't finish his sentence because Deke came over then, to ask him something.

But Connor didn't need Jackson to finish his sentence to know what he'd been about to say.

Remember this later, when you're in the majors, and I'm not around to remind you.

His mood, already terrible, worsened, and it hardly improved when the game ended, still one to zero, and he took the loss, even though he'd made barely one fucking mistake.

The mood in the clubhouse was somber.

In two days, they'd be returning home finally, but they'd lost far more on this road trip than they'd won.

"What we need is a fucking rainout tomorrow," Deke grumbled as they spilled out of the field house door onto the street. He hadn't even suggested heading to the bar. Instead it was just him, Jackson, Kevin, TJ, Ro, and Connor heading back to the hotel to lick their wounds in peace.

Connor didn't even feel like teasing Jackson about licking his wounds personally. He might've before this, but now it just felt pointless. Jackson wasn't going to give in. He'd leave Raleigh and Jackson behind without ever getting a taste of what he really craved.

"Yeah, seriously," TJ agreed.

Connor glanced upwards at the sky. It was dark, but from the stars shining above them, it was clear there wouldn't be rain anytime soon.

"Too bad," Deke said morosely.

They got back to the hotel, and Connor asked Jackson if he wanted to watch something on TV but he just shrugged.

Connor wished he hadn't showered at the ballpark so he could have the excuse of a long hot shower—if Jackson wasn't going to give him satisfaction, then he'd just have to rely on his right hand—but he also didn't want Jackson to know what he was doing, either.

So instead, he landed on the bed, and tried to pretend he wasn't bored as hell.

At first, Jackson tried to ignore how Connor kept shifting around on the bed. Tried to keep his attention to his tablet, where he was unsuccessfully trying to get into the latest mystery he'd downloaded.

He didn't know if it was the book, or just him.

Deke's words kept echoing through his head. What we need is a fucking rainout.

They sure did. The team was sluggish. Exhausted, but at the same time, it was clear they were also antsy and bored. What they needed was not just a break, but a way to remind them that they weren't just a group of guys who'd accidentally ended up together, but a team.

Teams played as one, but right now the Rogues were playing like nine separate players and it was killing them.

And maybe, before, Jackson could have let it continue to kill them, but somehow, in the middle of all this bullshit, he'd begun to care about the Raleigh Rogues.

He turned to Connor, who was drumming his fingers on his knee, scrolling through something on his phone.

"You wanna go out?" Jackson asked.

Connor looked over at him in surprise. "I thought you didn't want to."

"It's better than sitting in here, listening to you fidget," Jackson said. He had an idea. Kind of a crazy idea. But he thought he knew how they could pull it off—and get away with it, too.

"Sorry," Connor said. "I'm—"

"I know." God, he knew, without Connor even finishing his sentence. He was horny. Worked up. And there was not only no end in sight, but only more endless torture to come.

Connor shot him a look. "Nothing stopping you from hooking up with someone."

Jackson noticed how he didn't even suggest himself this time. Had Connor finally given up? He didn't know if he was relieved about that—or disappointed.

"Only sanity," Jackson retorted. "Where am I gonna find someone to hook up with?"

"I don't know," Connor grumbled.

"You could, though," Jackson said, before he could decide this whole conversation was a terrible idea. "You could probably walk into any bar in town and find a very willing lady."

"If that was even what I wanted anymore," Connor grumbled.

It should have made him feel better.

It did not.

"Alright, so we'll go out then," Jackson said. He pulled himself off the bed, tossed his tablet on the bedside table, and slipped his shoes back on.

"Come on, you don't need to primp," he added as Connor did the same, but unlike Jackson, stopped by the mirror on their way out of the room.

"I don't? My hair—"

"Is fine," Jackson said, steering him out the door.

"Are you sure?" Connor asked, frowning. He stopped in the hallway, halfway to the elevator. Like he was actually tempted to go back to the room and fix it.

Jackson put his hands on his shoulders. Looked him straight in the eye, even though it made him tremble deep inside. He wanted to be immune to Connor's looks, and at some point, surely he had been, but it felt like that time had long since passed.

Now he looked at the guy and all he wanted was to eat him up.

"Trust me," Jackson said wryly, "you look good."

Connor grinned. "Ditto. Trust me, you're hot."

Jackson dropped his hands. "That wasn't my point."

"No, but it was a happy accident." To Jackson's relief, Connor changed the subject. Because if Connor kept looking at him like that—like Jackson kept looking at him—in the middle of this dingy hotel hallway, God only knew what would happen. "Where are we going?"

"First, to grab TJ and Ro. Deke and Kevin, too."

