18. Chapter 18

The next day, after the game, Connor was sitting on the bench in the clubhouse, picking dirt out of his cleats when Mikey, their skipper, came in, and there was a different look on his face. One Connor didn't think he'd seen before.

"Clark!" he shouted. "Come see me in my office."

Normally at that kind of pronouncement, there'd be a teasing wave of ominous predictions. But nobody said a word.

Everyone knew what was happening. Even Connor knew what was happening as he obediently rose and followed Mikey into his office.

Shut the door.

Sat down.

Waited for him to say that he was moving on. Moving up. Taking the next inevitable step. It was the obvious conclusion—the end of all the steps he'd taken before this.

If anybody had told him a month ago that he'd feel conflicted about it, he'd have told them they were fucking crazy. That he'd worked practically his whole life for this, for a chance to be a major league pitcher.

But now, instead of feeling unconstrained joy, it was tinged with something that might've been regret, if Connor had looked at it too closely.

But he didn't.

He couldn't.

"Well, you got your wish," Mikey drawled, settling a hip on the corner of his desk. "Major league club wants you up for the next few weeks. Maybe the rest of the season. Congratulations, Connor. You did it."

There was an unspoken, wasn't sure you'd get there, but you buckled down and got it done, in the end, in Mikey's face, but that didn't matter because he had.

If he was more delusional, he could say all he wanted to do was share this news with Jackson because he'd been instrumental in Connor turning that final corner.

Jackson had been instrumental, but that wasn't only why.

"Thanks, sir," Connor said.

"Sheila will get together your travel stuff. And there's a temporary place for you to stay in Tampa, when you get there."

"When am I leaving?"

"In the morning, son." Mikey reached out, patted him on the knee. "Don't have to look like you're headed to the gallows. You're going to be great up there."

"I wasn't—I'm not . . ." But he probably did look like that.

"And I know they have great catchers up there."

Catchers who aren't Jackson.

"Right, of course. I guess I'd better . . ." He trailed off. Uncertain what he should say. Celebrate? Cry into my locker?

"Sure, son." Mikey grinned. "And enjoy yourself up there."

Connor nodded and stood, suddenly, painfully aware that he was going to have to tell Jackson somehow.

And it wasn't just going to be that kinda catch ya later, babe conversation he'd once imagined—in his very delusional past—they'd have. Instead, it was going to have a very I know we might never see each other again, but I want to. Desperately. Can we do that? flavor.

He didn't know how Jackson would react to that, but surely it would be good, right?

It had to be good.

But when he exited Mikey's office and headed back into the clubhouse, Jackson was no longer there. He'd left.

But he couldn't have.

Deke must have seen the panicked expression on his face, because he walked over. "You alright?" he asked under his breath. "It's what we thought, right? You got called up."

Connor nodded.

"We all thought so. Been pitching lights out," Deke said, and the hug he gave him was clearly sincere.

But it didn't answer where the fuck Jackson had gone to.

"He left," Deke said.

Maybe Ro was right and he didn't have a poker face. Maybe his distress was written all over it, painfully laid bare for everyone in this room to see. Before, he'd have hated being so exposed, but now he didn't give a shit. He only wanted to find Jackson.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No," Deke said, his expression morphing into sympathy. "But if I had to bet, I'd say he headed in the direction of the Strike Zone."

"Yeah, he's gonna want to celebrate with you for sure," Ro said, coming up and patting him on the back.

Deke looked like he knew better.

Connor wanted to believe better, but he had a horrible sinking feeling that wasn't why Jackson had headed to the Strike Zone.

"Alright." Connor grabbed his wallet and phone from his locker. "Who's up for a drink? We're celebrating."

There was a round of cheers that went through the clubhouse. These guys were genuinely happy for him. Why couldn't he be happy for himself?

On their way to the Strike Zone, he checked his phone, but, no big surprise, Jackson hadn't texted him.

