22. Chapter 22

Jackson had played a hell of a lot of baseball in his life.

But no stretch of games had ever felt as good and he'd never been so happy as he was during the last home stand of the season.

Not just the last home stand, the last five games of the season.

Of his career.

Jackson had thought he'd be sad and maybe full of bitter regret, but all he felt was pure fucking joy as he took the field every day.

Part of it was, of course, Connor. He was in love, and loved in return, for the first time in his life, but it wasn't just him. Wasn't just that they could retreat behind a closed door and fall into that loved-up bliss. It was Jackson finally beginning to embrace who he was, without shame or denial. It was enjoying this team, experiencing a resurgence. It was growing closer, with every at-bat, to setting the record.

It was beginning to figure out where his place was gonna be after he hung up his cleats. News that he was thinking of hanging out his own shingle and going into business as a consultant had spread and he had more offers than he knew what to do with.

Including from Alejandro Guiterrez, who had caught Connor when he was in the majors. The message he'd sent had not only indicated that he'd be interested in some personal coaching, but that the team was interested in potentially hiring Jackson to continue mentoring Connor and their other young pitchers over the offseason and through the next season.

When he'd called his mom and told her he wouldn't be coming home and crashing on her couch after all, she'd just laughed at him. "Did you really worry you'd be doing that?" she'd asked him.

He had. He couldn't deny it.

First he'd angsted about that. Then, after Connor, he'd agonized over being forced into following him around like a helpless puppy.

Would that change their relationship for the worse? Would Connor fall out of love with him if he didn't have anything of value to bring to their relationship?

But Jackson had begun to realize that wasn't true. Even if he was penniless, essentially a house husband for Connor, he'd still have value in Connor's eyes.

Why was that?

Because Jackson was learning how to respect himself, and an integral part of that was knowing he was going to be doing something of value, something other people—a lot of other people, it turned out—valued, too.

"Hey, Evans, you just gonna sit there and stare gooily out onto the field?" Kevin shouted from the bullpen.

"Yeah, Clark's not even out here yet," Ro retorted, as he scooped up a ball and tossed it to TJ, the ball making its way around the outfield and then back to the infield, as part of the team's warmup.

"Sorry, was spaced out for a minute there." He caught the ball as it made its way to him, and tossed it to back to Ro.

Jackson straightened his chest plate and settled back into his stance, waiting for Connor to head over for his final warmup.

This would be, in all likelihood, his last regular season minor league start, and Jackson knew he was feeling the pressure to pitch as well today as he had during his last major league game.

There were only two more games period, in the regular season, and the Rogues needed to win both of them to make it to the postseason—and it meant that Jackson only had two more games to hit two last home runs and finally set the record.

Before, he might've let the pressure swamp him and ultimately defeat him, but Jackson couldn't help but grin with pure unbridled delight as Calvin, the first baseman, tossed him the ball and he leapt to his feet, making a nice long throw towards Ro, who was monitoring second.

"Nice," Andy called out.

"Showin' off your thirty-three-year-old catching skills, huh?" TJ teased as he jogged into the infield.

"Hey I could still throw someone out," Jackson claimed good-naturedly. But TJ was right; he was not as quick as he'd been when he'd been in his twenties, that was for sure.

"Where is Connor?" Ro asked.

That was a really good question. When he'd left him in the clubhouse, he'd seemed fine enough. Nervous, maybe, but game for this challenge.

And . . .though only he and Connor knew this . . .wearing the underwear he'd worn for his last start, when he'd been in the majors.

"Not sure," Jackson said.

"Thought you kept an eye on him," Ro teased.

They hadn't explicitly talked about it, not since Connor had come back to Raleigh, but it was clear that most of the team knew—or at least suspected, if the gentle teasing they'd received was any indication. Even Mikey had pulled him aside and asked, rather bluntly, "Is it helpin' him and not hurtin' him?"

When Jackson had started to answer, Mikey had held up his hand and said, "Don't need you to tell me, Jackson. Just yourself."

He'd agonized over that truth for a few minutes, until he'd realized that the only distraction that could really unravel Connor at this point would be if he tried denying the love between them.

He'd met Mikey's gaze during the pregame, and his approving nod had given him the blessing he'd needed.

"Just a sec," Jackson said, rising to his feet again and jogging over to the bullpen, down the first base line.

But Connor wasn't in there, either.

Where the fuck was he?

Jackson headed back to the dugout and into the clubhouse through its connecting hallway.

Just in time to see Connor emerge from the bathrooms. "There you are," he said. "You alright?"

Connor made a face.

"What is it?" Jackson asked in a low voice, putting a hand on his elbow.