"To do what?"

"Just trust me." Jackson paused, realizing that maybe he didn't, and that would fucking suck if it was true.

But Connor smiled, wide and happy. "Alright, I think I can manage that." Okay, maybe he did, after all.

It took a few minutes, but they finished gathering their group. They took off out the front door of the hotel, but Jackson refused to answer questions until they were halfway back to the ballpark.

"Are you kidding me?" TJ asked as they rounded the corner, the tall brick walls of it coming into sight. "We're gonna play more? I'm tired, man."

"No," Jackson said. He headed towards the little-used side door and typed the code he'd seen taped up inside Andy's locker. The door unlocked, and they walked right in.

For a second, Jackson had been sure alarms were going to blare. Or some security guard with an over-hyped sense of law and order was going to come out of the shadows and tase them.

But nothing happened.

Okay—it was definitely on.

"If we're not gonna play, what are we gonna do then?" Kevin wanted to know.

"Deke, you said you wanted a rainout. So, we're gonna give you a rainout," Jackson said as he led them down through the maze of barely lit narrow hallways running under the stands, hoping he was going the right direction.

He'd been in this ballpark a handful of times—once you'd been in one though, it felt like you'd been in all of them—and sure enough, when he pushed open a door all the way at the end of a dark hallway, TJ holding his phone flashlight up to give them enough light to see, there was a little courtyard at the far end, past the first base line, where the grounds crew kept all their equipment.

Including all the hoses.

"It's mostly artificial turf. How are you gonna do that?" Kevin questioned as they walked out. There was a light that flashed on, for security, and for a second, Jackson was sure their goose was cooked, but nothing happened. "The water's just gonna drain away. And if you take it to the outfield, then that'll just destroy the grass."

"We're not destroying anything. We're gonna plug some of the drains in the turf. That'll just mean the water hangs around longer. They won't have time to drain it properly and get it ready when they show up tomorrow morning. Bingo. Rainout." Jackson grabbed a hose and began to unwind it from its hook. "You gonna help me or am I gonna do this myself?"

Deke grinned and took the hose from his hands as Jackson cranked the water on. "I got you," he said, giving it a tug and unwinding it as Ro opened the wooden door that led out onto the field.

"You three—plug the drains," Jackson suggested.

"With what?" TJ asked, looking around helplessly.

Jackson shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know! Find something. Be resourceful."

TJ nodded, and when he left, jogging out after Deke, Kevin and Ro trailed after him.

Leaving him and Connor alone.

"Are you crazy?" Connor hissed at him under his breath.

Jackson grabbed a second hose. Both these hoses were already hooked up to water and had a nozzle at the end to control the flow of water. He tested it, pulling the lever back, and it worked great, soaking the ground at his feet.

"No," he said.

But Connor didn't leave it there. He put a hand over Jackson's. "I don't want—" He swallowed hard. Jackson could see his throat working. "I don't want you to get in trouble."

"It's just some water, Clark. Besides, I heard some of the maintenance guys talking two days ago. I guess this is a common prank with high school kids. They'll blame them. So just lighten up." He finished pulling the hose off its hook, and he wasn't sure if Connor would follow him out onto the field, but he did.

"I'm light," Connor grumbled.

But he wasn't.

He hadn't been ever since he'd heard about that stupid scout. Instead, he'd been all up in his own head.

There were lots of ways to fix that particular problem. Jackson should know, he was practically a fucking expert in overthinking. The easiest way to stop Connor from doing it would be to lean over and kiss him until they both stopped thinking entirely, but that wasn't going to happen.

No matter how much you want it to.

Instead, Jackson did the next best thing. He lifted the hose, turning the nozzle on—but instead of turning it onto the turf, he flicked it up right at Connor.

As the stream of cool water hit him, he yelped, so high and shocked Jackson couldn't help the laugh that exploded out of him.

"What the fuck?" Connor retorted, dodging the water, but Jackson wasn't so easily deterred and he hit him again, and this time, it was Connor laughing even as he tried to avoid getting soaked to the skin.

"Guess your hair's pretty messed up now," Jackson teased, raising the stream and aiming it towards the top of his head, but Connor ducked, and only a light shower of water droplets misted around his head.

"You're the pain in the ass," Connor complained as he tried to find a way to get out of the line of fire. "You pretend to be all solid and dependable, but inside, you're all . . ." He evaded the water again. For a tall guy, he was actually pretty agile.

"Oh my God, what are you two doing?" Deke asked, jogging up. "What happened to being careful?"

Jackson didn't know. He'd left careful right back in the hotel room, apparently.

