19. Chapter 19

"It's a beautiful ballpark, Jackson," his mom said, as he leaned against the first row of seats in the lower bowl.

Farther down the open concourse, Annie and Constance were running around, their laughter echoing throughout the empty stands, Becca chasing after them.

"Yeah, it really is." Jackson agreed.

It felt like for the last three days, all he'd been able to do was to put one foot in front of the other, painfully going through the motions, until he could get alone and stop pretending that he wasn't suffering.

He'd almost forgotten his mom and sister had made plans to bring his nieces here for the weekend, but then his mom's text had reminded him that at least he had something to occupy his time when he wasn't pretending to play baseball.

Of course, the downside of that was that Charlene Evans knew him well. Too well.

So far, during lunch and the tour of the ballpark, they'd talked about everything but how he was pretending everything was okay, but it wasn't okay at all.

"A fitting place to end your career," she said softly.

Jackson's gaze shot up. "I'm not—"

"Then tell me what has you so upset you can barely look at me or Becca. It's like you're only going through the motions, Jackson. I was sure it was because you'd decided to hang it up, finally."

"I haven't decided anything." Except what a stupid jerk he was. He never should have gotten involved with Connor. Of course he'd known that, when it had happened, and he'd tried everything he could to prevent it. He just hadn't been . . .well, something enough.

"Then what is it?"

Jackson debated what to tell her. She knew the bare bones of what had happened with Davy. Knew how much he blamed himself. How he'd never do that again.

"Connor got called up."

"Oh," she said, sounding happy for him, but something in his face must've stopped her. "Is that not a good thing?"

"It's . . ." Jackson cleared his throat of the lump that inevitably arrived whenever he thought of Connor and how they had left things. He wanted to make it right. But how to do that? How to fix it without compromising Connor's career? It was a conundrum he hadn't solved yet. "It's a great thing. And the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

"Oh, Jackson," Charlene said and walked over, putting her arms around him. "You love him, don't you?"

"I don't know. Maybe," he croaked. Even though yes, she was probably right.

Nothing but love could feel this horrible.

"The way you talked about him. I wondered before. And he loves you, too, doesn't he?"

"If he does, I don't know why," Jackson confessed. I fucked it all up. I pushed him away, because I've never been so scared. And it wasn't for me, this time, it was all for him.

"Jackson," she said reproachfully, taking a step back, giving him the look he'd always mentally thought of as "the mom eye."

"When he got called up, I didn't handle it well."

"Why do I think that's an understatement?" she said, rolling her eyes. "Why not? Did he tell you it was over?"

"The opposite, actually." That wasn't easy to admit. That Connor had handled himself way better than Jackson had. Of course, Connor wasn't the one being left behind. But no matter how much he'd told himself that, it hadn't helped alleviate his guilt over how he'd acted.

"You know what happened with Davy," he continued defensively. "How could I risk his career? If I did . . .if I did love him, wouldn't it be better if I chose the safe thing? The thing that gives him the kind of brilliant future he deserves?"

"Honey. You just said it yourself. You chose. Doesn't he get a choice, too?"

"He doesn't know what he wants."

"I don't know him, don't know what's really happened between you," she admitted, "but from everything you've told me about Connor Clark, I think he does, and you know it, and it terrifies you."

"Of course it fucking does."

She smacked him in the shoulder. "Jackson Calvin. Language."

"Sorry, Momma," he said, with a sheepish smile. "I'm just . . ."

"Messed up. I know. I can tell."

"Great," he retorted sarcastically.

He didn't know why he'd thought he could hide this from her, but clearly, he'd been delusional.

But she was smiling. "You could still fix it, you know?"

"Fix what?"

Becca was back, a daughter on each hand, her eyes shaded by a Raleigh Rogues cap, her hair falling long and straight and brown, the exact same color as his own, down her back.

She didn't look old enough to have two daughters—or to raise them by herself, but she'd done it, anyway.