Jackson wasn't much of a texter, even during the best of times. He was just going to have to get better at it, Connor decided, as they walked into the Strike Zone.

Sure enough, there was Jackson, all the way at the end of the bar. Connor watched as he took one shot and then another.

Jackson drank, but he rarely went for liquor, usually sticking to beer.

Not tonight, though. Connor watched as he held up a hand, ordering another—and from the hard look on his face, it wasn't a celebratory sort of "another round, please" request.

Deke put a hand on Connor's shoulder, and he realized he hadn't just been looking at Jackson, bent over the bar, but staring.

"I'll go talk to him," Deke said.

"Shouldn't I . . ." Connor trailed off but Deke pinned him with a look that spoke volumes. That said he knew what was actually going on. Oh. Oh. Jackson must have told him. Connor wasn't mad about it, but he was surprised.

"No," Deke said firmly. "Let me deal with this. Celebrate with your guys, okay?"

When Connor still hesitated, Deke patted him. "I promise you," he said softly, "he's happy for you. He is. He's just . . .facing his own mortality. Sometimes that's not a very pretty conversation."

"I could do it," Connor argued. "I should do it."

"No, because then you'd end up believing he isn't happy for you, and trust me, that's the last thing Jackson wants."

"Alright."

Ro and TJ, Kevin and Charlie, were already congregating at a few big tables towards the front, Millie weaving in between them, a bright smile on her face, especially when Connor walked over to them.

"Oh my God, Connor, congrats!" she exclaimed when he got closer. She pulled him into a tight hug, and when she released him, she added, "I'm just so tickled for you. This is so amazing. The majors!"

"Yeah," Connor said.

It was amazing.

It was what he'd worked his whole life for, and damn Jackson to hell for making him not as happy about it as he should be.

He turned to his teammates. "How about a round on me?"

They cheered again, and Millie nodded. "I got you guys," she said. "And Connor—enjoy your night."

"What crawled up his ass and died?" TJ asked as he glanced over to where Deke had taken the barstool next to Jackson's.

Connor shrugged. He really, really did not want to talk about Jackson.

"I heard, in the show," Ro said excitedly, "someone carries your bags for you. And you don't have to share a room. And they actually let you get room service."

Good. Connor would much rather talk about how fucking awesome the rest of his career would be than to mope about Jackson Evans.

"I heard the room service thing too," Kevin said, picking up a shot from the tray Millie had just set down. "To the Comet—who's gonna get righteously spoiled now!"

Everyone clinked shot glasses and that first shot going down Connor's throat felt good.

Loosened something inside him.

"Hell yes," he said.

Maybe he couldn't ever go back to that carefree, careless guy who'd danced around this bar with his shirt off, hitting on every woman in the vicinity, surreptitiously buying rounds for his friends, but he could enjoy himself.

"Did Mikey say for how long you'd be up?" Kevin asked.

"Maybe through the end of the season." The major league team was fighting for a wild card spot in the playoffs, and if they made the playoffs, the roster expanded even more. If Connor could earn his spot, then he'd stay up. Maybe even see a few of his Rogues teammates join him when the playoffs started.

"That's fucking awesome," Charlie said, slapping him on the back. "God, Connor, I'm so proud of you."

For a split second, Connor thought, why the fuck couldn't Jackson be the catcher saying that to me? But then he pushed it away, pushed it down, and grabbed another shot from the tray.

There was no question that Jackson and he would be having some kind of reckoning—at some point—but there was no reason he couldn't enjoy himself before.

"You're gonna fuck this up," Deke said in a low voice as he slid onto the barstool next to Jackson.

Whiskey was burning at the back of Jackson's throat, but he didn't need the booze to tell him the guy was speaking the truth.

He was fucking this all up. Maybe on purpose. Maybe accidentally. All Jackson knew was the moment Mikey had shown up in the clubhouse after the game, the look on his face had made it clear what was happening, and since then, the roaring in his ears hadn't stopped.

