2. Chapter 2

"He's hopeless," Jackson said as he barged into Mikey's office.

The manager looked up, a frown creasing his features. "What?"

"Connor. He's fucking hopeless," Jackson said, throwing himself into the chair kitty-corner to the desk, nearly completely buried under with papers and candy wrappers.

"I take it you met him," Mikey said carefully.

It had taken two miles of a roundabout walk home and several sets of pushups and a brutal round of ab work for Jackson to feel calm enough to sleep after the confrontation with Connor.

He hadn't let Connor see the temper boiling away inside him, because it had been way too fucking clear that one of them had to keep thinking, and obviously, that was not going to be Connor.

"He's goin' places. You know he is."

"He sure thinks so," Jackson retorted. He'd met plenty of egos in this game. It was impossible not to, not when some of these guys had been coddled practically since birth, raised to think they were a blessing every time they stepped onto the fucking field. They wouldn't know a misstep if it hit them upside the head.

Connor was one of those. Times a hundred.

"Yeah, he's got a big head. But can you blame him? He could go all the way, and he knows it."

"Yeah." Jackson scrubbed a hand over his face. He'd looked some of Connor's stats up, looked up some footage of him, when he'd finally calmed enough to sit down. "But where am I fucking going?"

"You're gonna keep coming here and keep getting paid." Mikey leaned forward. "And you're gonna get a chance at the history books. You think I don't talk to Sheila?"

"I think Sheila talks to you," Jackson said.

Mikey cracked a smile. "There you go." There was a clear dismissal in his face, like he already knew what Jackson had decided.

That he couldn't decide any differently.

Ugh.

Fuck this fucking game.

Jackson pushed himself out of the chair, heading towards the clubhouse. Because Mikey was right; he already knew what he was going to do. He couldn't do anything else.

He wanted to believe that the record didn't matter.

That all he cared about was stepping onto that field late this afternoon.

Smelling the popcorn, the peanuts, the sharp tang of the grass. Bright blue sky overhead. The pop of the lights when they came on.

The cheer that went up from the stands.

The way it all narrowed in when he crouched down, to just him and the guy opposite him, standing on the mound.

That was a lie though. He wanted the record, deep down in a place he tried to pretend didn't exist most of the time.

Not last night, though. He'd nearly decided to come in and tell Mikey he could fuck himself, that he'd quit and take his ass off to Asheville. Figure out the next chapter of his life.

But could he really turn the page if this one wasn't done?

If he didn't get that record—and he knew if he put the time and the games in, he could—what did any of it mean? What had it all been for, if he had nothing to show for all these years of bad food and worse hotel rooms and bracing for the worst every time he walked into a clubhouse?

He wanted something to show for it.

Something solid. Something concrete.

Tomorrow someone could take it away, but even for a day, it was his.

"Heard you."

Jackson glanced up as he pushed the clubhouse door open, and standing next to it was a short, squat balding man with sharp eyes.

"Andy Sadler," he said, identifying the man before he bothered to introduce himself. "Good to see you."

"And you're Jackson Evans."

Jackson nodded.

"You're none too pleased with Clark."

"And you are?" Jackson asked.

Andy laughed then, short and deep. "Kid's got nothing going on but that arm. But what a fucking arm."

I'm going to regret this. I'm going to regret this so hard. "You take care of the arm. I'll take care of the rest."

It was going to be hard. Scratch that. It was probably going to be fucking impossible, but when had Jackson ever given up because something was hard?

Never. That was when.

And besides, what else was he gonna do while he was chasing the record?

"Not what I heard," Andy said, raising his chin. "From what I hear, you can straighten out any pitcher. Brain, heart, and arm."

"Funny," Jackson said, "'cause that's exactly what I heard about you."

Andy shot him a knowing look. "Guess we're in this together, huh?"

"Considering what I saw last night, I wouldn't be surprised if it took both of us."

"Here's the thing. The catchers we got don't know what to do with him out there," Andy said, as Jackson pushed the clubhouse door open and they walked through it. "He's all set before his start. We work all week, and he looks good. Looks fucking great. Then he gets up there, and it goes to hell."