"Are you okay, Uncle Jack?" Constance, barely six, let go of her mother's hand and bopped right over to where he stood. He picked her up and set her at his hip.

"Now that you're here, I'm just fine," Jackson told her and meant it.

"Seriously, what's wrong?" Becca asked under her breath as Jackson set Constance down and she and her sister ran to see the mascot, who'd just arrived on the concourse.

"Connor got called up," Charlene said and Becca nodded knowingly.

"Wait, how did you even know about him?" Jackson questioned.

"Mom told me," Becca said, very reasonably. "Told me how you acted whenever you talked about him. Honestly, it seemed pretty obvious."

"Great." Jackson couldn't pretend to be happy about this.

"You know, you could make it right. Reach out to him. Apologize."

It wasn't like Jackson hadn't thought about it. He'd thought about nothing else over the last three days. But he didn't know how to ‘make it right' without giving Connor what he wanted.

And he didn't know how to give Connor what he—and Jackson too—wanted, without compromising his career.

They were right back to the same puzzle they'd faced at the beginning, nowhere closer to a resolution.

"How can I?" Jackson watched as his nieces high-fived the mascot—a racoon with a black mask strung across his eyes.

"You just do it," Becca said bluntly. "You feel bad? You apologize."

"When he's making his first start?" Charlene asked.

"Good question. I don't know."

"But you could always look it up," Becca pointed out dryly.

Ugh. He loved his sister. She was brilliant. But that brilliance cut both ways.

"I could." He could ask any number of the guys in the clubhouse. They'd know, too. He was sure the only person pretending that Connor Clark didn't exist was him.

"There you go," Charlene said, smiling as she patted his arm. "You send him a nice good luck message. That'll go a long way to fixing it."

It wouldn't fix it at all, but it was something he could do.

Jackson considered the suggestion from every angle—and most of them more than once—as he escorted them back to their hotel room before he had to return to the ballpark for batting practice.

He knew what he wanted to do, and he knew exactly what was stopping him.

"Hey," Kevin said as he took a few warmup swings, waiting for Deke to finish his own batting session, "you hear from Connor?"

Jackson forced himself not to grimace. "No," he said. Hoped that Kevin wouldn't find that odd. Wouldn't decide to ask why the hell he hadn't.

"He texted me. Said he's making his first start tonight."

Well. That didn't give him very long to decide what he was going to do—but then, in the end, was there really a decision?

He already knew what he'd be doing the moment batting practice was over.

"Yeah? That's exciting."

"He sounds nervous."

"It was a text, Kev," TJ said as he wandered over. "There's only so much you can get from words."

"I asked him how he was doing, and he just said ‘okay.' Not even the full word—just two letters!" Kevin sounded genuinely concerned about this. Jackson was torn between telling him that Connor never used more letters when less would do, including some truly bizarre emojis and abbreviations, and asking what else he'd said.

"He's gonna be just fine. Right, Jackson?" TJ said.

"Right," Jackson said. But he didn't sound convincing even to his own ears.

He told himself he'd given Connor the best chance for success, but he wasn't even sure he really believed that anymore.

He sure hadn't given himself the best chance for success, either. Batting practice went like shit, his swing behind the ball, and his brain fuzzy with all the things he wasn't saying, all the thoughts that kept clogging up his focus.

Andy came out and patted him on the arm when he finally called it, heading back to the clubhouse, a frown on his face.

"You alright?" Andy asked.

"I'll be fine. Just a little off."

"Ever since Connor left," Andy said sagely.

"And?" Jackson did not mean to snap at the guy—after all, he genuinely liked him and respected him—but he was so fucking tired of everyone knowing how he felt, even though he'd never said. Had he totally lost his ability to keep his emotions removed?

You know Connor destroyed it. Blew it all to bits. And before three days ago, you were actually happy about it.

That was the worst of it. He had been happy about it.

"And, you're not stupid. Never were before," Andy said calmly. "So don't start now."

Jackson headed to his locker. Pulled his phone out. Wasn't surprised to see that while Connor had texted Kevin, he hadn't texted him.

