20. Chapter 20

True to his word, Jackson sent over a bunch of links.

Of course, Connor was aware that even though he thought he'd had a lot of experience, there was a lot he didn't know. But he hadn't ever expected that there would be pages and pages of men's underwear that was as . . .pretty . . .as the underwear women liked to wear.

He told himself it was just for baseball, to help him with his pitching, but his fingers trembled as he glanced through the choices.

Couldn't help but wonder if, as he'd scrolled through the options, Jackson had gotten hard, just at the thought of him wearing a pair of these.

He knew he got packs of underwear shipped out from his mother, every once in awhile. They were usually in plain colors, stretchy and comfortable, and when he'd moved to North Carolina, after being traded, they'd started coming in more "breathable" fabrics. But there were a dozen different terms he didn't understand, listed all over these pages, and he didn't have a fucking clue where to start.

There was only one thing to do.

He called Maya.

"Oh, I guess you're not too big and famous to talk to your little sister, after all," she teased him after picking up his call.

"We've talked," Connor said defensively.

"We've texted. Every once in awhile. I had to find out that I was right after all with a text, Connor," she chided, but he could hear the affectionate humor in her voice.

"Sorry," he apologized.

"It's alright. I figured you were dickmatized and then you got called up, so I get it. Things were crazy."

"I am not . . .dickmatized," Connor argued. Though he kinda was.

"Sure thing, big bro," Maya teased. "So what's important enough that you need to actually call me?"

Connor hesitated. Maybe he should've texted Tristan. There was no way he didn't know about this. He and Wade probably wore these for fun.

"Come on, how bad could it be?"

"It's not bad. It's just . . .awkward. Someone suggested I wear uh . . .a different kind of underwear when I pitch. To help me focus on something else other than what I'm doing."

"And you're calling me because?" Maya sounded mystified. "You think I'm some kind of underwear expert?"

"On this kind of underwear, yeah," Connor said.

"Oh. Oh. You're gonna wear women's underwear—"

"They're designed for men," Connor interrupted. "But yeah, they look like . . .like what you might wear."

"Huh. Well, how progressive of you. Not only discovering you like dick, but that you want to wear lacy underwear, too."

"It's not for that reason," Connor insisted. He was now pacing back and forth in his way-too-small hotel room. He should've called Tristan—of course, he wasn't sure this conversation would've gone any differently if he had.

"You keep saying that, and okay, if that's what you want to go with, it's cool. Anything you want to do, with your own self or your life, it's fine by me," Maya said and her tone had gone from teasing to kind.

"I'm not—" Connor took a deep breath. "I can't say it's not kind of a sexy thought. 'Cause it is, but, really, what I'm wearing them for is to help me pitch better. So help me figure this out, Maya, please."

"Okay," she said. "Send me the links."

He did.

"Well, first off you want something a little distracting, right?"

"Different feeling, I think, is more what we're going for. A very minor distraction. Just something at the edge of my mind to keep me from spiraling."

"Oh, Connor."

"Don't start," Connor warned her.

"You know we love you no matter what, yeah? Doesn't matter what your ETA is."

"ERA. ERA, baby sister," he reminded her.

"Oh, yeah. Right. Well, if you don't want to become a professional baseball player, you don't have to, right? Dad would love it if you came home and worked with him at the dealership."

He rolled his eyes. He did love baseball, but he couldn't deny that part of his original motivation to play well enough to get drafted and then keep moving up was avoiding the dealership. Working there had always sounded like the seventh level of hell.

"I heard that," she said.

"You did not."

"Okay, so you want something comfortable enough, with some stretch, yeah?"

"Yeah, that sounds good," Connor said. "Something not . . .not too distracting."

"Alright. Not too distracting . . .hmmm. What about these?"

A screencap of a pair of lacy briefs in a bright pink color appeared on his phone.

"They're good. Uh, that's good. But the color—"

"Pink isn't just for girls, Connor," Maya reminded him.

"I know that, it's just that I worry they'll . . .show. I do wear tight white pants, remember."

"Oh yeah. Well, good news for you, there's a beige option. But there's a few other pastels, too. You don't want to miss out on looking pretty for your new boyfriend."