"Overthinking, huh?" Jackson said. He stopped in front of his locker. Someone had taken a stretch of blue painter's tape and stuck it above, scribbling his last name on it.

"He thinks too much and not enough, all at the same time." Andy flashed Jackson a fleeting smile. "Makes me want to tear my fuckin' hair out, that's what he does."

"I gotta tell you, you don't got much to spare," Jackson said seriously.

"Oh man, I like you. I knew I would. But I like you." Andy slapped him on the back, with zero hesitation, zero compunction.

"Feeling's mutual," Jackson said. "I think we can do this."

Andy nodded, and something in the vicinity of Jackson's heart clenched.

Not everyone touched him so easily.

Like a friendly fucking pat on the back might lead to more. Like it might give Jackson ideas.

Well, newsflash to the fucking ball club, he would rather die than ever look at any of them—players, coaches, staff—with anything resembling desire.

He'd never shit where he ate, no way, and he wouldn't do it even if he wasn't worried about his reputation. It wasn't right. Baseball was one thing. His sexuality was something else, and he knew what got the majority of his attention. When was the last time he'd had more than a quick, dirty handjob in a gross bar bathroom?

He couldn't even remember.

There's plenty of time for that later. When you're done with baseball.

But when he finally hung up his glove, would he be too fucked up to have a relationship even if he ever met someone who made him want to try for one?

It seemed likely.

Players started filtering into the clubhouse for batting practice.

Most of them barely gave Jackson a second glance. They were too used to guys coming and going, and he was just another name, just another face.

Then TJ and Ro sauntered in, chattering about last night.

"You heard from him this morning?" Jackson heard TJ ask Ro as he stepped up to his locker, only two over from Jackson's.

It wasn't hard to figure out they were talking about Connor.

"Not yet, but he's not startin' til Friday."

"He's still got a bullpen today," Ro said.

He'd tell Connor to keep Ro—terrible nickname and all—around, next time he saw him. The guy was looking out for him more than he deserved.

"He'll be here," TJ said dismissively. He flipped his bat, back and forth, with the rhythm of someone who'd been doing it for years.

"Wasn't it weird Millie lost the tab again? I swear to God she's done that a bunch this season."

Jackson turned away from the pair of them. Trying to hide the interest he felt when he heard their speculation.

"Yeah, it's weird, but hey if she's not getting in trouble," TJ said. "Free drinks, right?"

But, when Jackson had ordered, he'd immediately pegged the waitress as a pro—she'd efficiently delivered the drinks he'd ordered, and he'd definitely been charged for them.

It hit Jackson that maybe Connor was paying his friends' tabs every time they went out. But even more, he was making sure they wouldn't know it was him.

Well, well,Jackson thought.

He'd known Connor Clark wasn't bad all the way through.

A true asshole wouldn't have flinched at throwing the ball straight at his chest.

He wouldn't have overthought. Wouldn't have missed.

Maybe Connor wanted to believe he'd missed accidentally, but Jackson knew better.

The guy wasn't cut out to hurt people.

Just the same as he didn't mind picking up the bill at the end of the night. Drafted in the first round and with a Jag? He had money, and in a way that Jackson knew TJ and Ro didn't—and he knew because he himself ran on the leaner side.

He spent the time before batting practice meeting the rest of the team, keeping the chatting light and inconsequential—though he did make sure to check in with the other catcher, Charlie Torres. Charlie had taken one look at him and hadn't been angry, had just patted him on the back in commiseration.

Obviously, he didn't resent Jackson for showing up, and, even more obviously, he was more than ready to hand responsibility for Connor off to someone else.

Connor showed up two minutes before batting practice began, in dark sunglasses, scowling at everyone as he sauntered in.

In daylight, and not in that ugly bar lighting, he was something to behold.

Then he pulled his glasses off, tossing them onto the shelf of his locker, and he turned, pinning Jackson with those otherworldly dark blue eyes.

Jackson didn't want to feel it.

It wasn't that he hadn't found a few teammates attractive over the years.

He was gay; he wasn't made of fucking stone.

But there was something about Connor Clark, like he'd been sprinkled with stardust. Like he carried his own spotlight around with him.

The problem was that he fucking knew it.

