Epilogue

April, next year.

Jackson had done every single fucking thing he could, but he didn't think he was going to make it. Not in time.

He sighed in impatience as the cab he was in navigated the packed streets around the baseball stadium in downtown Tampa Bay. Who had thought it was a fucking good idea to put a stadium in the middle of a busy area with skyscrapers full of workers hurrying home after a long day and enough baseball fans to fill a stadium on Opening Day?

Jackson supposed he wouldn't even have cared if everything today had gone to plan.

He'd taken the first flight out of Arizona, hoping that even with the flight time and the time zone difference, he'd still make it to Tampa with a few hours to spare. Enough time to head to the stadium and not only supervise Connor's warmup, but make sure he was all settled and ready.

But nothing had gone to plan.

His flight had been delayed and they'd landed hours late, only for the airline to somehow lose his luggage, even without a connecting flight.

Instead of sitting there, arguing with the airline staff, he'd finally just left his contact number and headed off, telling them, "My boyfriend's pitching tonight for Tampa. I need to be there."

"Wait," she had said, "your boyfriend's Connor Clark?"

It seemed that even though this was Connor's first full year in the majors, Tampa already knew who he was.

Well, they should. Tampa had a whole stable of good starting pitchers, but they'd selected him to be the Opening Day starter, stating without words that Connor was their new ace.

They weren't really out yet, necessarily, though neither of them really hid anything. Still, Jackson wouldn't normally have said it so bluntly, but he'd needed her to understand that there was someplace he needed to be, desperately.

She'd put her hand on his and squeezed. "I'll find your luggage," she said. "Get to the stadium."

He'd jogged out to the cab area, grabbing the first one he could find, and of course, topping off the most frustrating day in his memory, this driver was about eighty and actually seemed to be afraid of the gas pedal.

From the mapping app on Jackson's phone, he was pretty sure he was only a block or two away, and if the crowds decked out in the team colors were any indication, he could probably get out and make a run for it.

Maybe have a minute to see Connor before he took the field for one of the most important starts of his career.

"I gotta go," Jackson said between clenched teeth, shoving a few twenty-dollar bills towards the elderly driver and getting out in the middle of the street, dodging more cars and heading towards the sidewalk. He joined the sea of people on their way to the stadium, speeding up to the fastest jog he could manage, moving around anyone walking too slowly, making decent time. But a glance on his watch told him he still might not make it in time.

He reached the side door, flashing his Tampa credentials to the door man and racing in, dodging staff in the private hallways, hoping that he remembered just how to reach the dugout door.

Would it be the end of the world if he didn't get to see and speak to Connor right before he went on the field? No, it wouldn't. Connor was so much steadier than he had been only a season before, a real kind of confidence—not the trumped-up confidence that actually hid apprehension and anxiety—blooming inside him for the first time.

But even though Connor didn't need it, didn't need him, it didn't matter to Jackson.

He'd said he'd be here, and in the eight months since his last at-bat, he'd done his best to balance out his new work responsibilities, flying around the country and coaching pitchers and catchers to improve not only their skills but their mindsets, with his blooming relationship with Connor.

It wasn't easy, but this would be the first time he'd missed something he'd promised, and while Jackson knew it was inevitable, the idea of missing Connor's very first Opening Day start was painful.

He finally reached the dugout door, panting hard—he was going to have to start putting more hours in at the gym, not just lifting weights, but doing more fucking cardio, if he was going to keep having to run like this—and pushed it open.

Alejandro looked up at him from the bench in the dugout as he dug through his duffel bag of gear. "Oh, you made it," he said, sounding relieved, which immediately worried Jackson.

Did Connor really need him? Had he been more of a mess than he'd seemed?

What if he hadn't made it?

Jackson resolved to never cut things so close again. Jobs were important, and he genuinely enjoyed what he was doing, but it wouldn't ever be worth it if he wasn't here for Connor when he needed him.

"Don't worry, he's fine," Alejandro said, chuckling. "I saw the panic on your face. I mean, he wasn't happy about it, but he's fine." He jabbed a thumb towards the field. "He's just out there."