"I'm . . ." Connor grimaced again. "I put them on. And it was one thing, to wear them, when I was in Tampa, and you were here, like a thousand miles away, but it's different when we're here together, and you're gonna be looking at me."

"I'm supposed to look at you," Jackson teased.

"I know, but ugh, like that," Connor protested. "Like you can't wait to get me naked."

"I look at you like this all the time."

"Exactly," Connor said with a groan.

"Just . . .relax. Let them do their job. It'll fade. The point is the distraction."

"Yeah, but—"

"No buts." Jackson grinned. "Well, maybe some buts, later."

Connor elbowed him. "You're the worst. You're supposed to be encouraging me. Making sure I pitch great today."

"I know you will," Jackson said, making sure he sounded serious. Because he did believe in Connor. "You've come a long way. You've found your groove. You know you can pitch. So, just go out there and do it." He paused, the corner of his mouth tilting up into an undeniable smirk. "And then after, maybe I'll do you."

"Ugh." Connor half-groaned, half-laughed. "I kind of hate you."

"No, you don't," Jackson said.

"No." Connor tipped his head towards Jackson's, and the love on his face was undeniable. "No, not even a little."

But by the time they returned to the field, Connor had found his game face, and whatever it had taken—Jackson's pep talk or something else entirely—when he warmed up, Jackson catching him behind home plate, he'd also found his focus.

The game started, Connor looking as dialed in as Jackson had ever seen. Each pitch came in with a healthy zing, hitting his glove with a decisive thud. And his placement was about as good as Jackson had ever seen from him.

He struck out the side, and as they returned to the dugout, Connor glanced over at him.

"See?" Jackson said. "You got this."

"I'm half focused. Half going out of my goddamn mind." Connor smiled, his expression helpless but happy. "I love it and I hate it."

"Well, I've never seen you like this. This how you pitched in your last start?" Jackson had seen the stat line, of course, because he'd been watching for it. He'd read the commentary about how well Connor had pitched in that game. But being front and center for it was something else, entirely.

Connor shook his head as he sat down on the dugout bench. "Never pitched like this before. I can feel it, in here," he said. "Like that fear isn't gone, but it's . . .it's MIA."

"Well, keep it up," Jackson said, beginning to shed his catching gear. He was set to bat third, unusual for a catcher, but not as Mikey had told him last week when he'd moved him on the lineup card, for someone who was hitting as well as Jackson was right now.

There'd been a time when it was hard for him to move between two different mentalities—catching, which meant he needed to not only manage the game from behind home plate, but manage whoever was pitching; and batting, which was a one-on-one battle, pitting his own wits and skill against the opposing pitcher's—but he'd learned. He'd also learned what knowledge he could borrow from one to give to the other.

Becoming a great catcher had made him a better hitter, and vice versa.

"Kill 'em dead," Connor said, shooting him a smile as he headed towards the front of the dugout. Jackson nodded and turned back to the field, just in time to see Ro hit a little flare of a single over the first baseman's head.

It was a good sign, the leadoff hitter getting on base. Not only that it took the zero off the board for the Rogues, but that it was hard on a pitcher to give up a hit to the first hitter of a game. Demoralizing, even.

Jackson's grip tightened on his bat. He dug into the dirt near the dugout, giving a few practice swings as he watched TJ bat.

He was a smart hitter, generally, and this time was no exception, as he took the pitcher to a full count, hitting foul ball after foul ball, keeping his at-bat alive. But even though Jackson could only imagine how much TJ was frustrating the pitcher, he got his revenge in the end, getting TJ to chase a low and away fastball, striking him out.

But Ro was still sitting on first, waiting for Jackson to come up to bat.

He gave the bat another warmup swing and then settled down at home plate.

Eyed the pitcher across the expanse of the field. He wasn't quite shaken, but he wasn't happy about how the game was going—Jackson could tell from his carefully blank expression and the tenseness of his body as he leaned back to throw.

His first pitch was a high fastball, and he didn't even bother swinging, though Jackson was gratified when the ump indicated it was a little too high, calling it a ball.

Second pitch looked better. He swung. Barely missed.

But the third one was exactly what he wanted. He nailed it with every single bit of his strength, not surprised from merely the sound of the bat hitting the ball, that glorious crack that everyone wished for but so rarely got, that he wasn't going to be running fast around the bases but taking them at a nice slow jog as he celebrated tying the home run record.

The crowd roared as he rounded first, hitting the edge of the bag and digging into the dirt, and Jackson lifted his head in time to see the ball soar out of the stadium. He slowed down then, allowing himself a fist pump. After all, it wasn't every day that you tied a record that had stood for a few decades.