"He's not my . . ." Connor trailed off. What were they? Something, for sure. Maybe Jackson hadn't come out and said it—but then that was just Jackson's way, wasn't it?—but he'd made it clear enough.

"Oh, he's your boyfriend," Maya said. "You want him to be anyway."

"Yeah," Connor admitted.

"Anyway, that's probably my best guess. But there's some others in a similar style and material, if these don't stretch enough for you."

"Thanks, Maya, seriously. I looked at this page and my brain blanked out."

"'Cause of how much you wanna wear these for your boyfriend?" she asked jokingly.

"No," Connor said. But he was thinking of it now, because how could he not?

And if he had to bet, he'd guess Jackson had, too.

"Sure," Maya teased. "Well good luck. When are you starting next?"

"A few days. I can overnight these here, hopefully in time."

"How's it feel? Being in the majors?" she asked.

Connor didn't know how to answer, and part of him thought maybe he should lie, but he didn't want to do that, not to Maya. "Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, and also someplace I can't possibly understand."

She was quiet for a moment. "I meant it, you know? You don't have to do this, Connor. Only if you want to."

"I want to," Connor said and realized, then, that he actually did.

When he thought about never taking the field again, dread completely swamped the anxiety he felt over his next start.

When he never thought about pitching, and Jackson catching him again, it felt even worse.

"Alright," she said. "And don't be a stranger, alright?"

"I won't," Connor promised.

He hung up and scrolled through the site, picking a few pairs, and while most of them were the beige color he was fairly sure would disappear under his baseball pants, his fingers might have slipped and he put another few pairs in, in brighter colors.

Jackson had said he didn't know when they'd be together next, but surely there was no harm in planning ahead—or being optimistic?

Because Connor already knew that the only person he'd want to wear them for was Jackson.

Order complete, the website promising that his order would be sent to him ASAP, hopefully in enough time for his next start, he sent a text to Jackson. You'd better be right about this, or else I'm gonna have a lot of underwear I don't know what to do with.

It was late morning, and if Connor knew Jackson's routine as well as he thought he did, he'd be returning to the room to shower and get ready for batting practice and then a game later in the day.

Sure enough, he got a response back almost immediately.

I think we could come up with something.

Connor grinned at the screen. He was sure Jackson thought he was being subtle—but he was not. He might as well have written, I thought about it too, and the next time we see each other, you'd better be wearing them.

I'm thinking about that something right now.

And on cue, his phone rang, and he set it on his stomach, on speaker.

"You're thirty-three, not a hundred and three. You can text," he teased.

"Hello to you too," Jackson retorted. "And I'm not old."

"Then don't act like it. You didn't want to sext?"

"That why you think I called you?" Jackson grumbled.

"Oh, so you do want to have phone sex?"

Connor sure did. He was already hard, just hearing Jackson's voice. Knowing he'd been thinking about him, wrapped up in pretty lace. Could already imagine the prickly roughness of it against his cock, and the admiration and the awe in Jackson's eyes when he looked at Connor.

"You're ridiculous," Jackson said.

"And you're horny. You think I can't tell. Your voice gets all dark and grumbly when you're losing the fight with your own stupid self-control."

"It's not stupid."

"It kinda is, especially when you could be telling me how to touch myself, right now."

Connor heard the catch in Jackson's breath.

"You're playing unfair," Jackson said in a low voice.

"Are you surprised?"

Jackson laughed, and somehow the laugh aroused Connor even more than grumbling, horny-but-denying-it Jackson. "No. No. God, you're . . .you're fucking incredible, you know that?"

"Because I want you to tell me how to touch my cock and make me come?" He was only holding back because he did want that, more than he wanted to just do it.

"Because you're you," Jackson said and his voice had gone deeper. Rougher. "Because you drive me crazy. Because I've never wanted anyone the way I want you."

Connor groaned. "Please," he begged. His fingers dug into the comforter underneath him, wanting to hold back until Jackson told him exactly what to do.

"You want to come, baby?"

"Don't make me wait," Connor groaned.

"Impatient." His voice was a caress now, like Jackson was actually here, his fingers stroking up and down his body. "Greedy, too."

"You love it."

"You know what I'd love more?"

Connor's breath caught in his throat.