"I'm not—"

But before Jackson could remind Alejandro that he wasn't even wearing his Tampa Bay staff polo, just his credentials around the lanyard around his neck, and that they probably wouldn't want him out on the field, Alejandro interrupted him.

"Just go out there, Evans. We've only got a few minutes before first pitch."

"Alright," Jackson said, nodding.

He climbed the dugout stairs out to the field and took in the field. It was spread out in front of him like a jewel green carpet, framed on all sides by seats, the sky achingly blue overhead.

And then he looked down and saw the most beautiful thing in the world.

Connor Clark, smiling, as he walked towards him.

"You made it!" he exclaimed and didn't hesitate, tugging Jackson into a hug.

They certainly weren't hiding anything, but they did generally try to keep PDA to a minimum while they were working.

Though, Jackson supposed that right now, he wasn't technically working.

He wasn't here as a consultant; he was here as Connor Clark's boyfriend. Had a seat in the friends and family section, even.

"Sorry I was so late," Jackson said softly. "You all good?"

Connor nodded. His tan was deeper after a winter spent in Tampa, getting ready for his first major league season. "Just glad you're here," he admitted. He dropped his voice lower, angling his body, so he hid most of Jackson from the people around them. "I missed you."

"Missed you too." Jackson had spent a week in Arizona, helping one of the Diamondbacks' newer pitchers deal with a placement problem.

Connor was standing there, so golden and stunning in the sunlight, so his, it was impossible to resist the urge to touch him again. "You've got this," Jackson said, reaching out and giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. "You're gonna go out there and do this."

Connor smiled. "Yeah," he agreed. "Still kinda can't believe it. It shouldn't be me starting on Opening Day."

"It should absolutely be you," Jackson argued. "You've worked your ass off. You deserve this."

"Thanks to you," Connor said, the corner of his mouth tilting up slyly. "Worked me half to death."

"And you enjoyed every moment of it," Jackson retorted fondly.

They just stood there, for thirty seconds, basking in each other's presence again, Jackson knew both of them anticipating the next moment they'd be truly alone and able to kiss and embrace the way they wanted to.

Soon, he told himself.

They'd already started talking about what it would mean, coming out officially. Jackson didn't know if he really wanted to court the attention, and he no longer worried as much that being honest would destroy Connor's burgeoning career, but Connor wanted it, wanting to boldly proclaim who he loved—so who was Jackson to stop him? Because Jackson had learned, not just when they'd first gotten together, but every day of the last eight months, that what made him the happiest was making Connor the happiest.

"I got you something," Connor said, turning to the side and grabbing something from the dugout steps. A package.

"You got me a present?"

"Consider it a thank you for tolerating me when I was such a little shit. What did you like to say? More ego than sense?"

Jackson laughed. "It was entirely my pleasure. I promise."

"Still," Connor said and extended the package. "This is for you."

Jackson unwrapped it quickly, knowing they only had a minute or two more before Alejandro called Connor away for his final warmup.

He shook out the jersey. On the front was the Tampa logo, and on the back, Clark was emblazoned across the shoulders.

"I know it's a little high school," Connor said, sounding uncertain for the first time since Jackson had arrived. "But I wanted you to wear it."

"I . . ." Jackson was unexpectedly emotional over this gift. "I didn't think I'd wear a jersey again, but yours? I'd love to. I'd be honored to."

Connor gestured, as if to say, well, let's see it on.

Jackson didn't hesitate. Pulled off his T-shirt, enjoying the way Connor's gaze still went hot and still at the sight of his bare chest, and shrugged on the jersey, buttoning it up.

"Looks good, huh?" Jackson teased him, turning around in a circle.

"With my name across your back? You look amazing. Fucking hot."

Jackson reached up. Wanted to kiss him—maybe Connor was right about this coming out thing, after all—but he settled for patting his cheek, which frankly turned into more of a caress.

"Alright, enough, you lovebirds," Alejandro joked as he approached. "Connor, you ready?"