He'd wanted it before, but he'd been almost ashamed of it, same as his own sexuality. Even as he'd tried to claim he embraced being gay, he'd struggled with the feeling that somehow it had been the thing holding him back.

But nothing was holding him back now.

All of him was Jackson Evans, and that name would rest in the record books.

The whole dugout greeted him, including Connor, who wore the brightest smile Jackson could ever remember him wearing.

"One more," Deke called out to him. "You gotta get one more, man."

Ro elbowed him. "He tied the record. That's a damn good thing."

"Yeah," Jackson said, his own smile probably eclipsing even Connor's. "But I want it. And I'm gonna go get it. I'm not big on sharing."

TJ patted him on the back. "You got this, man."

And it felt like he did.

It was unbelievable how much difference just a change in attitude could make. Before, he'd have waited for the other shoe to drop, for reality to come charging in, bringing ugly consequences. But now even if he didn't hit another home run, Jackson knew he'd made his peace. With the game, and with himself.

Connor hadn't been sure how he'd react to Jackson tying the record. He was already working to maintain that necessary balance between distraction and focus—and even as he'd desperately wanted Jackson to hit another home run, he'd worried that maybe it would knock him off kilter.

But he'd worried for nothing.

When he returned to the mound, he pitched even better.

Even Jackson thought so. He could tell from the approving glint in his eyes after each pitch hit his glove.

Of course, with every glance Jackson gave him, awed and impressed and loving, the arousal in him heated up another few degrees.

When the game finally ended, the Rogues winning seven to one, Connor pitching six and a half innings of one hit shutout ball, he was wild with it, desire bubbling fiercely just under his skin.

In the clubhouse, Deke announced that the entire team was heading to the Strike Zone for a drink—to celebrate Connor's pitching and Jackson tying the record. Jackson looked over at him, shrugging helplessly, because Deke was right. They really did need to lift one in celebration. More Jackson than him, because as far as Connor was concerned, he'd only done his job. Jackson was really the extraordinary one.

Still. The last thing he wanted to do was sit around and pretend he wasn't dying for Jackson to touch him.

But he could have one drink, at least. Right?

He could have some kind of self-control.

Or at least that was what Connor kept telling himself as they walked over to the Strike Zone.

"You okay?" Jackson asked, leaning in and murmuring directly in his ear as he set his beer down in front of him.

"Fine," Connor said, trying to sound casual and calm.

But Jackson knew him better than just about anybody now, and his gaze told Connor that he wasn't convinced. Not even close.

"You're looking a little wild. Flushed." Jackson made a little gesture towards his face.

"I can't imagine why."

Jackson chuckled. "One drink, right?"

"If they let you leave it there," Connor proclaimed darkly. Which wasn't fair, really. He wanted Jackson to be lauded and celebrated. He wanted him to be properly honored.

Just not right now, not when he felt like he was ready to crawl out of his skin with unsatisfied desire, just from the way Jackson kept looking at him, like he knewwhat had been under his pants, earlier, and what was under his shorts, now.

"Listen, when I set the record, we'll party all night long."

"You, really?" Connor teased, and Jackson rolled his eyes.

"I mean it. But I just tied the record today. Sure, I'm in the history books, now, officially, but I want more. And I'm not going to be satisfied til I get it."

"You think you can hit one more?" Connor asked, even though he knew from the confident set of Jackson's shoulders what his answer was going to be.

Jackson nodded.

"It's a date then. Tomorrow night. We'll grab the win, you'll grab your home run, and we'll party like we're heading to the playoffs—which we'll be doing," Connor said with a grin. "Now . . .drink up, because we got a different kind of party I'm dying to get to."

"I bet it's the same party I'm dying to get to," Jackson said, the corner of his mouth quirking up, after he'd taken an extra-long sip of his beer.

"So," Charlie said, settling down in the chair opposite Connor, "you two, then."

Connor didn't miss how Jackson's gaze immediately shifted to him. Like whatever he said, it was going to be all his decision.

He wouldn't say coming out was easy—it was easier if he thought of this as more of a "I'm in love with Jackson Evans" confession than a "turns out I'm actually bisexual" confession—but it did seem to get easier.

"Yeah," Connor said. "Me and Jackson."

Jackson's hand settled on his shoulder and he squeezed once. Not a huge demonstration, but enough of one that it was clear where he stood, too.

"Well, I never would've called that. Happy for you two, but surprised."

"Nobody's more surprised than us," Jackson admitted.

Connor laughed. "That's true."

He'd certainly been pretty damn surprised.