Any attraction that Jackson might've felt evaporated because one, he was a teammate, and two, because there was nothing uglier than a guy who was hot and not only knew it but was smug about it.

"What're you looking at?" Connor snarked.

Jackson smiled. "Contemplating the state of the world. Think there's any hope for world peace?"

Connor rolled his eyes. "I took care of the window, you know."

Jackson had figured that out. "I assumed you would. Since you broke it."

"Don't rub it in or anything."

"Oh darlin', this is nothing," Jackson teased. "Just wait til we get on the field."

"I don't know why I don't get to choose my catcher," Connor muttered.

"'Cause you think Charlie was doing just fine, yeah?"

"Charlie's great."

"No disagreement there," Jackson said, aware that more than Connor was listening. He didn't want to make waves in the clubhouse, and he'd been in enough of those to know how to skate by just under the radar.

"Then why are you here, ready to bust my ass?"

"Because Charlie's too nice to do it properly," Jackson said.

"Fucking hell."

"Come on, see you out there," Jackson said, tapping him on the shoulder. A brief touch. He shouldn't have felt a thing, but the feeling skittered down his arm.

He was gonna have to nip that in the bud.

He'd seen plenty of hot guys in his time on this planet; there was no reason why this one should affect him. This one couldn't affect him, because they had fucking work to do, and because in the course of that work, they were going to have to touch—a lot.

Andy was standing by the dugout as Jackson climbed the stairs. Deke, who it seemed regularly filled the spot of designated hitter, was taking batting practice now, his swing smooth and confident as he stroked the ball through the air.

"You don't need to worry 'bout Charlie none," Andy said. "But Deke? He's gonna be none too pleased if you take some of his at-bats."

Jackson took in the big guy at home plate. "He can't play first?"

"Oh, he can. But Mikey would much rather have him in the DH slot."

"He can't catch good enough," Jackson guessed.

Andy shrugged, but the answer was obvious. No. Not well enough.

"Mikey told me you'll be splitting equal time with Charlie. He'll be glad of the break. The other catcher we had—got sent down to Montgomery before you showed—he was fucking useless. Couldn't hit a kiddie pitch."

"He ever catch for Connor?"

Andy shot him a look. "What do you think?"

"I don't know the guy, but Connor seems likely to chew catchers up and spit them out."

"Some catchers, sure. Charlie wasn't bothered. But I'll say this—when Connor was out on the mound, he was calling the shots, not Charlie."

Jackson chuckled.

"Yeah," Andy continued. "I know. That's not gonna fly with you. It's why you're here. You're nobody's lackey."

"Tell Connor that," Jackson said, glancing over to where the man himself had just emerged from the dugout, wearing those ridiculous sunglasses still, even though he'd pulled a cap on.

"You go after Deke," Andy said, gesturing to where Deke was finishing up. "'Cause I'd like to see you catch Connor's bullpen."

"Sure," Jackson said. He tried out a few bats until he found the one he liked the feel of and headed out towards home plate.

"You're Jackson Evans, then?" Deke said, turning towards him, resting the tip of his bat on the dirt as he leaned into it.

"That's me." Jackson took a few practice swings, warming up his muscles.

"Heard of you." Deke spat on the ground.

Jackson could never be sure what that meant—had he heard Jackson was a good teammate and ball player or that, in his miniscule spare time, he enjoyed the company of men and not women?

"Yeah?"

He'd learned not to be defensive, but it was hard, every single time. Like he was holding his breath, and he didn't know when or if he could let it out.

"Got a good arm on you, and a good swing. Can settle down a pitcher." Deke glanced over to where Connor had begun his own warmup. "And that one could use some settling."

Jackson nodded. He had a feeling Deke wasn't quite done.

And he wasn't. He took off his ball cap and ran a hand through his thick curly dark hair. "And, you know, I heard 'bout you too, from Nicky."

Nicky Condron. One of Jackson's old hookups out west.

"Didn't realize you'd spent some time out there." Didn't realize you were like me.

"Yeah, a season." Deke looked at him. "You don't need to worry here, you know. In case you were concerned."

Yeah, that was exactly how it felt. He felt something inside him relax.

