3. Chapter 3

"The new catcher's got a fucking swing on him, doesn't he?" Tarzan—known to the rest of the world as Kevin Marzan, one of the relief pitchers—poked Connor in the arm, once, twice and then three times. Like he was trying to get Connor to look up from his spot on the bench in the bullpen, the patch of dirt he'd become intimately familiar with, to watch Jackson's at-bats.

He didn't need to see him play. Didn't want to acknowledge he was any good, 'cause maybe if he wasn't, Skip would take him out of the lineup. Maybe even send him down to Montgomery, to double A ball.

Then, Connor could get back to normal, without Jackson, a near-constant source of irritation, bothering him.

"Deke's not even that pissed he's DHing in some of these games," Kevin said. "Can you believe that?"

"Deke got mad at the mascot a few weeks ago." How was it possible that everyone and their fucking dog loved Jackson except for him?

Didn't they see what an ass he was?

Didn't they see how difficult he was making Connor's life?

Or maybe they did see and they just didn't give a crap.

Connor made a face.

"I don't give a fuck about Jackson Evans," he muttered.

"Oh, don't even try that shit, not with me," Kevin retorted. "You won't fucking shut up about him."

"That's not true," Connor said automatically, even though it probably was.

His sister, Maya, had complained yesterday about how it felt like every other word he said was Jackson.

"He's been there less than a week, and you haven't even had to start rooming with him yet on the road, and you're already talking about him nonstop," she'd complained. Then she'd paused. "Is there something you want to tell me, Connor?" she'd then asked archly. "Do you like him?"

"What? No? No," he'd spluttered "I'm not gay. You know that."

He suddenly wondered if he'd mentioned how fucking attractive the asshole was, even as he rode Connor's ass about his pitches.

"You know everyone's on a spectrum, Connor," she'd chided. "Even you."

"I'm not on a fucking spectrum."

She'd stopped arguing, but he'd still felt the weight of her argument pressing down over the thousands of miles separating them. Maya was a freshman at USC, but even before she'd started school, she'd already acted like she knew everything. And when she'd gone to college and then discovered she not only liked boys, but girls, too, and even the non-binary person in her psychology class, she'd been more than a little know-it-all.

And now Kevin was pressing him too, about Jackson.

Of course, Kevin wasn't saying what Maya had. He was just saying he was hung up on the guy's presence—which he very much was.

It felt like since the moment Jackson had shown up in Raleigh, he hadn't even had a moment to fucking breathe.

"I don't know, you usually won't shut up about Jackson," Kevin said. "And he's a pretty damn good catcher. You know he caught me yesterday in my practice game, and phew, that guy can call a good game."

"I like Charlie," Connor said stubbornly. Pointedly not watching as Jackson hit a curveball like he was born to do it, the ball arcing over the field before finally getting caught right at the warning track.

It would've been easier if the guy sucked—but even Connor, pissed off as he was about him, couldn't say that.

"Of course you like Charlie, he lets you get away with a monumental amount of shit," Kevin said, chuckling.

Jackson rounded first and then jogged back in front of the bullpen, and damn the guy, he looked right over, eyes meeting Connor's.

Even though Connor wasn't doing anything wrong—wasn't doing much of anything, because he wasn't starting today—he still felt Jackson's judgment wash over him.

What gave this dick the nerve to act like he was Connor's superior?

He sure as fuck wasn't.

"Charlie knows how to work with me," Connor said.

"Oh, cut the shit. You can boss Charlie around, and he lets you do it," Kevin said. "Jackson just won't let you shake off his signs. Why not just throw what he wants you to throw? The dude knows what he's doing."

"So he says," Connor retorted.

TJ grounded into a double play, and the inning ended, the Rogues' mascot prancing around in front of the bullpen.

"I can't get over how ridiculous this dude is," Kevin said, but he was laughing as Rocky the Racoon, the Rogues' mascot, started twerking to the mid-inning music.

"You love him," Connor said, hearing the sullen note in his own voice. "Kinda how like you're in love with the new catcher."

"Hey, he gonna make me a better pitcher? Then, yeah, I love him. Wanna have his babies."

"Now you sound like my sister," Connor said.

"You sure you're related, then?"

Connor made a face. "Pretty fucking sure."

"So what's wrong with Jackson making you a better pitcher?" Kevin sounded like he was actually asking, which was more than a little galling.

There was a reason Kevin's nickname was Tarzan. He was big and wild and threw more balls than he did strikes. But he could usually pull it off, at the last moment, loading the bases and then recording three straight strikeouts. But his loose cannon behavior was why Skip had moved him from a starting position in the rotation to the bullpen.

But Connor knew how much he wanted to get back into the rotation.

