4. Chapter 4

"How're you feelin', Comet?" Andy said.

Jackson leaned against the fence and didn't say anything, just listened as Connor mumbled to his pitching coach. "Fine, I'm just fine, so stop worrying over me like a little old Nana."

Connor was halfway through his warmup. Jackson had already finished his. On days he was catching, he liked to be the first one on the field, always totally ready for whenever his pitcher was finished with his own routine.

"You got this," Andy reminded him, slapping him on the back. "Just remember to breathe—"

"I know," Connor retorted testily.

Not a great sign.

"Come on, let's get finished. See some pitches." Andy glanced over at Jackson. "You ready to go?"

"Yep," Jackson said.

"'Course he fucking is," Connor griped.

"What crawled up your ass and died?" Jackson asked, keeping his tone pleasant.

Connor shot him a glare, and Jackson sighed.

He'd woken this morning still feeling vaguely optimistic about the chances of them being on the same page. After all, hadn't they found some common ground last night? Hadn't they managed to grab an ice cream and chat like well . . .not like friends, but like friendly acquaintances, at least?

Of course, it hadn't ended well, but Jackson had still hoped that Connor's temper spike would soften after a morning off.

Not so much.

He was even pricklier than he'd been last night.

"Seriously," Jackson said, walking closer and lowering his voice, "what's up?"

For a long minute, Connor was quiet. Just kept stretching.

But finally he spoke up. "Didn't sleep great. Had weird dreams."

Jackson understood then. "The pitching naked dream, huh?"

Connor glanced up, surprise etched on his handsome features. "How did you know?"

"You forget, I've been around this game a long goddamn time. And yeah, I get them too, sometimes."

"But you're—"

"Freaking awesome? Ridiculously confident? Sure that I know what the fuck I'm doing?"

Connor rolled his eyes. "Modest, too, turns out."

"Hey, takes one to know one. You got this." He tossed Connor a ball. "You're ready. Come on, let's do this."

"I don't know . . ." Connor hesitated.

"You know how I think of it?" Jackson took a step closer and dropped his voice. God, Connor's eyes should be banned; nobody should have eyes that fucking shade of blue. "If I was out here naked, they'd get a pretty damn good show, wouldn't they? And I bet you wouldn't have anything to worry about, either."

Connor's gaze narrowed. "No? You sayin' I'm hot stuff, Evans?"

"I'm saying, own it. Be proud. Walk out there like you stroll into the Strike Zone. Like everyone wants a fucking piece of you."

"Everyone does want a piece of me," Connor said.

It wasn't even a boast, probably. Jackson knew it wasn't. Considering how Connor looked, they were probably lining up five-deep for a chance in his bed.

That shouldn't have annoyed Jackson. It certainly shouldn't have made him jealous, because why the fuck would he want to bother with this guy, who was so ridiculously smug and overconfident ninety-nine percent of the time?

It was that stupid one percent, Jackson realized, as the shadows in those otherworldly blue eyes faded away. It made Connor human. It made him even more attractive, a fucking embarrassment of riches.

"There you go," Jackson said, patting him on the shoulder. "Think of it that way. You walk out there, they want a piece of you. And what are they gonna be feeling after you're done with them?"

Shadows dismissed, Connor's gaze hardened. "That they don't want to fuck with me."

Jackson gave him a sharp nod. "Okay," he said, "let's get to work."

Connor had complained to Kevin that part of his Jackson dislike stemmed from the fact he wasn't anything like Charlie.

It was an adjustment, the most drastic change he'd ever experienced moving from catcher to catcher. Most catchers were pretty similar. They ran things similarly, had similar attitudes. Connor wouldn't say they were necessarily interchangeable, but they kinda were.

But Jackson and Charlie were freaking night and day.

Charlie was like the easygoing dusk, sliding without complaint or issue, into night.

But Jackson was the bright spotlight of day—turning his brightness on Connor and refusing to let either of them flinch.

The Rogues were up six to zero, middle of the fourth inning, when Connor walked back out to the mound.

He'd given up two hits and a walk, but so far, it hadn't been a bad game. In fact, other than the necessary adjustments to Jackson's firm and uncompromising style, it had actually gone pretty well.

And like Jackson realized he needed the time, he'd actually left him alone in the dugout, gathering on the other end with the rest of the team.