"You naked, all spread out for me. You like that now?"

He could barely speak, arousal choking him, but Jackson couldn't hear him so he had to figure out how to use his words. He reached down, fingers catching on the waistband of his shorts, and he tugged them down, inhaling sharply as his cock bobbed out, hard as if Jackson had actually been here watching him. Touching him.

"Yes," he croaked.

"That was quick. You were so eager you got naked before you even called me, didn't you?"

"I wasn't . . ." He cleared his throat. "I wasn't wearing a shirt. I just had to take my shorts off."

"You just woke up then, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Just thinkin' about you, all rumpled and golden in the morning, makes me hard," Jackson confessed. "Didn't see you enough like that—not when you were . . ."

When you were mine.

Jackson didn't need to say the words for Connor to feel them.

For them to burn him like a brand.

And he'd thought he was turned on before.

His cock twitched against his stomach and he wanted to it to be exactly like Jackson said—but he wanted it so badly he wasn't sure he could resist any longer.

"Please," he begged.

Jackson's breath, loud over the phone, quickened even more.

"Touch your cock. Slowly. Don't take too much, too fast."

"But you're—"

Jackson didn't let him get the protest out. "Yeah, I'm nice and hard for you, too, and if you were here, you'd be eager to suck it down, wouldn't you?"

Shame should have curled through him in a nauseating wave, but it didn't. He only felt proud. If Jackson was here, he'd be on his knees, as eager as Jackson claimed.

Acceptance made him even impossibly hotter, and as he finally let his hand grasp his dick, he groaned.

"Slowly," Jackson cautioned.

He did just as Jackson wanted, stroking himself at the kind of pace he knew Jackson would approve of.

"Can't wait to see you like this again," Jackson said in a hushed, intimate tone. It was still his sex voice, but it was more, too.

"Naked and at your mercy?" Connor choked out. He was already close, cock twitching in his hand, pleasure swamping him.

"In my bed. Sleepy and sexy, those big blue eyes blinking up at me like I'm some kind of prize, an actual fucking hero, instead of a washed-up baseball player."

Connor could see it, the vision in Jackson's mind, as easy as breathing. And he wanted it too, with a deep, painful longing he'd never felt before, never even imagined existed.

Jackson would give him an orgasm, make him work for it, wring it out of him, one devastating moment at a time, and then they'd lie together, and it'd feel just like coming home.

If Connor didn't know how deep he was into this, the fact that sleepy, sweet vision was the thing that toppled him off into his orgasm would be enough to prove it.

"Oh God," Connor cried out, and he was coming in long, hot stripes across his chest, shuddering against the way the pleasure grabbed him and wouldn't let go.

"Shit," Jackson ground out, a second later, and through his own orgasmic haze, Connor could hear his heavy breathing, the little gasps he made, and it was almost enough.

But as his come cooled on his stomach, he realized it wasn't.

Because he was still alone, and Jackson was still too many miles away.

Connor was not usually given to melancholy. He didn't sulk. That was Jackson's department, for sure. But it was hard, now, to resist that pull. How easy would it be to fall into depression, not knowing when they'd ever see each other again?

But Connor pushed those thoughts away. Focused, instead, on the vision Jackson had painted.

"It'll be like that again," Connor said.

Jackson made a scoffing noise. Yes, he was definitely the melodramatic one out of the two of them.

"You're not getting rid of me that easily," Connor promised.

"I know," Jackson said and sighed. "Doesn't mean this doesn't suck."

"Sucking?" Connor asked, ears perking up.

God, maybe Maya was right, after all, and he was dickmatized.

But Jackson chuckled, exactly the way Connor had hoped. "It's kind of amazing you ever thought you were straight, considering how into dick you are."

"Just your dick," Connor said.

"I'll remember that," Jackson retorted dryly, but Connor could still hear the affection in his tone. The trust. The loyalty.

Connor cleared his throat. "When the . . .uh . . .underwear comes in, do you wanna see?"

"Like a free preview?"

Connor couldn't help his eye roll. "No, old man, like a thirst trap. You know what that is?"

"Yes," Jackson said. "And no. I don't want to see until you're in front of me and I can actually touch you."

"Really?"