"Though," Deke continued, "you better watch out for Clark. He's got a fucking temper on him. Straight. Gay. White. Brown. Black. It don't matter. I saw him go toe-to-toe with Andy last week."

"Yeah, I got a dose of it last night. Blew out a window."

Deke chuckled. "He tried to fight you? You?"

"He sure wanted to."

"Kid wants to fight everyone." And the question Jackson had was why that was. Young, attractive kid going places and he had a chip on his shoulder a fucking mile wide?

Who or what had put it there?

"Except it takes two to fight," Jackson said.

Deke really laughed then, a deep belly laugh. "I'm gonna like you, even if you're gonna take some of my at-bats."

"You think?"

Deke rolled his eyes. "You know you're gonna, if you're half as good as promised. So yeah, I'm gonna have to adjust. Put in some time at first."

"You need help, you just let me know," Jackson said, patting him on the back.

"Oh, I think you're gonna have your hands full. But thanks anyway."

Deke returned the pat, and Jackson approached home plate, settling the bat over his shoulder, feeling good about the state of things.

Would Connor be a pain in his ass?

Undoubtedly.

But Deke, despite Andy's warnings, was a good guy. And not only would Jackson not be alone here, in his preferences, Deke had already done the hard work of figuring out just how safe it was.

Jackson got set, settling his cleats into the dirt, took a breath and then another and watched the ball fly from Bryan—the hitting coach's—hand.

He had a nice even throw. Best way to work on fundamentals, and best way for Jackson to get used to a new park, and all the new angles.

He hit a few, let a few go, and listened to everything Bryan mentioned.

Made an adjustment and then took the ball out of the park on both the last two pitches.

Felt damn good to do it, too.

He heard the cheers behind him, as he did it the second time.

"Damn, Evans," Deke said when he returned back to the dugout. "You don't fuck around."

He didn't.

He couldn't.

If he fucked around, he wouldn't still be here, at thirty-three.

"Fuck around and find out," Jackson said, laughing.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled and he turned.

Out of the corner of his eye, there was Connor, staring at him like he wanted to take him apart, one molecule at a time.

Andy waved him over, and he exchanged his bat for his catching glove and headed over to where he was standing, next to Connor.

"You all set?" Jackson asked.

Connor didn't say anything, just glowered.

"He's ready," Andy said. "Come on, Clark. Let's show 'em what you got."

Connor headed towards the top of the bullpen.

"Am I gonna need pads?" Jackson asked Andy once he was mostly out of earshot.

"I heard that!" Connor called out, and the first pitch he threw whistled right by Jackson's ear.

Jackson didn't need to have the experience and the knowledge he did to know that had been a fucking brilliant pitch. Speed, velocity, movement—and a deadly pinpoint accuracy.

So, Mikey hadn't been lying—and neither had those videos he'd watched late last night. The kid had a million dollar arm. When he figured out how to use it.

Jackson raised himself out of his crouch and walked over to where Connor stood, sunglasses still reflecting the bright sun.

"You can throw, okay. Noted."

Connor opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again at the look Jackson shot him.

"But if you ever throw at my head again on purpose, we're gonna have a problem, you and I."

"I thought we already had a problem," Connor retorted, but the heat had mostly leaked out of his voice.

"No. You had a problem with me. I didn't have a problem with you, not til you threw that pitch."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh," Jackson said. "We can do this the easy way. Or we could do it the hard way. I'm here, either way. Doesn't matter to me."

"Don't lie to me," Connor said in a hard voice.

And Jackson realized that yes, he had, and Connor had known it before he did. He didn't want to do this the hard way. It did matter to him. He wanted to straighten Connor out, easy as pie, and get his record and then go on his way, all without breaking a sweat.

"How 'bout this? Shit's gonna be hard, because that's how life goes. Always throws you a curve, when you're expecting a fastball. So don't make it tougher." Jackson tossed Connor the ball and he caught it. "Got it?"

"Got it," Connor muttered.

"And no, I'm not gonna go put my pads on. It's eighty-five out here already, and God knows what kind of fucking humidity. Don't make me regret not sweating my ass off. Don't miss."