Jackson, catching gear strapped on, jogged out of the dugout now, joining Connor before he got to the mound.

"Feelin' good, huh?" Jackson said. Apparently now he wanted to get chatty.

Connor looked over at him.

Backwards cap. Dark hair a little too long, curling against his neck. Intense eyes with the entirety of their focus on Connor. Scruff dusting his jaw. Jackson hadn't taken advantage of the morning off to shave. Normally, Connor would just think that looked lazy and sloppy, but instead, the scruff sharpened his jawline, making him look rough and wild, and hot.

The dream that had woken up him, shaken, hadn't just been a pitching naked dream, like he'd told Jackson earlier.

It had been. Or at least it had started that way.

Then, as he'd shifted, uncomfortably, butt ass naked on the same pitching mound that he was approaching right now, Jackson had jogged up.

He'd been as naked as Connor.

And there'd been no mistaking the flare of attraction he'd felt as his gaze had skimmed the other man's muscled body. Jackson had taken a step closer, then another, looking at Connor like he was right now, all that intensity focused on him.

Just before Jackson had touched him—or had he been about to reach back and touch him first?—Connor had woken up in a sweaty, shocked heap.

As he'd lain there, shaken to the core, he'd told himself that it was only Maya's insinuation that had put the idea in his head and his subconscious had run with it.

He wasn't attracted to Jackson. He couldn't be. Because he wasn't attracted to men.

Still, he'd only fallen back asleep uneasily and tossed and turned the rest of the night, worried what else his brain might dredge up.

"Well, shit," Jackson said, interrupting his reverie.

"What," Connor snapped.

"You're looking all out of sorts again," Jackson said, grinning.

Connor wanted to tell him to take a fucking step back—he was just too close, too big, too much—but if he did, he'd have to admit why, even to himself.

And he wasn't ready to do that.

Not by a long shot.

Jackson had a wife and kids. He'd said just last week that his family was in Asheville. What was Connor doing looking at him like he might be interested in taking a bite?

Because he sure as fuck wasn't.

You need to get laid.

Clearly, he did.

"I'm not," Connor retorted. But he was.

That was the biggest difference between Jackson and Charlie.

He'd never, not once, even felt a twinge of anything for sweet, slightly homely Charlie who let him get away with murder.

But he felt a whole lot of something for Jackson. Annoyance for one. Frustration for another. Acute dislike for a third.

And something else, too, his uncooperative brain added.

"You're all twisted up again. Come on, breathe in and out."

Connor glared at him, but he did it, breathing along with Jackson.

"Better," Jackson said, patting him on the shoulder. "Let's throw a couple of pitches, alright? The thick of the order's coming up. I want to make sure your placement's still solid. We're gonna work around them."

Connor just nodded. Didn't really trust himself to speak.

Jackson jogged back to home plate, and Connor averted his eyes.

Not that he was worried what he might think if he looked at Jackson's ass and thick, muscled thighs in those tight white pants.

Nope.

Not worried at all.

Jackson settled into his stance, held out his glove, and gave Connor the signal.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

He pulled back, fingers digging into the threading of the ball, grounding himself with how familiar the rough spots felt—like a friend—and threw.

The ball snapped into Jackson's glove with a satisfying thud.

Jackson nodded. Gave him another sign.

They did three more like that, and Jackson gave him another nod, his chin lifting in approval.

It would be easy to fall into all those green lights Jackson was giving him.

Connor understood why Kevin wanted to. There was something infinitely reassuring about Jackson's endorsement.

Like you actually knew what the fuck you were doing—even when you didn't.

But there was another part of Connor who didn't want to give in like that. Easy, like he was easy.

He didn't want to like Jackson.

He definitely did not want Jackson to like him.

The ump walked towards Jackson, and he motioned for the batter to approach home plate.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

Jackson crouched down again.

Connor would give him this—he was a master at framing the plate, at framing the pitches. Way better than Charlie was.

It was tough to admit, but Jackson made him look better than he was. And Connor knew he could look pretty goddamn good.

Jackson called the first pitch.

Fastball. High upper inside.

Almost impossible to hit, if he placed it right.

But it was hard to place just right, and the ump had been an ass nearly the whole game, not always giving him the edge the way he wanted.

He didn't give this one.