Being a reliever was a fucking chore, except if you were a closer, and there was no way any manager would make Kevin a closer, not with the chance he could walk the bases loaded and then give up a run—or four.

"You need him to make you a better pitcher," Connor said.

Kevin elbowed him in the side. "Hey, don't be a shithead," he said, without heat. Kevin was remarkably low-key about his struggles. He didn't seem to obsess about them. Of course, neither did Connor, publicly. But secretly?

Every walk he threw felt like he was slipping closer to the edge of obscurity.

Like he was going to end up being a waste. A bust. A failure.

The more he thought about it, worried about it, obsessed over that potential, the harder it seemed to do what he knew he was capable of.

But Kev didn't have any of those hangups. He just took every opportunity as it came and worked hard, trying to reverse his fate, without letting it eat him up.

"Sorry," Connor said quietly. He genuinely liked Kevin. He was just . . .well, jealous, he supposed, of Kevin's lack of hangups.

Of course, Kevin also hadn't been drafted in the first round, with all the fanfare and expectations that came with that. You like Kevin, Connor reminded himself, you like him nearly as much as Ro and TJ. Don't let Jackson fucking Evans come between you.

"Hey, I know you're stressed. But you got this," Kevin said, patting him on the knee.

God, was his angst that obvious?

"Did he appoint you to talk to me? Reason with me?" That would make it worse.

"Of course not." Kevin scoffed. "Would I?"

"You totally fucking would."

Kevin had the nerve to laugh. "Yeah, I probably would."

"I don't know why Deke's not more pissed—the guy's here, taking his slots at DH. And yesterday, I saw him working with him at first base. I thought he was a fucking catcher, not a first baseman."

Kevin shot him a look. "Yeah, you're not obsessed with him at all. Not at all."

"I'm just saying," Connor said, throwing up his hands. "First base. With Deke."

Deke was a terrible first baseman. He couldn't scoop a ball out of the dirt if his life depended on it, but he could hit the ball damn well. Which meant he was destined to spend the rest of his baseball days being the designated hitter.

At least he had been, until Jackson had shown up. It was already clear their manager wanted Jackson in the lineup for way more games than if he was just catching for Connor.

"Nothing wrong with trying to be better. Isn't that what we're supposed to be doing here, in the minors?" Kevin paused, taking in Connor's sudden frown. "Of course some of us are just marking time til we hit the show."

Connor wanted to argue and say that wasn't true but hadn't he said it himself enough times?

Raleigh was just a temporary stop for him. They all knew he was destined for the bigs.

And he'd never felt so lonely and completely fucking alone when he thought of it before.

"Great win," Mikey said as he entered the clubhouse. "Great team win."

Jackson looked up from where he was standing in front of his locker. Tugged on his shirt.

It had been a good win. It was nice to be with a team on the rise, with a roster of solid players. Back in Ohio, the team he'd been with had lost far more games than they'd won, the facilities had been piss-poor, the crowds distracted and only there to drink overpriced beers, and everyone on the team had stunk of a bone-deep desperation to get out as quickly as possible—and not just because it was fucking Ohio.

But Raleigh was different. The field was gorgeous, the facilities some of the better he'd found in the minors, and the crowds excited and engaged. Probably because the Rogues won a lot more than they lost.

"Connor's startin' tomorrow, so I want to get him some good run support," Mikey continued. "But good news, with the win, and y'all working so hard earlier this week, no batting practice tomorrow. Take the afternoon off. Be here at five, for pregame warmups."

There was a smattering of catcalls, and Jackson glanced over, noticing that Connor didn't look up or even acknowledge Mikey's announcement. He didn't look nervous exactly, but blank. Like he was burying all those feelings deep down, under that ridiculously attractive surface.

"Hey, you wanna go grab a beer?" Deke asked after he finished getting dressed.

He could go grab a beer with Deke. He genuinely liked the guy—it felt good to know he wasn't alone, even if it was very obvious, very quickly, that they weren't attracted to each other. Of course, even if he had been attracted to Deke, he wouldn't have acted on it. Jackson had only gotten involved once with a teammate, and he wasn't about to repeat that mistake.

But the last thing he wanted to do was to be cooped up, in a dark, crowded bar on this clear night with its slight breeze cooling down the air.

"Nah," Jackson said. "Rain check?"

"Sure, we'll be down at the Strike Zone, if you change your mind."

"Yep," Jackson said, patting Deke on the back. "See you later, man."

On the way out of the building, Jackson stopped at Sheila's office, dropping off the clean casserole dish. She'd made him one, for his first week here, she'd said.

He leaned in the open doorway and gave the wall a brief knock.

"Oh, hey, Jackson."

"Miss Sheila," he said nodding as he set the clean dish on her desk. "Thanks so much for the food. It was delicious."

She smiled up at him.