"Don't need advice, thanks," Jackson mumbled into his whiskey.

"You should be over there, celebrating with him. Especially you. You turned him into a major leaguer, Jackson. You were exactly what he needed." Deke paused. "And maybe he was exactly what you needed, too."

"Don't start."

"That was you who started it, man," Deke said wryly. "No matter what happened between you two, he deserves for you to go over there and buy him a drink and tell him just how proud you are of him."

"You think I'm not?" That hurt more than Jackson had thought. And he already thought the pain was sharp enough, cutting him every time he thought about Connor leaving tomorrow.

"I know you are. But he doesn't. He thinks you're . . .I don't know . . .sulking."

"I'm not fucking sulking," Jackson said. Except he was. "If it was just fucking baseball, I'd be the first one over there."

Deke looked surprised—but how could he be? He'd seen this coming, from the very beginning. "You care about him."

Jackson raised his glass of whiskey. "Cheers. Took you long enough, but you got there."

"I just . . .I thought . . ."

"It was just sex?" God, he wished it had just been sex. He'd sort of intended it to be, in the beginning, though he hadn't ever really thought of it in those terms, exactly. But he wasn't delusional enough to believe that it was just anything now.

"Well, I guess you are fucked, then."

"Thanks," Jackson said dryly.

"Still, you should go over there. You can pretend for one night that it's alright between you. Send him off with style and lick your wounds, after."

"Yeah." He knew he should do exactly what Deke was saying. But goddamn, he had been doing what he should do for so fucking long, he didn't think he could do it any longer. Couldn't swallow the feelings swirling inside him down one more fucking time.

Maybe he could have, if they were just run-of-the-mill feelings. But these were his feelings for Connor.

He wasn't like anyone else.

There'd been a time when he'd have sneered at that, frustrated and angry that Connor was who he was. But now, everything that changed—and he hadn't even realized it was morphing into something else, until tonight, when Mikey had walked in with that particular expression Jackson recognized all too well.

And something in him had broken.

"You're not going to," Deke said, comprehension dawning across his face.

"I . . .can't." Jackson's voice cracked, embarrassingly.

"You don't just care about him. You love him."

"Thank you, I'd managed to not use that word, yet," Jackson said, tossing the rest of his whiskey back. Gestured to the bartender for another. "Guess it's hard to put it back in the jar, once it's out."

"Yeah." Deke's expression was so painfully sympathetic. Jackson hated it.

"I guess it's also pretty fucking selfish for me to sit here and mope about it," Jackson said.

"You said it, not me."

If he really loved Connor, if he cared about him the way he must, what kind of person would he be if he stayed over here, sulking?

Surely he could do this, one more time, if it was in service to someone he cared about?

A man worthy of Connor Clark would do it.

And that was what decided him.

The bartender slid another short glass, half-full, across the bar. Jackson reached for it, gripping it like a lifeline. If he was going to do this, he'd need plenty of booze. "Alright," he said to Deke. "Let's go."

The way his heart beat when Connor saw him approaching, joy and delight lighting up his handsome face, would've told him everything he needed to know if he hadn't already had his realization.

"Look who's decided to join us," TJ said wryly.

"Just had to get the party started early," Jackson said, tipping the edge of his glass against Connor's shot glass. "Congrats, Connor. You deserve it."

"Not the song you were singing when you showed up," Connor said. It felt like he was saying something more with his eyes. Asking a question. Was it, are you okay? Or maybe it was more of a plea than a question: I need you to be okay.

Jackson didn't know which it was. Felt a pulse of shame that his first reaction had been to hide. To bury his feelings—to bury everything—in booze.

There was not enough booze in the world to cauterize this wound.

Jackson already knew that.

But if it meant Connor going off to the majors with a smile, he'd bleed all over this fucking bar.

"What can I say?" he said, waving his glass. "You're like fucking mold, Clark. You grow on a man."