Jackson laughed humorlessly. "You're overestimating my ability to resist you. If I see that . . .I can't promise I won't go AWOL and show up in Tampa."

"You wouldn't." Jackson was the last person Connor would ever expect to do that. But then, he wouldn't have said it if he didn't mean it. That was the number one Jackson Evans rule: he never said things he didn't mean.

"I might," Jackson said wryly.

Connor picked up his phone, made a face, and snapped a pic, making sure to include the come splattered down his stomach.

"Now that's a free preview," Connor said after he texted him the picture.

"Unfair," Jackson said.

"Just thought you deserved to see your handiwork," Connor teased.

Jackson groaned. And then, just as Connor predicted, changed the subject. "So, your next start is in three days?"

"Yeah," Connor said.

"When's your next bullpen session?"

"Tomorrow," Connor said. "You'd like Alejandro. He's thorough."

"Alejandro Guitierrez is gonna be a Hall of Fame catcher," Jackson said. "I'm not worried about me liking him. I'm worried about him deciding I didn't do a very good job preparing you."

"Well, you can rest easy there. When he heard you'd been the catcher working with me back in triple A ball, he said he knew I'd be okay."

"Wait, what? Why the fuck didn't you lead with that?" Jackson sounded shocked.

"Lead with what?"

"That Alejandro Guitierrez knows who the hell I am," Jackson retorted.

"Oh. Oh. Well, I thought you catchers all knew each other. By reputation, at least."

"No. Not even close."

"Well, he thought you did a good job with me. Probably just relieved I didn't show up and try to shake off all his signals."

"If you did that to him, he'd have your ass in a sling."

Connor laughed. "And you didn't?"

"Exactly." Jackson sounded not only amused now, but relaxed. Like Connor had surprised the sulk right out of him. Which, he could take credit for part of that, but he'd had no idea it was such a big deal that Alejandro knew who Jackson was.

"How about you guys?"

"Funny thing," Jackson said. "You left, and we actually started winning. Four game win streak now. And I hit two more homers."

"So Mikey didn't take you out of the lineup, when I left?"

"Actually, I've been catching more than ever," Jackson said.

"Aw. Poor Charlie."

"He's got to learn to assert himself better. He'll be fine. I've just got a good hit streak going—I'm allowed to hit the ball, I'm not allowed to knock heads together—which I think is why Mikey's got me in more."

"And you're good for the pitchers."

Jackson didn't reply to that, but they both knew it was true.

"They actually brought up a new guy from double A to take your slot in the order, and he's . . .well, I thought you were erratic."

"Thanks," Connor retorted.

"Your issues were all mental. Nick's a mess. He needs a lot of work on his fundamentals. They're all over the place."

"Andy must be enjoying himself."

"If that's what we're calling it."

It occurred to Connor while he was missing the Rogues, maybe they weren't really missing him. Sounded like they'd replaced him, and everything.

That was the thing about baseball. There was always another body eager to take your place.

It shouldn't have bothered him. It had never bothered him before. But now, it kinda did.

"So, you got a new project then."

"Don't get that jealous tone with me. If I'm gonna let Alejandro take care of you, you can deal with me working with Nick. You know there's only one pitcher with a stick up his ass that I want, and it's you."

Connor knew Jackson was right; he was being very stupid. Vulnerable, maybe, and in love for the first goddamn time in his life, but stupid, still.

"Alejandro's good, yeah, but you gotta know, he's not you, Jackson."

"Don't say that," Jackson warned.

"But it's true," Connor protested.

"We're kinda fucked, aren't we?" Jackson said with a resigned sigh.

Connor laughed. "You're just now realizing that, huh?"

"Oh, darlin', I knew it from the moment I walked in and they said your name."

"The way you're attacking the plate these days is something else," Andy said, leaning against the dugout fence next to Jackson.

"Gotta make the most of my chances," Jackson said modestly.

"Oh, is that what we're calling it?" Andy sounded amused.

But despite his words, Jackson knew during the last few games, he'd been on a tear. It was an irony, because he'd been so upset after he'd fought with Connor and he'd left, and even after they'd mended things, he still missed him like a limb he'd lost. But streaks didn't always make logical sense, and even though he'd been hurting inside, Jackson knew he'd never played better baseball. Like his misery had honed his skills to a fine edge.