"Oh, I know that kitchen's barely enough to heat up anything, nevermind cook something. Not that y'all would."

"Truth," Jackson said.

"Two down this week," she said, the dimple in her cheek cratering. "Don't think I'm not keeping track."

He was doing it, too. Marking off each home run as he hit them.

What would he do when he finally ticked off the last one and set the record?

Now that was a more challenging question.

"Appreciate that, and appreciate that you didn't spread it around."

"Michael knows," she said, a little reproachfully. Like he should genuinely be proud of even getting close to the record.

"'Course he does. He's the manager of this ball club," Jackson said. "But I don't need the rest of the guys to know. They'd—"

"Make a big deal out of it? The kind of big deal it is?"

He nodded.

He still felt like it was a dubious honor. But it was an honor, nonetheless, and one he'd decided he wanted.

"Well, that's your choice. But I think they'd want to know. You got some time to think about it."

"Thanks."

"Enjoy your night and your afternoon off," she said. "And don't get into too much trouble now."

Jackson just laughed. What kind of trouble could he possibly get into? But he walked out of the side door onto the sidewalk, and, lingering there, at the entrance to the player parking lot, was Connor.

He was leaning against the brick wall that rose up from the street, bordering the ballpark on two sides, long and lean and gorgeous in the night, his blond hair shining under the streetlamp.

Jackson wanted to walk right on by. He knew how much he had pissed Connor off this week—because it was his job, maybe, but he'd done it nonetheless. It might be a good idea to give him some space. Especially with his start tomorrow. Jackson wasn't stupid enough to believe they wouldn't be at each other's throats as soon as he stepped onto the mound.

Connor would want to throw one thing, and Jackson would want him to throw something else, and every single pitch would be a battle.

He nearly walked right on by, with only a nod as an acknowledgment of the other guy, but then he caught sight of that blank look on Connor's face again—and he knew he couldn't just leave him here like this.

"Hey," he said, stopping in front of Connor. "Thought you'd be headed down to the Strike Zone, with the rest of the guys."

"Yeah, they invited me. I should go. I just . . ." Connor sighed. "Not in the mood tonight, I guess."

"It's such a nice night, I was gonna take a walk." Jackson had certainly not intended to invite Connor. But the words came out before he could snatch them back. "You wanna come with?"

"With you?" Connor sounded incredulous, and Jackson supposed he couldn't blame him. He had been riding his ass pretty hard this week. Sure, only because it turned out the only person he'd ever met who was more stubborn than him was Connor.

But still, he didn't dislike the guy.

He frustrated the hell out of him, but that was all.

"Yeah, with me," Jackson said. "Ro was telling me about a place down the street that sells the best ice cream in Raleigh."

"You eat ice cream?"

Connor hadn't agreed to come, but when Jackson started walking in that direction, he joined him.

Maybe, Jackson decided, that was easier than Connor actually acknowledging that he was coming with him.

"Of course I eat ice cream."

"I don't know," Connor said dubiously, "I've seen the way you look, man. You don't look like you've ever seen a molecule of fat in your whole goddamn life."

Jackson laughed—and pushed down the ping of awareness that Connor had been looking at him. That Connor found him . . .attractive.

Funny how it had never even been an issue with Deke. He didn't even know if Connor was queer, and yet already his stomach was unsettled and jumping at the thought.

"I eat ice cream," Jackson said. "I work hard in the gym, and at the weights, 'cause I wasn't that good of a hitter when I was drafted. Had to get better. Had to be the best, or else I wasn't going anywhere."

"You're a good catcher. A pain in the ass catcher. But I know you've been helpin' Kevin."

Jackson had sensed Connor watching as he'd worked with Kevin earlier this week. "He could use the help."

"Yeah, he could," Connor agreed. "I know he wants to get back into the rotation. Maybe you can make that happen for him."

"And what about you?" Jackson said, before he could help himself.

They'd been walking along pleasantly enough, but at this comment, Connor stopped, frowning. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means, what do you want that I could help you with?"

"Leave me alone, that's what you could do that I want," Connor retorted. "Let me pitch the way I want."

Jackson chuckled. "Sorry. Not happening."

"You're an ass," Connor said, making a face.

"Yeah," Jackson agreed. If it was easier for Connor to believe that than it was for Connor to acknowledge that he could use the help Jackson provided, then fine.

They were quiet for another minute as they turned the corner down a side street and there was the brightly lit window Jackson had been told to look for.

"Here it is," Jackson said, pointing. They stopped in front of the menu, hung above the wide sliding window that opened across the whole storefront.

"Ro told me about this place too but I hadn't made it over here," Connor said. "You gonna try one of those crazy flavors? Sweet potato pie? Pickle?"

"Nope. I'm a vanilla kind of guy," Jackson said, walking up to the window.