Connor's blue eyes met his. And he nodded. "Yep, never been readier to announce my authority," he said—and the little shit, because that had never really changed, and Jackson didn't want it to change—slid his gaze over to Jackson.

Jackson rolled his eyes. "Love you," Jackson said. Gripped his shoulder. "Get it done, darlin'."

It killed him, a little, to turn away and walk off the field and head towards his seat, leaving Connor's start to Alejandro, but that was what he was now. A spectator. A happy spectator, even, but it would still take getting used to.

A few minutes later when Connor was announced, the crowd yelling for their new ace, Jackson was settled into his seat, trying to relax.

Of course, Alejandro was a fabulous catcher. The only catcher Jackson would trust his man with that wasn't him. But ugh, it was still hard watching, only watching, knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do but just sit there and catalog every move, every placement, every pitch.

Still, Connor looked great out there. Probably more relaxed than Jackson did, up in the stands.

He'd gotten several texts from friends, about Connor's start.

Kevin had sent one, saying it was from both he and TJ, who were both still playing for the Rogues this year, though Kevin had finally made it back in the starting rotation, and it seemed he was there to stay.

Ro had been traded, but had nabbed an invite to his team's major league spring training and was on the bench in the majors, for the first time. He'd told Connor just the other day that he knew it was only a matter of time before he took that backup spot and made it a starting one. Winning the minor league championship the year before hadn't changed everything for every player on the Rogues, but it sure hadn't hurt, either.

And Deke? Well, he'd surprised everyone. Right now, he was currently sitting on Tampa's bench, only a few hundred feet away from where Jackson stood, and he was there not as the designated hitter, but as the first baseman.

All the work he'd put in over last season and during the offseason had paid off and against all odds, he'd made Tampa's roster as the starting first baseman.

But Connor, Jackson knew, was the real success story, and he'd never been prouder in his whole fucking life.

In the first inning, he struck out two, and the third batter hit a long fly ball that the center fielder easily snatched out of the air.

Three down. Way too many to go.

Jackson had a feeling he was going to sweat through this jersey by the time the night was over.

"You need to relax," a man said from a few seats away. "Are you alright?"

"God, am I that obvious?" Jackson scrubbed a hand across his face. "I'm sorry."

The guy looked over at his jersey, gave him a thorough perusal. "You must be Jackson," he said and then gestured to the jersey. "The name on the back was kind of a dead giveaway."

"Oh, you know Connor?"

He nodded. "Well, met him a handful of times, when he was up last season. But my partner, he's helping him with his strength and conditioning."

Jackson remembered then the story Connor had told about the gay coach and his boyfriend, who came to every game.

"Frank's just off grabbing some beers for us, but I'm sure he's going to want to meet you," the man said. "I'm Carl."

They shook. "It's great to meet you," Jackson said sincerely.

Carl raised an eyebrow.

"I mean it. I . . .I didn't think we were all that accepted in baseball, before," he admitted. Jackson couldn't help but think of all those times he'd believed there was no place for him at all in the sport he loved. Had being wrong hurt? Oh, it had. But it was better than him being right.

"You'd be surprised," Carl said with a grin.

"I'm beginning to see that," Jackson admitted.

"Must be tough, watching him pitch and not being able to be there for him," Carl said.

"It's not easy." That was a fucking understatement. Jackson had been so busy this week with the Diamondbacks' pitcher and then in a rush to get home he hadn't really thought about how it would feel, to be sitting up here, instead of down on the field.

"You were his catcher, right? In the minors?"

Jackson nodded.

"Well, it was great to meet you. Don't be a stranger."

Jackson gestured around to show that he wasn't going anywhere, and he was only a few seats away.

Carl laughed. "Point taken. What do you think Connor would say about you sitting up here, sweating it out with each pitch he throws?"

It was not very difficult to figure out exactly what Connor's reaction would be. "He'd laugh at me, probably call me an idiot," Jackson said. "And then he'd kiss me and say that he was so happy I loved him that much."

Carl's expression softened.

"And," Jackson added, "he'd be right."