Why should he? What reasons had he given Connor to think he'd want to hear from him?

He'd argue with himself that the opposite was true, and he hadn't exactly endeared himself to Connor, either. But he remembered that kiss—and the last thing Connor had said to him.

When you get your head out of your ass, you have my number.

Yes, he did.

Jackson pulled up his text conversation with Connor.

And while, yes, Connor was a huge fan of abbreviations and emojis, most of which Jackson had actually been forced to look up, there were probably four or five messages from him to one of Jackson's. Texting had never been his favorite thing to do. You wanted to say something to someone, you should say it, not send a string of images and hope they got the point.

But he could do this. It was the right thing to do. But not only that, he wanted to do it. He wanted to fix this yawning, gaping chasm of misery inside him.

Maybe fixing it wouldn't bring Connor back into his life. After all, there were no certainties in life, but doing nothing wouldn't fill it, either.

Hey, a little bird told me your first start was today, Jackson typed. Good luck. Remember. Fear and arrogance. You got this.

He pressed send before he could chicken out, then shoved the phone back in his locker, resolved not to look at it until after the game.

The terror rising inside him felt so real, so visceral Connor felt like he was going to choke on it.

"You good, man?" Alejandro, his new catcher asked, as he dropped down next to him in the dugout.

"Yeah," Connor said, his voice cracking.

But was he really?

Connor didn't know anything anymore. He'd thought he would be fine. Fear and arrogance, he'd repeated to himself so many goddamn times, surely it must come true, but arrogance was MIA and there was only fear. Not even a normal kind of fear but an amplified version of what he'd felt the last few times he'd seen the major league scout at his starts.

The warmup had been rough. He'd kept looking down to home plate, expecting to see Jackson looking up at him. But it was Alejandro, instead. Alejandro had proven to be a good catcher—a great catcher, probably—but the fact he wasn't Jackson unsettled him.

Anything about Jackson unsettled him these days.

"Listen," Alejandro said, "it's a big deal, your first major league start. But I've watched some tape of you, when they called you up. You got this. You've got the skill. Just listen to my signals, alright?"

Jackson had told him so many times how meticulously major league catchers prepared, and so he shouldn't be surprised that Alejandro had done his research.

Or that he'd heard about all the bad habits he'd developed during his minor league stint.

Don't you fucking shake me off, was what Alejandro was really saying.

And he wouldn't.

That wasn't going to be the problem. It was the fact his stomach was currently trying to crawl out of his body and that every time he thought about taking the mound in a few minutes, his nausea only increased. Would he even be able to hit the pitches Alejandro called for?

"Okay," Connor said, nodding.

Alejandro patted him on the knee. "Just take a few deep breaths and try not to vomit all over the field, okay?"

"Yeah," he croaked.

In another time, he would've really liked Alejandro. He did like Alejandro.

But Alejandro's problem was that he wasn't his catcher. Wasn't the catcher who'd taught him what it was to really be a baseball player. Wasn't the man he loved. Because that was what this panicked terror had to be, right?

He wouldn't be so terrified Jackson would never talk to him again if his feelings weren't so fucking serious.

"Come on," Alejandro said encouragingly. "Remember—you got this."

A few of his other new teammates might've greeted him on his way out of the dugout, but frankly the whole thing was a fucking blur.

When he stepped unsteadily onto the field, the crowd roared in approval, filling his ears with their applause.

There'd been a time, Connor was sure of it, when that kind of approval and encouragement would have only boosted his ego another notch.

But the tiny threads of doubt and uncertainty that had always been there—what if you don't make it; what if you don't live up to your potential; what if you end up being a disappointment—had grown in the last year or so. They'd grown so thick, so strong, until these days, sometimes it felt like they were choking him.

Before, when Jackson had come, he'd been able to fight them, batter them back, until he'd been sure, right up until now, that he'd mostly conquered them. That he owned them, not the other way around.