Jackson framed it flawlessly, and it looked damn good to Connor, but the ump called it a ball.

Fuck.

Connor was expecting Jackson to call a different pitch. Fastball down the middle, maybe. He was throwing enough heat this game he could probably sneak it by the hitter.

But instead, Jackson called for the exact same pitch.

Connor wanted to make a face, shake him off, but maybe they could finesse it this time.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

This time, he was pretty sure it was an even better pitch. The way Jackson framed it was a fucking work of art, and the ump hesitated before raising his fist to indicate a strike.

Even behind the mask, Connor could see Jackson smile, like the cat who'd just stolen the cream.

The rest of the at-bat went like clockwork. The guy hit a few defensive fouls, trying to stave off the inevitable strikeout, but on the sixth pitch, Connor got him looking.

Next guy hit a nice little dribbler to first, which Calvin, the first baseman, picked up no problem.

Connor could tell when the third guy came up to bat that Jackson worried more about him than anyone else. From the way he shifted in his stance, like he was tensing and then trying to forcibly relax, to the insistent tone of his signals.

He threw a curve, then a fastball, and then slightly miscalculated and the player hit it hard, sending it to the outfield, the ball dropping into the grass in the sweet spot between the left fielder and TJ's spot in center.

Jackson tilted his head, resting his forearm against his thigh, shrugging a little, like, well, yeah, you definitely let that one sit a little too high—and you know it.

Okay, he knew it.

The next guy came up. Jackson called for the pitch—that same high outside, nibbling around the zone, but Connor was tired of this. He wanted to finish these assholes off. He had two outs, he just needed one more, and if the ump called any of these pitches balls, he might walk the guy—or worse, be forced to throw something that he could hit.

He shook off Jackson's call.

Jackson's eyes narrowed and when he signaled it again, his movements were emphatic, and this time when he tilted his head, it wasn't vaguely amused, but definitely annoyed.

And Jackson's annoyance became even more pronounced when Connor shook him a second time.

Wasn't really all that surprised when Jackson shot to his feet, calling for a time-out, and jogged out towards the mound.

"What the fuck," Jackson spit out. His hands settled on his hips, and there was sweat on his neck.

Connor forced his gaze away from the damp patch. Forced his mind away from the stray thought that it would taste salty sweet.

"I wanna finish this asshole off," Connor retorted.

"You wanna throw down the middle and let him tee off on you?" Jackson shook his head. "No fucking way."

"I can get it past him," Connor said, annoyed, because he knew he could and wasn't Jackson supposed to believe that he could, too?

"Sure, you can," Jackson said carelessly. Clearly he did not believe it, and that just pissed Connor off.

"I wanna throw him some goddamn heat," Connor said. "I still got it."

"Yeah?" Jackson cocked his eyebrow.

"What I need to do is announce my authority," Connor said in a hard voice.

Jackson fucking cackled then, throwing his head back in laughter. "Announce . . .your . . .authority," he gasped out.

"It's not funny," Connor grumbled.

"Yeah, it's not. It's fucking hilarious." Jackson handed him the ball, slapping it into Connor's glove. "Don't shake me off."

Connor glared at him. I'll shake you off if I damn well please.

Jackson jogged back to home plate, his temper spiking.

Things had actually been going pretty fucking well, and of course, in the middle of all this excellence, Connor had to both over and underthink the situation.

He turned to the hitter. If Connor wasn't going to learn to listen to him the easy way, then they'd try the hard way.

"Fast ball. Center of the plate," he told the hitter shortly. "Be ready for the heat, 'cause he's bringing it."

The hitter looked at him like he was a few marbles short, but then just shrugged, like if Jackson was going to give away all his secrets, who was he to deny him?

Just as Jackson predicted, Connor threw whatever the fuck he wanted—in this case, fast ball right down the middle, and it was smoking, Jackson would have to check the stats later, to see if he hit over 100 miles per hour—and the hitter took that gorgeous pitch and hit it right out of the park.

Just like that, Connor gave up two runs.

Got out of the inning too, on the next batter. Sulkily, listening to every one of Jackson's signs.

It was a hard lesson, but at least he was learning.

Sort of.

"Well," Jackson said, grinning, as they returned to the dugout. "Guess he hit the shit out of that one."