"Wait," Connor said, and a second later, he was next to him, already pulling out his wallet.

Oh hell no.

"No," Jackson said under his breath. "You might pick up your teammates' bar tab, but you are not buying me an ice cream like I can't buy it for myself."

Connor didn't say anything but gave Jackson a nod.

Five minutes later, Jackson was slurping away on his vanilla cone and Connor was digging into his dish of chocolate rocky road while they sat on one of the benches near the ice cream shop.

"How did you know?" Connor asked, finally.

Jackson rolled his eyes. "Overheard them talking about how Millie keeps ‘losing their tabs'. But she's a veteran waitress. That much was clear from the moment I walked into the Strike Zone. You're payin' their way and not even telling them."

"Yeah," Connor said, looking suddenly uncertain.

"And I stopped by the night after your little stunt with the window and made sure you'd paid for it."

"Of course I fucking paid for it. I told you I did," Connor squawked, sitting up, outrage obvious in every tense line of his body.

"Course you did," Jackson said. "And when I asked, Millie said she wasn't worried. That you took care of her and the other guys. I'd suspected before that, but then I knew."

"You're not gonna tell them and make it awkward, are you?"

Jackson leaned back on the bench. "No. It's a thoughtful thing to do, Connor. Really. You clearly got more money than you know what to do with. But why not tell them? Why pretend you're not doing it?"

He'd had a few theories, but he was curious enough which it was—he told himself that was the only reason he'd ended up asking Connor about it.

"I don't want to make shit awkward," Connor said, sounding awkward himself.

"You sure didn't have trouble bragging about your Jag to me, first night we met," Jackson teased.

"Yeah, but that's different." Connor pushed his spoon hard into the ice cream.

"Okay." Jackson understood, actually.

The kid wasn't all bad. Not all the way through. Not even skin-deep in fact.

"Just okay?"

"It's a nice thing you're doing. That's all. Keep doing it, if you want."

"You're really not going to tell them?" Connor sounded incredulous.

"Why would I?"

"Because you seem to enjoy giving me trouble," Connor complained.

"Only 'cause you won't listen." Jackson crunched through his cone.

That was what he kept telling himself anyway.

"Ro and TJ just . . ." Connor took a deep breath. "They were there for me, when I came out here."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I was traded to Raleigh from California in the offseason."

"What a shock," Jackson teased.

Connor glared. "And I came out here, and I didn't know anyone. It was hard adjusting. They just made it easier. So I wanted to make something easier on them."

"Where you from originally?"

"California. The Dodgers drafted me. And then this offseason traded me."

"Ah." The kid had never really been away from home before this. No wonder he was a fucking mess.

"Does it get easier?"

"Moving around? Always having to make yourself at home in a new place?"

Connor nodded.

"No. Not really. Sorry, kid." Jackson almost added, but you won't have to worry about that, not when you got an arm like that.

Why didn't he?

Because tomorrow he was going to have to fight him, probably on every single goddamn pitch, and Connor didn't need his ego boosted any more than it already was.

But then, Jackson considered as he rose and Connor followed, he hadn't seemed particularly egotistical tonight.

Not anxious either.

Just . . .blank.

It occurred to Jackson that maybe he was actually nervous as hell, and instead of letting that out, getting rid of it and moving past it, he was internalizing all of it.

Well, shit.

"How about you?" Connor asked. "What about your family?"

"They're actually here. In Asheville. About four hours from here."

"Must've been happy to get traded here, then."

"Yeah," Jackson said.

Jackson was of two minds over this—one, yes, it was great to be back home. Or close to home. Two, his job was a hell of a lot more complicated because of Connor.

Because he was a pain in the ass.

Because, as much as he tried to deny it, tried to pretend it wasn't happening, he was attracted to his stupid pretty boy exterior.

When he'd believed Connor was just a selfish, brash asshole, he hadn't even considered what that zing at the base of his spine was. But now that he knew Connor wasn't entirely irredeemable, it was harder to deny.

Not that he'd do a thing about it.

He wasn't stupid, even if the craziest thing of all happened and Connor actually was interested.

Which he wasn't.

"Hey," Jackson said, when they made it back to the players' parking lot, "do me a favor."

Connor turned, his handsome face shadowed. "What?"

"Don't be a dick tomorrow."

Connor snorted. "Shouldn't I be saying that to you?"

Jackson shrugged. "Just sayin'. You could try it."

For a second, Jackson thought Connor might actually be considering it. But then his expression hardened. "Trying to soften me up, huh? So tomorrow's easier on you? Not fucking likely." Connor opened the door of his car, started the engine, and Jackson was left, watching as he zoomed away, tires squealing on the gravel.

"No," Jackson huffed under his breath. "I was just tryin' to help you, asshole."