But he'd been wrong. Wrong this whole time. It hadn't been him who'd done it, it had been Jackson's courage and his own will, lent to Connor when he needed it most.

Today, right now, was the worst the fears had ever been, like they'd wound their way around his throat and wouldn't let go. Diving deep into his stomach and threatening to yank it right out.

He settled himself on the mound, desperately repeating fear and arrogance, fear and arrogance, in an endless rhythm in his head, like the words might summon Jackson.

But he's not here. He's not gonna be here. It's just you. Just you.

Connor latched onto that thought, holding on to it as the first batter approached.

Alejandro signaled the pitch.

His fingers were trembling around the ball, and to get them to stop shaking, he clamped down, not holding it the way Andy had always cautioned him to.

Just get it down there. Just get it down there.

Connor pulled back and let the ball fly.

Let out an unsteady breath when the batter swung and missed.

But he didn't need to see Alejandro's concerned look as he tossed him the ball back that he'd missed the spot he'd called for. Not by a lot, but this was a game of inches.

Even missing the spot by an inch was enough to make the difference between a strikeout and getting fucking rocked.

Not that he'd really expected differently but each and every pitch Connor threw was agonizing. Every single one was a fucking struggle, a war between his belief in what he was capable of and a yawning chasm of doubt.

He teetered right on the edge of it more times than he wanted to count, sweat trickling down his back. He gave up a single and then a double, leading to a run. And then walked someone, giving a home run on a fast ball that he'd let hang just a moment too long in the middle of the strike zone.

It wasn't a bad outing, necessarily. He didn't get slammed. But it was so much rockier than he'd hoped, holding each breath after every pitch.

By the time his five innings were over and the skipper came out, grabbing the ball, Connor felt like crying.

He'd given up four runs in five innings.

Not terrible.

But not the kind of performance everyone had expected out of their new rookie phenom. Only Connor—and probably Alejandro, and a few of the other players—knew it could've been a lot worse. He'd fooled a lot of players with his sheer heat, and that wouldn't keep working. Major league batters were too smart to be fooled by speed forever. Connor didn't need Jackson's voice in his head to remind him of that.

Then there were the handful of really fantastic fielding plays that had saved at least a run or two.

Never before had Connor relied on the defense behind him to get the job done, and while he was grateful, he fucking hated it all the same.

He should've been the one to get it done. Him and him alone.

Slumping down on the bench in the dugout, only pride kept Connor from losing it completely.

Everyone was nicer than they needed to be, coming up to him in the clubhouse after the game, slapping him on the back, giving him encouragement that Connor could barely hear, never mind acknowledge.

Then he reached for his phone, and in the middle of a ton of texts from friends and family wishing him good luck in his first start, there was the one he'd hoped for.

Hey, a little bird told me your first start was today. Good luck. Remember. Fear and arrogance. You got this.

He wanted to cry.

He hadn't had this at all.

There'd been no arrogance, only fear.

There was a part of Connor that was fucking furious with Jackson, who wanted to blame him for his performance today. That wanted to pin the fault on the distracting way they'd fought before he'd left Raleigh for Tampa, but he couldn't.

None of this was Jackson's fault. He'd given him the tools to get it done, to make it in the majors, but in the end, it had been Connor who just wasn't good enough.

He choked down a single celebration drink, couldn't face a second one, and escaped to his room before he finally unglued completely.

Before he could really make a decision one way or the other he was already dialing Jackson's number.

He, who never called if he could text.

He, who fucking hated talking on the phone.

But he needed to hear Jackson's voice.

He answered on the third ring. "Hello?" he answered groggily.

Connor didn't even care that it was late, and Jackson had probably been asleep.

"You . . .fucking . . .asshole," he choked out, unshed tears creating a lump in his throat.

"Connor."

He didn't think Jackson had ever said his name like that before. Like he was the most precious thing in the world.

"I . . ." Jackson started to speak again and then stopped. "I saw your stat line," he said, finally.

That was worse.

Connor lost the battle with himself and broke down, crying with great wracking sobs into his hands.