Connor glared at him, incredulous and furious. "You told him it was coming, didn't you?"

"Yep," Jackson said, not feeling bad in the least.

The Rogues were still up four runs, so it wasn't like he'd given up the lead on that pitch—and hopefully, he had discovered that you did not fuck around with Jackson Evans and come out unscathed.

Connor only went out for one more inning, and he pitched it succinctly, three batters up and three batters down.

He should've been thrilled at the result—a win, and eight strikeouts to boot—but he'd worn a sour expression ever since the fourth inning, and it was likely Jackson was the only one who knew the reason why.

"Stop scowling, or your face is gonna freeze like that and then who's gonna hook up with you?" Ro said, leaning against the locker next to Connor's.

Connor just grunted, basically ignoring him, like he'd been ignoring every other player who'd come up to congratulate him on his win.

Jackson had been watching since he'd emerged from the shower.

Well, not watching. Watching insinuated that he was checking Connor out, and he most definitely was not. He was just monitoring the situation and his pitcher, that was all. Making sure he didn't glower his way into a bad spot.

"'Course," Ro continued blithely, acting like he didn't even notice Connor's mood—but it was hard to miss, and Ro wasn't an idiot—"not like you're really hooking up with anyone right now."

"Roland," Connor growled.

"Maybe Millie has a friend," Ro offered.

Jackson could feel the sear of Connor's glare even from here, a dozen feet away.

Okay, he was going to have to intervene—that much was obvious.

Not to apologize. Nope. Connor had one-hundred-percent deserved to give up that two run moonshot. Jackson had maneuvered the heart of the batting order into the place exactly where he wanted them, and Connor had been dealing like a freaking champ. Sure, the ump had been a dick about that upper corner, but they could work around that. They had been working around it.

Then Connor had suddenly decided to hell with everything that had been working the whole goddamn game.

Not cool.

He waited until most of the players had cleared out of the clubhouse, heading out into the perfect summer night.

Connor lingered, and Jackson came up next to him.

"Feels like crap, doesn't it?" Jackson said.

Connor's glance was incendiary. "You'd know," he retorted.

"Hey, you got the win. A win. Eight strikeouts. And onlytwo earned runs. You post a two-point-o ERA for the rest of your career, you'll be a first ballot Hall of Famer for sure."

Jackson certainly hadn't intended to apologize—the lesson had been an important one and he wasn't about to remove of the sting of it—but he also hadn't intended to sound so brash about it.

Something about Connor just rubbed him the wrong way.

Okay.

It was totally the right kind of way.

Except, he didn't need rules or diagrams to know it was wrong, and that it wasn't ever happening.

He softened his tone. "Listen, you needed the reminder that we had them. We didn't need to go out there and ‘exert our authority' or whatever bullshit you were spouting. You don't get it, do you? We already were. You were. They were fucking scoreless, with only a few hits and a walk, despite the fact that the ump wouldn't give us that upper corner."

Connor turned to him, and his eyes were bright blue, flashing with temper. If Jackson was younger or stupider, he'd have straight up gotten lost in those eyes. Now he just wanted to.

But instead, he took that desire and he set it aside. Pushed it down, way down, where hopefully, someday, he'd forget all about it.

"It's not your fucking right to ride my ass like this," Connor snarled.

"No, it's only my job. I'm here to straighten you out, Clark. If you keep goin' like this, you're not going to get to the show, not in the way you think. You'll burn out. You can't always get by on your arm. You gotta be smarter."

"And you think you know how to do that, huh?" Connor's tone grew hard with sarcasm.

"Sure do," Jackson said.

"Guess those who can't do, teach, right?"

Jackson rolled his eyes. "Sure."

Ro popped his head into the clubhouse. "You comin', Comet? What about you, Jackson?"

Jackson wasn't like these young kids—able to burn the candle at both ends—and he'd had every intention of going home and going to sleep, but something in Connor's hard eyes changed his mind.

"Sure." He patted Connor on the shoulder. "Let's go get a drink. I'll even buy the first round."

Connor bristled, and then, like Jackson had said the right thing, even though he had no idea what it was, he relaxed, his shoulders slumping.

"That an apology?" Connor said.

"If it makes you feel better to think so, yeah, sure."

"See?" Ro teased as they exited the ballpark. "Everything's gonna be fine."