"Fine, fine, it's not like I want to miss." Connor's face had fallen into sullen lines, but Jackson thought maybe this was the first step to acceptance.

Jackson trotted back to his spot. Dropped down into his stance, put his glove out. Gave the universal sign for fast ball, upper right corner.

He could feel Andy falling into place behind him, in the same spot where the umpire would normally stand.

"Nice and easy now, Connor," Andy cajoled. "Remember what we talked about."

Jackson didn't know what they'd discussed but he could guess. Control came from form.

And God, Connor Clark had a gorgeous one. Long and lean and golden in the sunlight.

For a split second, Jackson was almost distracted by the gloriousness of it, but then the ball came shooting out of his hand and it took all his focus to place it and then catch it solidly in his glove.

Yeah, that hadn't been even remotely close to the upper right corner.

It had been in the right corner of the zone, and it had definitely been up. Maybe a foot above anything an ump might call a strike.

"Shit," Jackson heard Connor mutter.

"Down a foot," Andy cajoled from behind him.

"Or two," Jackson said under his breath.

He gave Connor the same sign.

The next pitch was a little better, but still too high, still out of the zone.

The next five were all the same.

Between each, Andy offered support and encouragement. Enough for both of them, Jackson decided. But no matter what his pitching coach said—and what his catcher didn't—Jackson could see Connor's movements becoming increasingly jerky and agitated. His flawless form suffered.

The next pitch went wild, Jackson turning away at the last second to avoid it hitting him square on the knee.

"Fuck," he exclaimed.

"You alright?" Andy said, putting a hand out to help him up. "I should've suggested the pads but . . ."

"But what?" Jackson asked, eying Connor down the bullpen lane, watching as he stalked around, muttering to himself.

"He's got better control than this. I know it. He knows it."

"He had better control than this before we even started."

Andy met his gaze frankly. "Yeah, I saw that."

"Could hardly miss it. Maybe he's just adjusting to the idea of a new catcher."

"He can hit the high corner every time, if he wants to."

Jackson glanced down at Connor again. He was frowning now. Staring at his glove, like it contained all the secrets in the universe.

"So why doesn't he want to?" Jackson asked.

Before Andy could answer—because Jackson had a feeling Andy couldn't answer—Jackson walked down to where Connor stood.

"What's going on?" he asked, keeping judgment out of his voice.

If Connor lost his temper or lost control of his emotions even more than he was now, they might as well kiss this bullpen session goodbye.

"I just—" Connor looked up, expression hardening. "You're not Charlie."

"No. I'm not."

"Charlie usually lets me set the tone."

"Charlie wasn't calling pitches?" Jackson found that hard to believe. Charlie was a veteran catcher. He knew better than to let a pitcher call his own game.

Pitchers had too much ego and were way too close to the situation to do it right.

"Sure, he was, but . . ." Connor trailed off.

"You shook him off." Jackson didn't need to ask it. He knew it.

Connor shrugged.

"Well, you just learned rule number two without me telling you, at least. You don't fucking shake off my signs."

"Okay. I'm not stupid, you know," Connor said. Sounding unhappy about it.

Well, at least that explained what Andy had reminded him of, before this session started. Don't shake off Jackson's signs.Let him be in charge.

"What did you want to throw?" Jackson asked, curious. "Because I'm sure you could hit that upper corner in your sleep."

"'Course I could," Connor said. "No problem."

Naturally, that didn't explain why he wasn't doing it today.

"You missed it on purpose, then?"

Connor glared. "God, why are you such an asshole?"

And okay, Connor was right there; Jackson had lost his temper. Well, not lost it, not entirely, but a little of the frustration and annoyance he usually kept walled up behind his self-control had slipped out.

That annoyed Jackson even more. Who was this kid to shake him like this? Was it just because he was so goddamn pretty?

Jackson rejected that theory, completely.

Yeah, he's under your skin. Already. No matter how much you want to dig him out.

"Sorry," Jackson said shortly, and before Connor could open his mouth to gloat, he kept going. "Don't get too excited, Clark. That's only an apology for being a dick when I didn't need to be. It's not an apology for trying to make you a better pitcher. Not an apology for getting pissed when you shake off my signs."