Connor grinned, all the questions, all the pleas, all the shadows disappearing out of his eyes. And Jackson knew that even if this hurt like hell, it would be worth it.

Millie showed up again with more shots.

He took one, even though he should know better than to mix tequila with whiskey.

Should've known better than to mix love and baseball, too.

"Do you know the difference between a major leaguer and a lifelong minor leaguer?" Jackson asked, because get enough booze in him, he apparently couldn't stop talking. Or maybe that was the pain. It was easier distracting himself from it than focusing on it.

"I'll tell you," Jackson continued. "It's fifty fucking points. Hitting .250 means you're in the minors for life. But you hit .300? Different fucking story. And you know how many hits that is? Twenty-five. Twenty-five hits in five hundred at-bats is fifty points. Six months in a season. That's about 25 weeks. That means if you get just one extra hit a week, you're not slumming it out here in the bus leagues, you're in Yankee Stadium."

Everyone around the table nodded, most looking solemn. Too solemn. God, why was he like this? Had sticking his dick into Connor changed him that much?

No, that didn't change a goddamn thing. You were already fucking gone.

"If y'all don't listen to Jackson here, you're stupider than I realized," Connor said, loyally, wrapping an arm around Jackson's shoulders.

Jackson took another shot and then another, the night swirling into a haze of booze and laughter. Every single time Connor looked at him, he knew it. Could feel it deep down.

Knew what was coming, even before they finally stumbled out of the Strike Zone, hours later.

"Hey," Connor said, grabbing his arm. "I'm comin' with you."

"Are you?" Jackson raised an eyebrow. But he'd known it, known it from the first moment. "Can't get enough, huh?"

"Yes, and no," Connor hissed.

Who would've thought that the drunkest person at this party tonight would be him, and not Connor?

But it was true.

Nobody was sober, but there was no question that he'd done his level best to bury everything in booze. And that, Jackson realized, hadn't been for what he'd already endured, but what was to come.

"Guess I won't turn you away," Jackson teased, the alcohol in his veins making it easier to make light of the situation, when all he wanted to do was fall to his knees, beat the sidewalk with his bare fists, and howl at how fucking unfair this all was.

Nobody looked surprised when Connor ended up trailing after Jackson, heading to his studio, and if Jackson was more sober, he'd have been a lot more concerned about the possibility that not only Deke had realized the truth, but the rest of their team suspected too.

The walk to Jackson's apartment felt like it went by in a flash, and the moment they were alone, the door closed behind them, Connor's expression turned determined.

Great.

"We need to talk," Connor said, heading to the sink and filling two glasses with water. Handing one to Jackson, who left it on the counter as he bypassed to the fridge and grabbed a beer instead.

Connor made a face. "Is it so bad?" he demanded. "Is it so fucking bad I'm going to the majors that you have to get drunker than I've ever seen you to deal with it?"

"No. No." Jackson hated that he'd made Connor feel this way—he'd intended the opposite. But just like everything else, he'd fucked this up too. He reached for Connor, who batted his hands away.

Okay. That was good. Jackson had to remind himself again that Connor pushing him away right now was the best possible thing. Meant that maybe he wouldn't need to be the one doing the right thing in the end.

"You can't do that shit right now. You touch me and I get . . . muddled. I can't think straight. I want you too goddamned bad." Connor took a deep breath. "I know what you're trying to do, and all I wanted to tell you tonight is that it's not gonna work."

Jackson licked his lips. "No?"

"No." Connor looked as stubborn as he'd ever been. He pushed the glass of water towards Jackson again. "You'd better drink that—and a hell of a lot more, if you don't want to feel like shit in the morning."

"Somehow, I think I'm gonna feel like shit, anyway," Jackson muttered. "At least after this conversation."

He didn't need to say why. He could see the comprehension dawning on Connor's face.

"Are you really gonna try to pretend this was just sex to you? And now you're gonna push me away, say it's over, and I just go along with it?"

"Yep."

