23. Chapter 23

It was a beautiful night to play a baseball game.

The weather was surprisingly mild for September in Raleigh, the humidity receding to almost normal, and the sky lit up in swaths of midnight blue, purple and orange.

There was a whole stadium watching. A whole team.

But he only felt Connor's eyes on him, from his spot in the bullpen with the other pitchers, as he waited on deck, warming up his swing and waiting for his turn at the history books.

Every single time he came up to bat he told himself it didn't matter if he didn't set the record. He'd tied it. And even if he hadn't done that, it didn't matter, in the scheme of things. He had a new career he was excited about, a new relationship to explore, and more love and support in his life than he'd ever expected.

But he still felt disappointed when at each and every at-bat, he stepped into the box, and then stepped out of it again.

Strikeout.

Fly ball.

Strikeout again.

Each time, a home run was elusive.

But this time, his fourth and likely final at-bat, was his last chance.

The Rogues' starting pitcher had thrown lights out ball today, Charlie catching him, but unfortunately their opponent also had pitched well, and heading into the ninth inning, it was tied.

One to one.

Every time before this when he'd walked up to the plate, he'd been thinking of himself. Of the record.

But now, as he gazed out over the pristine green field, the place he'd always felt the most at-home, he didn't know that he could do that again.

If the Rogues won, they'd head to Vegas and the playoffs for the minor league championship.

If they lost, the team would disband for the year.

Jackson would have played his last game of baseball.

But it was so much more than that, Jackson thought as he took one final practice swing, it was so much more than just him and this stupid record.

These guys would be playing next year—or trying to.

Heading to the playoffs this season might not make or break next year's season for them, but it sure couldn't hurt.

If Jackson got his homer, all he'd get was a name on an obscure plaque somewhere, on a few websites nobody visited, and the knowledge he'd done it. That was it. But this was these guys' future careers at stake. Not his own. Theirs.

Don't go for the homer.Just a hit. Just a base hit, that's all we need. A spark to start a fire.

Jackson walked up to home plate and dug his cleat into the dirt. Lifted his bat.

It certainly hadn't gotten easier, between the last at-bat and this at-bat, but right now, he felt as settled about it as he ever had. More relaxed, yet also more intently focused, now that he'd decided the record didn't matter.

That this team mattered.

The calls of his teammates from behind in the dugout faded away.

The world narrowed, to just him, his bat, and the pitcher, sixty feet away.

They'd brought in their closer, hoping that his speed and skill would be enough to get it done.

He pulled back, eyes shadowed beneath his cap, and threw.

Strike one.

Almost nobody threw as fast as Connor, but this guy could give him a run for his money. The ball had practically been smoking as it hit the catcher's glove.

Jackson re-settled, tightening the velcro straps on his gloves, digging his cleat more forcefully into the dirt.

Baseball had a simplicity he'd always loved.

You hit the ball. You throw the ball. You catch the ball.

It was a backyard game, transposed to a stadium. But if you stripped away all the bells and whistles, it was the same as what he and his friends had done on long shadowed summer afternoons.

He raised the bat again.

This time he expected the heat.

But he'd also seen plenty of pitchers in the minors who could throw a fucking fastball but couldn't place it where they wanted to, if it would save their life. Or their ERA.

Connor was one of those rare entities who could do both, which was why he was already heading out, heading up.

Next year he'd pitch in a baseball stadium twice the size of this one, so pristine and perfectly maintained it was like a temple.

The fastball came in low, and Jackson, with all his strength, checked his swing, arms vibrating with the effort of holding back when he'd already committed to swinging.

"Ball," the umpire called out behind him.

The pitcher made an impatient movement as the catcher threw the ball back and he caught it mid-air.

He wasn't happy.

He was frustrated.

He'd wanted that one. For sure, he'd wanted his pitch back.

Each at-bat was like a chess match, and whoever won, paired with their inherent physical skill, would emerge victorious.

A cloud of dust rose up as Jackson twisted his cleat in the dirt. Raised his bat.

Next the pitcher threw a slider, low and away.

Jackson let it go. That wasn't his kind of pitch. He could hit it, but it wouldn't get him on base, not the way he needed to be.

Strike two.

It was serious now. One more strike, and Jackson would be finished, and he'd have to walk back to the dugout, having failed these guys when they needed him the most.

Maybe another day, he'd have accepted that.

He'd already accepted it dozens of times. Probably hundreds of times, over the course of his career.

Not today.

The pitcher pulled back and threw again.

Way high.

Jackson wasn't even tempted to swing at that kind of shit.

On the mound, the pitcher frowned. Had he actually believed that Jackson would chase that shit? He was Jackson Evans.

He saw that coming a mile away and didn't hesitate, his fingers circling the bat, forcing them to stay loose. Alert, ready to swing, but loose.

The guy was going to give him something; it was inevitable. He just had to wait for the right pitch and then hit it just the right way.

You can do this.

Jackson slowed his breathing, settling back into his stance.

And then it came.

Textbook fastball. Jackson was pretty sure he'd meant it to be lower, but it hung just enough, just enough for him to swing, dipping the tip of his bat down a hair, to dig it out and send it out of the park.

He hadn't been swinging for a home run.

He'd only wanted to get on base, to help the team.

Jackson watched it, incredulously, as it just cleared the right field fence, his legs moving like he was in a trance as he rounded the bases. He could already see the team gathering at home plate, jumping in excitement, at his walk off homer.

Setting the record.

And winning the game.

Connor didn't think he breathed once during Jackson's last at-bat.

He'd watched intently, as the man he loved battled this pitcher who thought he could own them. Own him.

But nobody owned Jackson Evans.

He'd fought too long and too hard to give up now. To go down without a fight.

Then he swung, a fucking flawless swing that could make any scout weep, that should've guaranteed him a place in the majors, but because of circumstances, never had.

Maybe if Jackson had made it, this season never would've happened. He'd never have been here in Raleigh, waiting to school Connor the way he'd needed to be schooled. There, just waiting for Connor to fall in love with him.

Before the ball even cleared the wall, the dugout emptied, the bullpen following with a chorus of exultant shouts, Connor dragged along with them, gathering at home plate, ready to welcome Jackson home.

Connor watched from the back of the pack as Deke hugged him, yelling excitedly about what a fucking beauty that hit had been. Jackson went through every person on the team, smiling and acknowledging and accepting their back pats, and then the crowd parted and he was standing right in front of him.

It was just baseball.

Just baseball had always been enough to tie him into knots, but it had never made him emotional, not like this.

Jackson's final game, his final at-bat, setting the record.

Guaranteeing the Rogues a trip to the playoffs.

Connor found himself choked up, tears threatening. He'd never been as proud in his whole life. But then, he realized as Jackson opened his arms and he fell into them, hugging him as tightly as he wanted to, not worrying about what anyone saw, what anyone might see, that he'd have been just as proud if Jackson had struck out.

If Jackson had never hit that ball and sent it out of the park.

Because Connor knew, because he knew this man, front and back and every which way in between, that if he'd struck out, and headed back to the dugout unsuccessful, no homer, no run, no record, no win, he'd have held his head high.

He'd have exited his career the exact same goddamn way he'd played every game of it.

"So proud of you," Connor murmured into his ear, hanging on to him, because he didn't want to let go.

"Just a hit," Jackson said, shrugging, but his eyes were bright as Connor pulled back, so he could look at his face.

"Not just for that," Connor said, and he watched as comprehension dawned on his face. Love mixing with understanding. "For everything else."