He'd hit two home runs during this home stand and was actually drawing closer to the record than he'd imagined he would. He still wouldn't let himself believe it might happen—even as he wanted it more desperately than he ever had before—but it was beginning to feel inevitable.

He'd asked Mikey if the record was why he was in so much lately, but Mikey had shot him a look and said, "You know better than that. Charlie needs to see what a catcher does with a pitcher. He let Connor walk all over him, and the others are headin' that way. Plus, you're hitting fucking great. It would be stupid if I kept you on the bench."

"Isn't baseball funny?" Andy continued.

They watched as TJ swung his bat and hit a little flare single over the right fielder's head.

"How so?"

Andy glanced over at him. "You've been pissy since Connor left."

"I—"

"No," Andy said. "We both know I'm not stupid, so don't act like I am. That boy is obsessed with you, and you're half-obsessed with him, too."

Jackson hated the shame that unfurled inside him. He didn't want to feel it, not about Connor. But he'd fooled around with a teammate. While not expressly forbidden, it was still not a great idea.

Connor no longer being with the Rogues didn't mean he was off the hook.

"More than half-obsessed, if I'm being honest," Jackson said wryly. "I'm—"

"Don't you dare apologize," Andy said conversationally.

"I shouldn't have . . .it was a bad idea . . .it's still a bad idea," Jackson admitted.

"And inevitable, too, I'd guess."

Jackson rolled his eyes, but yeah, that was the best way to describe it. No matter how hard he'd tried to resist Connor Clark, giving in had felt like the rightest move in the world.

"Does everyone know?" Jackson asked.

"I think most of the guys aren't blind, if that's what you're asking." Andy's voice was matter-of-fact. "You think they give a shit? Do they give Deke shit?"

"Well, no, but Deke's boyfriend isn't on the team," Jackson said.

On the field, Tony Lombardi, the Rogues' second baseman, hit into a double play, ending the inning, but because Jackson was the designed hitter this game—not catching—he didn't have to go strap his gear on.

"Neither is Connor."

Jackson glanced over at Andy. He respected the man so much. He was a legend. "You know it's not that simple."

"We both know it is," Andy said. "I know what happened with you and Davy Robinson. That sucked. But things aren't that way, everywhere, and they've begun to change."

"I'm not gonna cost him a chance at a Hall of Fame career," Jackson said. But wasn't he, already? He was so fucking tired of feeling guilty, but he didn't know how to dismiss the feeling entirely.

But to Jackson's surprise, Andy laughed. "That what you think you're doing?"

"Come on. You can't say it's not a concern," Jackson said.

Andy shrugged. "I can't say it's not a problem. But I think you're overestimating how much a good manager cares about who a guy takes into his bed. He wants a player who can play. And we both know Connor can fucking pitch."

"Yeah." Jackson didn't say—but what about me?—but he was thinking it.

Andy nudged him. "You were a different story. Did they love you and Davy? No way. But they also had Alejandro Guiterrez in double A. They knew he was coming up and fast."

"I knew he was behind me," Jackson said. Because of that, he'd known he couldn't take a step out of line, because everyone was so high on Alejandro. Thought he was going to be the next big catcher.

And yet Jackson had let his dick take over and paid the price.

"You were never gonna be the guy, because they'd already decided he was the guy," Andy said.

"Wait, what." Jackson couldn't believe what he was hearing. But maybe he could all the same.

"Ironically, they ended up trading Alejandro away, and you, too, a few years later, but in the end, you both ended up here, in the same farm system. He's catching Connor now, isn't he, up in Tampa?" Andy's question was casual, like it wasn't a big fucking deal.

"Yeah," Jackson said, distracted. "Wait, are you saying Davy wasn't why I got sent down?"

"I mean, I can't say it wasn't a factor," Andy said with a shrug. "That manager was old-school. No big surprise he retired a few years after that. Of course, everyone thought it was his choice, but no way he wanted to call it quits. Still, everyone knew he was freaking in love—and not like that, Evans—with Alejandro. I'm pretty sure it would've gone down the same, if Davy had been a woman."

Jackson couldn't believe it.