"And you've got a bunch of consulting gigs lined up, haven't you?" Charlie said, turning his attention to Jackson. "You gonna consult for this guy, too?"

Jackson grinned. Shot Connor a glance that felt as intimate as a touch.

"He's threatened to make me sleep on the couch if I don't at least give him a shot at my schedule."

He'd told Connor he wasn't going to be as worried about who knew about them, leaving it entirely up to Connor's discretion, but Connor supposed he hadn't really believed it til Jackson had actually started being more demonstrative.

Clearly, he wasn't ever going to be one who enjoyed loads of PDA, but nobody looking at them together, Jackson standing next to him, would think they were just buddies.

"You've come a long way, Connor," Charlie said with an approving nod. "Keep listenin' to this guy, yeah?"

"Plan to," Connor said, taking another long drink of his beer. He was nearly done with it. And the way Jackson's hand brushed his back, just above the chair back, told him he'd noticed.

That he was more than ready to cut the small talk and head out, too.

"Think we got one more game in us?" Deke asked, as he stopped by their table.

"Absolutely," Jackson said.

"And one more homer, too, I'd bet," Deke teased.

"You know it," Connor said, giving Jackson a little nudge as he stood, finishing the rest of his beer. "Come on, old man," he said to Jackson. "Let's go home and get you some beauty sleep for tomorrow."

Deke's cackle echoed after them. "Yeah, you're not gonna be doing any sleeping," he called out as they exited the bar.

"You know," Jackson teased as they headed down the street towards his place, "maybe Deke's right. Maybe sleep isn't what I need."

"No?" Connor was trying to pretend like his pulse wasn't already accelerating.

"I know I'm not tired."

As they climbed the stairs to Jackson's place, Connor suddenly wished that he'd not taken this step. Maybe Jackson wouldn't like it. Maybe it would be weird. Maybe it would . . .

"What's wrong?" Jackson asked, unlocking the door and ushering Connor inside.

"Nothing," Connor insisted, arousal warring with potential embarrassment inside him.

Why had he thought this was such a good idea?

Yeah, it turned him on. And he thought it would turn Jackson on, but he wasn't sure . . .not really. Not as sure as he wanted to be, before he pulled his shorts down.

"You're lying now. Seriously, what is it?" Jackson put a hand on his shoulder. "You know we don't have to have sex, not if you don't want to. I didn't—"

"I'm wearing the underwear," Connor blurted out.

Jackson's eyes grew wide.

"I thought you wore them to start," Jackson said slowly. He didn't seem disgusted at all. In fact he seemed . . .okay, he seemed intrigued.

"I did. But I . . .uh . . .bought a few extra pairs. You know . . .for uh . . .entertainment purposes."

Jackson's eyebrows skidded up. "So you're wearing them? Right now?"

Connor nodded wordlessly, but even, he, with his sudden flare of anxiety over doing this, could admit that Jackson appeared to be pleased by his revelation.

"Well, then take these shorts off. Slowly. I wanna see." Jackson walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, legs spread, face suddenly as flushed as Connor's felt.

Connor knew he was hot. He'd known it since sixteen, when he'd finally passed the gangly, pimply stage of his early teenage years. But he'd still never felt as unsure about his looks as he did now. Even when he'd been attempting to entice Jackson into bed and failing, he'd still known that Jackson found him attractive.

"Come on," Jackson coaxed as Connor came to stand in front of him, fingers knotted in the waistband of his shorts. "Let me see."

He toed off his sneakers. Then his socks. Then tugged his T-shirt off. That was easy enough. He knew he looked good. The flare of heat in Jackson's eyes proved it.

But still his fingers hesitated on the waistband of his shorts.

"You know how gorgeous you are?" Jackson asked, his voice low and his gaze intense. "You make me so hard, looking at you like that. Can't wait til I can touch you all over. All that beautiful naked skin."

Connor groaned a little when Jackson pressed a hand against the erection in his jeans. "Can't help it," Jackson added with a helpless shrug. "You turn me on so goddamn much."

It was the helplessness that gave Connor that little extra boost of courage. He was just as enthralled with Connor as he was with Jackson, and on top of that he trusted Jackson. He loved him. Surely he wouldn't lie and say he wanted to see if he didn't really want to.

Slowly, he let the shorts fall and felt as naked as he ever had in his life, bare except for the lace stretched across his hips, his cock pressing hard against the fabric.

"Shit," Jackson groaned. "I was right. You're a fucking wet dream like this."

"You thought about it?" Connor found his voice again and approached, leaning in close, close enough to kiss, watching as Jackson's pupils dilated even further.