Maybe he wouldn't have to actually say it. Maybe Connor would just get pissed off, annoyed at his behavior, and do it for him.

That wouldn't be easy, but it would be easier.

"You're such an asshole." But Connor didn't sound annoyed. Didn't look annoyed either. There was something glowing in his eyes, written all over his fucking face, as he stepped closer to Jackson, cupped his cheeks with his palms. "Such an unbelievable asshole."

Jackson swallowed hard. Looked away. "I know," he said gruffly.

It was true, so why didn't Connor look like he believed it?

"There's something between us," Connor continued. "I know you know it. You wouldn't be so upset otherwise."

"Maybe I'm just in mourning for the end of my career," Jackson retorted.

Connor shook his head. "Sure, yeah, maybe you are, but it's more than that. We both know it, Jackson. This . . .maybe we didn't set out to have it mean something, but it did. It does."

He'd known what he needed to do. Jackson couldn't say he'd planned for it, but deep down, he'd understood that when Connor got called up, this would happen. And he'd need to take one for the team.

Even the thought of it had sucked, so he'd shoved it away every time.

But there was no shoving it away now.

"It can't happen, Connor. You know that. I told you that, at the very beginning."

Connor crossed his arms over his chest. "You did, and I thought you understood you were just plain fucking wrong."

"Of course you thought that." Jackson reached for the water. He did have to play tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, Connor would fly to Tampa and yet the earth would keep turning. Life would keep happening. Baseball games still needed to be played.

It was just his world that felt like it was ending.

"Why can't we keep doing this?"

"I don't know, 'cause you're gonna be in Tampa, doing this." Jackson motioned upwards with his hand. "And I'm gonna be here, doing this." He turned his hand downwards, and even added a little crashing airplane noise that any other time, would've made him smile.

"Not forever. I know Deke has got someone, and they make it work."

"That someone isn't in baseball and I think if you really asked him, he'd tell you the truth about how fucking impossible it is."

"So, it's hard? And you just give up?" Connor took a step forward and then another until he was in Jackson's face, pushing right into his bubble of personal space. "I thought you were more than that. Better than that. You're Jackson Evans. You can do anything you set your mind to."

"Except make the majors." The confession was bitter on his tongue.

Connor's face softened. "I know this sucks for you. If I could take you with me, I would. You deserve it. I don't know why some people make it, and others don't. You should have."

"I told you why," Jackson said. "And the same thing is gonna happen to you, if you're not careful." He didn't have to tell Conor that insisting they stay ‘together' was not being careful.

"It's a risk I'm willing to take because . . ." Connor trailed off, and for a second, Jackson thought he might actually get away without Connor making everything even worse than it already was.

But of course, that wasn't in the cards.

Connor's expression turned vulnerable. He could hurt him, Jackson knew. He should hurt him, because maybe in the end it would save him.

Right now, he didn't know which was worse.

"I'm willing to risk it," Connor continued, in a softer, exposed voice, "because I've never felt like this before. And I know you feel the same way I do. You wouldn't be working so goddamn hard to push me away if you didn't."

Jackson turned away. Swallowed hard. "Remember what I told you. Don't shake off the signals. Take it goddamned seriously, like the opportunity this is. Play the game with a combination of fear and arrogance, okay? Like you own every moment, but every moment they could just snatch it away."

"That's all you've got? Baseball advice?"

Jackson shrugged. It was better than crying.

Then he felt Connor's fingers on his chin, gently raising it so he could look right into that gorgeous face, one more time.

He knew the kiss was coming, but like every time, he was helpless to resist it. Felt himself sink into it, as Connor wrapped his arms around him.

It was a thank you.

An I'm sorry.

An I don't hate you, even if I should.

An I love you.

Then it was over, Connor breaking the kiss, fingers still lingering on his jaw, as he murmured, "It's okay. I understand. When you get your head out of your ass, you have my number."

Jackson didn't open his eyes until the door closed behind him.

And then he cried.