He'd always known about Alejandro, of course.

But he'd still believed that the Davy affair was the nail in his coffin. And if it wasn't . . .if what Andy was saying was true . . .

"Wait, you thought this whole time they shunted you to triple A ball only because you were gay?"

Jackson shot him a look. "It was not an insane assumption."

"No, but ugh, kid, that's a tough thing to carry around with you, all this time," Andy said and patted him on the back.

No shit.

"I'm not saying nobody gives a shit about you and Connor, but I think as long as you're vaguely cautious . . ." Andy shrugged again. "I think he's gonna be fine. And you're about to set the record. Any number of teams might want you after this. Or . . ."

"Or what?" Jackson demanded. He was still trying to realign his whole life. All those years of grinding away and not making it, resenting the very core of his being, for why he couldn't quite get there.

"Do you even know how many teams would hire you to coach their pitchers and their catchers?"

Jackson had a vague idea, because it wasn't like nobody had ever made overtures to him before. But he'd always dismissed them out of hand because he didn't want to coach. He wanted to play.

But he wasn't going to be able to play forever, and now, flirting in the back of his mind, was the idea that if he kept playing, there was no way he and Connor were going to make it. Maybe they wouldn't, anyway. But if they ended up on different teams—looking extremely likely—then there was almost no chance. Of course, if he did end up coaching, then they'd probably end up on different teams, anyway.

"Yeah," Jackson said. "Not sure I want to guarantee myself a bunch more years in the minors, this time as a coach, not even playing."

Andy elbowed him, hard. "Who says you gotta restrict yourself to just one team, Evans?"

"What?"

"You think if you hung out your shingle, they wouldn't be linin' up, just for a few weeks with the pitcher whisperer?"

"That's not what they call me," Jackson retorted.

"Sure as heck, they do," Andy said. "I could've done it, too, but I didn't have much else in my life. But you're different than me, kid. You got other things goin' on."

"Huh. I guess I never thought about it," Jackson said.

He didn't know how to deal with both of these revelations, one hitting right after the other, shifting his whole paradigm.

"'Course you didn't." Andy rolled his eyes. "You were still tryin' to make it as a player. But you're more than that, Evans. We always knew it. You just had to keep up."

"Huh."

Kevin finished off his side, coming off the field with a fist pump, and Jackson was the first to greet him at the dugout entrance, giving him a high-five and a back slap.

"Lookin' great," Jackson said.

"Thanks," Kevin said, settling on the bench. "Go out there and get us some runs, man."

Jackson shot him an exaggerated wide-eye look. "We already got five, and we're up four. How many more do you want?"

"All the runs, man, all the runs," Kevin joked.

Jackson still had his words—and Andy's words—echoing in his head as he made his way to the plate.

It was funny, he'd carried this guilt, this denial of who he was, for so long, he felt different as he walked up. Lighter, almost, and freer. Less worried, at the back of his mind, about what anyone had heard about him. What anyone thought about him.

He only cared what he thought about himself.

Jackson took a few swings and then strode towards home plate.

Settling into his stance, he looked out towards the mound. Took in the pitcher and his body language, watched as he tensed, getting ready to throw the first pitch.

Jackson rarely swung at that first pitch, and like usual, he let this first one sail by him.

Behind him, the umpire called it a ball.

Jackson grinned.

And the next pitch? Jackson saw it coming, right down the middle, fastball, almost no spin, and he launched it, arcing the ball right over center field, and sending it out of the park.

It was really hard not to pump his fist as he jogged around the bases. He only had a handful more of these left to go to set the record and if this was grandstanding a little, well he was allowed, wasn't he?

When Jackson returned to the dugout, to plenty of back slaps and a chorus of celebratory approval, it was impossible to miss the look Andy gave him.

What would it mean if he'd been wrong this whole time?

Not entirely wrong, he wouldn't go that far, but even if he'd been a little bit wrong, that would change everything.

Was it still frustrating that he hadn't made it in the majors? It was. But he couldn't blame himself any longer. He'd done everything he was capable of. For so long he'd believed that if he'd just been different—normal—then he wouldn't have gotten stuck in the minors.

But maybe that wasn't why. Or maybe that wasn't only why.