"I couldn't stop thinking about it. You all wrapped up like this, so beautiful, here for me to unwrap."

"Will you?" Connor asked.

Jackson's hand settled hot and insistent across his hip, fingertips digging into the lace, pressing the design into his skin in half a dozen places.

"Yes."

Connor didn't need any more encouragement. Leaning in, he kissed Jackson, letting his own hands wander, across his broad shoulders, his chiseled pecs, down underneath his T-shirt, to those incredible abs.

Lower still, to where his erection pulsed between them.

Jackson was breathless when they broke apart. "On the bed," he said.

Connor watched as Jackson grabbed the lube and a condom from the drawer. They hadn't fucked like this, not since the first time, when Jackson had made Connor wild with it, and he was already panting, desperate and aching for it.

"I didn't think you could get hotter, and then you show up like this, hard and aching under these, so eager for my cock," Jackson murmured, leaning in to kiss him again, even as his hands moved south, finding the lace again. Imprinting more patterns onto his skin, but never touching his cock, hard and pressing against the fabric, the friction driving him insane and yet not insane enough.

"You like it?"

"I love it. I love you," Jackson said, and then he pressed his palm right against where Connor was the most sensitive, making him gasp.

Jackson's sound of approval was guttural, like it had been torn from him. He moved downwards, lips coasting across Connor's chest, then his abs, nipping at the soft skin of his stomach, and then pressing, wet and insistent, into his hip.

"Fuck, please," Connor begged.

And then his tongue was tracing those lacy patterns across his cock, saliva soaking through the fabric and making him impossibly harder.

"Yeah, I thought you'd like being pretty for me," Jackson said. Gave him a little smack on the hip, the sharp pain bringing nothing but more pleasure. "Turn over."

Connor didn't know why, and didn't even care, just hoped that he'd get something more, anything more, because it felt like he'd been horny for this for way too fucking long.

Not that the blowjobs and the handjobs of the last few days hadn't been spectacular. They had been. But they hadn't been this, either.

Then Jackson's fingers were pressing the lace in, between his cheeks, and Connor yelped at the way it scratched right over his hole. And then . . .he just fucking died. Because that was Jackson's tongue, wasn't it? Hot and wet and moving right there, nearly where he wanted it so badly he might actually sob with need.

He didn't even realize the lace was gone until it was, pulled from his body, and then there was nothing to mute the feel of Jackson's tongue sliding right where he craved it. For a minute Jackson just teased him, tongue dipping in and out, barely giving him enough but then a finger joined it, wet with lube, and it felt so fucking good. The only reason he hadn't blindly started fucking the bed, desperate for pressure and friction on his cock, was Jackson's arm, strong and insistent, holding him down.

Making him take it.

One finger. Then two. Fucking in and out, until Connor was sure he was crying with how much he needed to come.

Only then did Jackson move, sliding his fingers out. Using that incredible strength to pull him back up on his knees, back onto his cock.

Connor groaned, as Jackson bottomed out.

"Good?" Jackson asked, panting hard.

"Yes, yes, God, please, fuck me now," Connor said in a sharp exhale, as Jackson waited only for the first affirmative before he was doing exactly that, with insistent thrusts that had him wailing and reaching for his own cock. So ready to finally fall into the orgasm that had been building for what felt like hours now.

He'd thought it was as good as it got, but then Jackson pushed him down on the bed, and really put his back into it, riding Connor hard and fast. Cock thrusting right against that spot that kept making his cock twitch and his brain see stars.

"You're gonna come for me, just like that," Jackson ordered. But his voice was unsteady now, sounding just as desperate as Connor felt, and he twisted his own cock insistently until he couldn't help it any longer. He came, arching and pulsing, clenching around Jackson's cock, making the man behind him groan.

Then Jackson moved out, flipped him over with one insistent movement, and a second later, hot stripes of come were falling across his chest.

Connor's eyes fluttered open just in enough time to see Jackson working his cock through his own orgasm.

"Shit," Jackson exhaled as he flopped down on the bed next to Connor.

"That was something else," Connor agreed, his voice still gravelly.

A second later, Jackson turned to him, warm gaze skimming along his body. "You still worried that I wouldn't find that sexy?"

Connor flushed. Maybe his anxiety had been silly. But it had been real. "No, but I did worry."

"I know, and I'm hoping you won't next time."

"Maybe we'll have to do it again, and maybe a third time, just to make sure," Connor teased, and Jackson started to laugh.

"Maybe next time," he said between chuckles, "it could be my turn."

"You'd like that?"

"With you? Very, very much," Jackson said.