"Oh God, oh God, I didn't mean it like that, I swear I didn't. I'm so fucking sorry," Jackson said in a hushed voice.

"It's . . ." Connor could barely speak through the waves of emotion wrecking him. It was like the adrenaline had held back the worst of the highs and the worst of the lows but now it was gone, evaporated out of his system, and he could only feel.

"It's alright," Jackson soothed. "I promise. Get it all out. I know it's a lot."

It was funny, because Connor hadn't believed he'd stop crying anytime soon, once he'd let it out, but just hearing Jackson's voice helped calm him down.

"I pitched like shit," Connor croaked.

"Not like shit," Jackson said sternly. "Like you were making your first major league appearance and you were terrified out of your fucking mind."

"I—"

"No," Jackson interrupted. "You can't do that. You can't go back and pitch that game again, even in your head. But I went through it, Connor, and when you actually settled down a bit—in the third inning, I think it was—for a few batters, you found that groove that I know you have. And you know what else, Connor? When you're in that groove, you're fucking unbeatable. You've got the purest aim, the best zip, the heat that nobody else can bring. You're an ace, a Hall of Famer when you fucking stop thinking of how much everyone wants you to be. How much you want to be."

Connor knew it.

But it wasn't like he could just turn his brain off.

Brains didn't work like that.

"If it was that easy, I'd do it, I'd just turn it off," Connor said wryly, sniffling. He muted the phone and blew his nose.

Maybe talking to Jackson shouldn't make him feel better. After all, they hadn't talked about anything else—only baseball. They hadn't discussed how Jackson had been the last time they'd seen each other. They hadn't talked about what they were to each other.

But it didn't matter.

Somehow, Jackson had become his person. The single person he could trust and rely on. The person he loved.

Even if he felt it, Connor knew he couldn't say it. Not yet. Even if they hadn't argued before he'd left, Connor didn't want to say it now, when they weren't on the same page, and when they weren't even in the same fucking state. But it was there, an undeniable truth echoing in his mind, all the same.

"I know. I know," Jackson said. "But I did . . .I did actually have a thought."

"What is it?"

"Andy mentioned something the other day, offhandedly, about a pitcher he knew who'd put a pebble in his cleat, to distract him when he was getting caught up in his own thoughts and couldn't silence them enough to pitch."

"I'm not putting a pebble in my shoe," Connor retorted.

And yeah, nothing was fixed between them—but everything was, anyway.

"No, no, you wouldn't want to. I told Andy that was fucking stupid, anyway. Why would you want to give yourself a bruise like that? You wouldn't. But . . .it got me thinking. We just need to give your brain something else to latch onto."

"You're talking like you know what it is, and yet you don't want to say it, so it must be pretty bad. Just say it."

"I know, I am," Jackson said, chuckling under his breath. "I don't think you're gonna like it."

"Is it gonna help?" Connor demanded.

"I really don't know. But it can't hurt." Jackson paused. "Probably."

"Great."

"Hey, it's not gonna be a pebble in your shoe. Just . . .uh . . ."

"Just spit it out," Connor said, and it was some kind of miracle, but he was actually smiling now. "I know you're more of the swallowing type, but take one for the team this time."

Connor could feel Jackson's smirk over the line, even if he couldn't see it. "It's underwear."

"I wear underwear, you idiot. You of all people are familiar with exactly what kind of underwear I'm wearing."

And just like that, that was all it took for arousal to bubble in Connor's veins.

God, why hadn't he just kept kissing Jackson that last night? Jackson had been drunk, sure, but he'd wanted it too. One last night, together, pressed skin to skin. He swallowed hard.

"Not the kind you usually wear. Lace underwear."

Connor nearly dropped the phone.

"You mean like women's underwear? What kind of kinky bitch do you think I am?"

"It's to help you pitch better, Connor. Not to get you off," Jackson said reasonably. Like Connor couldn't hear the sudden gruffness in his voice that he'd learned always meant Jackson was thinking about sex.