"It's just . . ." Connor sighed. "Hitting the corner over and over again? It's boring as fuck."

Jackson dropped the ball into Connor's glove. "Then why don't you prove me wrong? Seems like that might keep you plenty entertained."

Before he turned and walked back, Jackson caught a glimpse of satisfaction lighting up Connor's eyes.

It wasn't the kind of motivation he'd normally employ, but then Connor wasn't like other pitchers. He was sly and difficult and had gotten by for way too long on his God-given talent and that insane fucking arm.

Jackson settled back into his stance. Held out his glove.

"You get him all settled?" Andy asked.

"We'll see."

He made the sign. Fast ball. High upper corner, just skating by on the inside of the zone. The kind of pitch very few players could hit. If Connor could really throw that pitch, consistently, at the kind of velocity Connor possessed, then no wonder Mikey was beside himself.

Connor drew back, his eyes narrowing as he wound up, and with an expression full of determination, threw a pitch of such beauty Jackson almost felt privileged to be the one to catch it.

But he didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Didn't give a single indication that it was as good as it was. Just stared Connor right down. Challenging him to throw it again.

And again.

And again.

Twenty minutes later, Connor finished throwing his bullpen and Jackson knew exactly why he'd been brought in. This guy had more talent than he knew what to do with.

And yet Jackson had convinced him to do it by shooting him that unimpressed, challenging look after every single pitch, each more glorious than the one before it.

"Well, that was an adventure," Andy said when Connor finished and was wiping his face with a towel.

"He did it, didn't he?" Jackson said, rising to his feet.

"It's not gonna work every time," Andy cautioned.

"Nope," Jackson agreed.

Jackson didn't even want to push him like this. He was used to pitchers who respected what he brought to the table and at least vaguely listened to what he had to say. No question—it would be better for everyone, all around, if they could be partners.

But Jackson also knew Connor was going to fight him every inch of the way.

"Guess if he's gonna fight someone, he might as well fight you. You can take it," Andy mused.

"Who's fightin' who?" Connor asked, as he walked over.

The kid clearly had a seventh sense, knowing exactly when people were talking about him.

Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. "You, fightin' the world."

Andy chuckled, but Connor frowned. "No way," Connor spluttered. "I don't fucking do that."

"You challenged me to a fight within ten minutes of meeting me," Jackson reminded him.

"So? I didn't know who the fuck you were."

Except he had. What Connor wasn't saying was that he'd never heard of Jackson, so assumed he was nobody, and nobody should ever challenge him—the soon-to-be-great Connor Clark.

Lucky for Connor, Jackson had never bought into any of that prestige shit.

"I wanna talk about your breathing," Andy said, interrupting them.

"What about my breathing? All my chakras or whatever the fuck you call them were nice and open," Connor complained. "Couldn't you tell?"

"No, you were pissed off. You were pitching like you were fighting."

Connor made a face. "Not my fault if this catcher's contrary as fuck."

Jackson didn't say anything. Connor knew perfectly well—and knew that Jackson knew, too—that he'd pushed him into that corner.

But that was okay, because Jackson had been forged in much hotter fires than an upstart pitcher who had a chip on his shoulder and an arm like a fucking comet.

"Comet," Jackson said, this time interrupting Connor and Andy arguing under their breath about what kind of bullpen session it had been. Connor no doubt was pissed off because he knew how damn good it had been. Andy was pissed off because pitching angry could be a recipe for disaster.

"What?" Connor said, twisting his head around to look straight at Jackson.

Maybe someday he'd get used to that heated dark blue gaze. All that golden light turned on him. But someday was not today.

Jackson took a long drink of water. Swallowed. "Your nickname. Ro and TJ said you were looking for a nickname. They're right, you know. You can't rush these things. And you can't give it to yourself."

"Right, I know that." Connor sounded testy. "Did you say comet?"

"Got a nice ring to it," Andy said, tilting his head. "Nice and alliterative."

"There's never been a pitcher named Comet. Sounds like a fucking reindeer," Connor said, frowning.

"Never been a pitcher quite like you either, Comet," Jackson said, patting him on the arm and walking away—because walking away was better than all the alternatives.