Because it also made perfect sense to turn the water onto Deke—and it was on after that.

Deke slipped and slid across the wet turf and then nailed Jackson in the face with water from his own hose.

Jackson yelped as the chilly water hit him. It was cold, sure, but it actually felt good, cooling down his overheated body from the humidity outside and also the inner heat Connor kept generating inside him.

"What the fuck," Ro shouted as he ran over to them. Behind him, TJ tackled him, and laughing, Jackson hit him with the hose the second he was down.

The artificial turf meant there wasn't any mud, but a few minutes later, they were all soaked to the skin, and Jackson's stomach hurt, he'd been laughing so hard.

He looked over at Connor, lying on the turf, shirt plastered to his chest, and felt something unwind inside him at the carefree smile on his face.

"Hey," Ro called out, "I'm gonna go make sure the drains are holding."

When Jackson looked over again, he realized Kevin and Deke and TJ had left with him, and again he and Connor were alone.

He rolled over and his eyes met Connor's. His clothes were all soaked, and he might've been clammy, but the look in Connor's face as his gaze swept Jackson's body, head to toe, heated him right back up again.

"This was . . .this was good." Jackson could see Connor take a long breath and then another, inhaling and then exhaling, his chest rising and falling.

Suddenly, the want bloomed so bright and hot it was like a supernova inside him. Normally, the strength of it would make him turn away, would make him afraid.

But instead, today, he felt drawn to it. Drawn to Connor. Found himself shifting closer on the turf before he even realized he was doing it.

You're playing with fire.

"Yeah, it was," Jackson agreed. Reached out and brushed Connor's arm with his own.

Connor's gaze darkened. "What are you doing?"

What was he doing?

He was afraid he was giving in—and didn't give a shit any longer.

"Come on," Jackson said and got to his feet, tugging Connor with him through the swinging doors into the equipment storage and then, because that wasn't enough privacy, he kept pulling them. Until they were behind a little wooden shack at the edge of the courtyard.

"What—" Connor said, but Jackson didn't let him get another word out. Pressed him back up against the rickety wooden wall and kissed him.

Connor groaned in the back of his throat as their lips met, and his hand, still slippery wet, cupped Jackson's cheek as he dragged him in closer.

He was cold and hot, all at the same time, the heat radiating out of Connor's body, the cold fabric plastered against it. Jackson could feel every inch of him, like his hands were coasting over bare skin already.

Both times they'd kissed—in the showers and then now—Jackson had wondered if Connor would hold back. If he would approach him nervously, or apprehensively.

But there was nothing nervous or afraid about the way Connor was kissing him now. He felt wild and abandoned in Jackson's arms, kissing him back like that was all he'd ever wanted.

It wasn't all Jackson wanted though. He craved so much more. He wanted to strip Connor down. Touch him everywhere. Feel Connor touch him back.

He'd been hard from the first brush of his lips against Connor's, but he'd been keeping his hips carefully angled away, worried that his erection might be the thing that freaked Connor out once and for all.

But Connor's hips moved restlessly against his own, and when his dick finally pushed up against Connor's hard, muscled thigh, it wasn't only his groan he heard.

Well. Shit.

So much for having a gay freakout.

Connor had claimed he was all-in on this, and everything he was doing right now proved it.

He wanted Jackson just as badly as Jackson wanted him.

And if his self-control hadn't already been rapidly evaporating, disappearing into smoke with every brush of Connor's tongue against his own, that knowledge would've been enough to do it.

Connor pulled back a fraction and Jackson nearly reeled him right back in. He wasn't done yet; he wasn't ever going to be done.

"God, you can't just . . ." Connor trailed off. But he hardly looked like he wanted to argue. His mouth was red and wet and felt as soft as it looked. His hair, mussed from their water fight and then Jackson's hands, falling over his forehead. Blue eyes, their cerulean color almost totally swallowed by the growing darkness of his pupils. He was a debauched angel come to life, and if Jackson wanted him, he could have him.

"Can't what?" Jackson asked, his voice gruff. Rough with longing.

"Push me away again," Connor said.

Like Jackson even could.

You did it once before.

Yes, he had. In a last-ditch desperate attempt to prevent this very thing, but maybe it was inevitable. It was fated that Connor Clark would saunter into his life, casually demolish all of Jackson's good intentions, and then probably walk right back out again.

Was it so wrong if he took all the parts of him that he could have, while he could have them?

Jackson didn't know, but in the end, it didn't matter if it was wrong or it was right, because he was going to do it anyway.

He leaned in again, pressing his whole body against Connor's glorious one, and kissed him again, long and sweet and hot, and hoped that was answer enough.