"Why not both?" he teased.

Jackson laughed slash coughed. "Come on, Connor."

Connor considered it. "I guess I'd do it. If you think it would help."

"I don't know if it would. But it's worth a try, right?"

"Yeah, what's the worst case scenario? I end up with a pair of blue balls and a shitty ERA?"

"Connor," Jackson chided.

"Sure, I'll try it. But . . .how on earth do I find that in my size?"

Jackson chuckled. "See, that just proves you're definitely not a kinky bitch. Not the way you keep bragging about. But I know where to look. I'll send you some links."

"Okay." Connor hesitated. Wanted to keep him on the phone, even though if he knew Jackson at all, he'd take advantage of the fact he was calmer now to exit this conversation.

Before the subject could change from baseball to something else.

But to Connor's surprise, Jackson said, casually, like this was a friendly kind of conversation, not one that had been full of sobbing and then full of barely veiled innuendos, "I thought you'd be out celebrating tonight."

"I got your text after the game," Connor said even though that wasn't technically an answer to Jackson's unasked question.

"I was afraid I'd sent it too late and I guess I did. Sorry."

"You don't need to apologize. About that, anyway." It was funny how with Jackson, he could find that perfect mix of fear and arrogance just fine.

But before Jackson could say more—God, he wanted him to apologize for something else, and was also equally terrified when faced with the opportunity, he wouldn't—Connor changed the subject. "I didn't expect the adrenaline or the comedown to feel like that."

"Yeah, it's a lot," Jackson agreed.

"What did you do, after your first major league game? Did young Jackson Evans party in a way old Jackson Evans won't?" he asked in a teasing voice.

"No . . .uh . . ." Jackson sounded a little bit ashamed, which immediately intrigued Connor. "I'd met Davy by that point. And so, yeah, uh . . .basically used sex to come down off that high."

Connor told himself he was not jealous. After all, Davy wasn't around, not anymore. Jackson had given no indication that he'd even talked to him since he'd been traded, all those years back.

But maybe Jackson still cared about him. Maybe he'd even loved him.

Connor didn't think so. But then he didn't want to think so, either.

"Too bad that wasn't on the table, tonight," Connor said in a hushed voice.

"Connor—" Jackson started to say, but Connor stopped him.

"No. You said your piece the other night. You said fucking plenty. But you never asked me what I wanted. And what I want is you. I don't want to go find someone else to hook up with. The only person I'm having sex tonight with is my right hand."

"Well, it's a good right hand," Jackson said awkwardly.

"I get it, you don't want to talk about it, but it's happening, whether you want to talk about it or not."

Jackson sighed. "I know."

"Do you?" Connor challenged.

"Actually yeah." Jackson's voice cracked. "I'm sorry about acting like I did when you left. I felt horrible, after, just fucking horrible, and not only 'cause I was hungover. I . . .I wished we'd left things different. And I never thought I'd say this, but I've missed you."

Connor's fingers tightened around the phone. "I missed you too."

"For the record, I'm still afraid. I'm still . . .worried."

"You wouldn't be Jackson Evans if you weren't," Connor said wryly.

"And I don't know if there's a future here. I don't know where I'm gonna be next year. And we know where you're gonna be. It could be . . .it could be tough, to be together. The way I think you want." Jackson paused, and Connor felt his heart beating, waiting for what he hoped was coming. "The way I want."

The truth of Jackson's words settled into Connor's chest. "I didn't expect this, you know."

"And I did?" Jackson laughed. "Didn't see you comin', not even a hint, but if you're not gonna let me go, I'm not gonna let you go, either."

"Even after four runs today."

"Connor, you could wash up tomorrow, and I'd still want you."

Connor swallowed hard, emotion threatening him again. "Whatever happens, the season won't last forever. We'll . . .we'll be together again. If you want to be."

"I do," Jackson said. "Just said so, didn't I?"

He couldn't choke the sob—or the laugh—back any longer. "I wish you were here. And not just for the sex."

"I know," Jackson said.