5. Chapter 5

Everything was not fine.

Connor glowered into his beer, watching as Jackson chatted easily with Ro, TJ, Kevin, Charlie—Millie throwing in a few comments here or there as she passed by on her rounds.

There was a part of Connor that wanted to claim sullenly that they'd never tried to include him. That they were ignoring him. But he knew that wasn't true. They'd made an effort, for at least the first round, but when he'd only sulked, they'd gradually left him alone.

Probably deservedly, Connor thought.

He finished his beer, and Millie stopped by.

He didn't even have the motivation to flirt with her, even half-heartedly, tonight. Or continue pestering her to introduce him to her friends. He was officially pathetic, not even able to drum up his own hookups.

"Heard you pitched a great game," she said, picking up his empty glass. "Want another?"

Connor nodded. "It was . . ." A win. Eight strikeouts. And only two 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.

He didn't know what was worse: that Jackson was right, or that he'd been sulking like a whiny child who hadn't gotten to play with his favorite toy.

"It was actually pretty good," Connor continued, forcing his mouth into a smile.

"Well, I'll grab your beer," Millie said with an answering grin.

When she set it down, Charlie broke off from the other group and wandered back over.

"Hey," Charlie said, settling down next to him.

"Hey," Connor answered hesitantly. He didn't know if he was going to get his friend, who'd been his trusted catcher for the last season and a half, or the guy he didn't quite recognize, who'd begun drinking the Jackson Evans Kool-Aid with everyone else on the fucking team.

"You know this is good for you, yeah?" Charlie didn't let Connor answer, just kept going. "He's good for you. In a way I wasn't."

"Is this your version of the get your head out of your ass talk? 'Cause I already got one version from Kevin."

"Didn't stick, huh?" Charlie teased quietly.

"Didn't want it to." It was easier to be honest with Charlie. They'd been close since the season had started, months ago.

"Well, Evans is a good guy. A fucking great catcher. Not that I'm terrible, but you needed more than I could give. I know that. I let you get away with too much shit." Charlie sounded regretful. Like he hated the thought he'd let Connor down.

And that was even worse.

"No," Connor said. "You were—you were what I needed."

"Yeah." Charlie paused. "Needed. Not need. So stop fightin' him, okay?"

"You saw that?"

Charlie rolled his eyes. "I caught you for a lot of fucking games, Connor. I know when you're shaking off a sign."

That was true. He'd done it to Charlie a lot. So often, in fact, that eventually Charlie barely blinked when he did it. Certainly didn't argue with him the way Jackson had. Hadn't made him pay for it, the way Jackson had.

Connor knew that it definitely wasn't normal, the relationship he'd had with Charlie, that most pitchers didn't have that kind of control over the games they threw, but he'd told himself it was different because he was different. He was better.

"You got the juice to go the distance. Don't let your stubbornness ruin all that," Charlie continued.

"I'll think about it." Connor paused. "He's not always right, you know?"

"I don't know, he's pretty damn good. Look at how Kevin's coming along."

Kevin had pitched lights out today in the seventh and the eighth. His control had been nearly flawless, and he'd thrown some really sick stuff, pitches he was pretty sure Kevin had excitedly told Connor about, last week after Jackson had worked with him.

Connor had only vaguely nodded along, not wanting to hear how great Jackson was then—or now, really.

"I'm happy for Kevin. He deserves some success," Connor said, meaning it.

"And what about you?"

Connor flashed him a grin, but it was a shadow of what he could usually dish out. He knew it. "Already got it, don't I?"

"Sure," Charlie said, a little dubiously.

Something in the base of Connor's stomach trembled uncertainly. What if he didn't make it? What if he failed?

It would be so much worse than Kevin—because nobody had ever thought he had it—but all of baseball believed that Connor was the next great pitcher.

Maybe you should listen to Jackson.

But what the fuck does he know? If he was all that fucking great, he'd be in the majors. Where you're gonna be.

"I wish he'd just go back to his wife and family in Asheville," Connor grumbled under his breath, lifting his beer to his lips.

Charlie laughed. Literally threw his head back and cackled. "His wife? Who've you been talking to?"

"He said he had family in Asheville, just last night," Connor argued. Of course, he hadn't specified, but Jackson was in his thirties, wasn't he? And the way he looked . . .surely someone had locked that down?

"You mean you don't know?" Charlie leaned in. "His sister and mom live in Asheville, sure. But Jackson doesn't have a wife there. Doesn't have a wife anywhere. And won't, ever. He's gay."

There was a horrible clanging noise in Connor's brain and his mouth was suddenly painfully dry.

He's gay. He's gay. He's gay.

But you're not. You're not. No matter what kind of dreams you're having. Promise.

"Connor." Charlie smacked him on the arm. "Don't look like that. He's a good guy. Don't be a shit about this."

"I—" Connor's voice came out strangled.

He should really be handling this better. He knew Deke was gay. It had never been an issue.

"Connor," Charlie warned again.

"No, no, it's not . . .you know I don't give a shit. I knew about Deke."

"Then why did you look like I dropped a bomb on your head?"

"I don't know . . .guess I just didn't realize." Because suddenly, I'm seeing him in a whole different light.

Connor couldn't help it. He looked up at Jackson now, laughing with TJ and Kevin. Their eyes met, and goddamn it, that internal trembling made sense now.

Hadn't Maya said it the other week? Everyone's on a spectrum, Connor. Even you.

He'd denied it at the time, but maybe there was more to this than he'd assumed.

Because it wasn't like he'd had an even remotely normal reaction to Jackson Evans.

"Well, now you know. It's kinda like Deke—sort of an open secret, you know how it is." Charlie looked worried now, like he might actually think Connor might betray that confidence. And bullshit.

"You know I'm not gonna go blabbing about it. I sure didn't about Deke."

"'Course you didn't. You're not an asshole. I didn't mean that. Just . . .I don't want to give you another reason to give Jackson a hard time."

"Shit, I don't—"

Charlie shot him a look. "You're the most stubborn person I've ever met, Connor. You know you are. But I think Jackson could give you a real run for your money. Don't go down that path with him. It's not worth it, for either of you. Or for this team. Don't you want to win another minor league championship?"

"I want to win a fucking World Series," Connor retorted.

"Yeah, yeah, don't we all?" Charlie chuckled. "This year, let's settle for another minor league championship. But that means you can't go off the fucking rails, alright? And you'd send Jackson down with you, and he doesn't deserve that."

"Fine, fine, I'll try to listen to him more," Connor agreed. "You can go report back. I was a good little pitcher. I heard you out. All of it."

Charlie grinned. "Why don't you tell them yourself?"

Because if he went over there, Jackson would be there, he would be right there, and Connor didn't know how to deal with him. Not now that he knew all the things that were suddenly a possibility, when they hadn't been before.

They're still not a possibility. He's not a possibility.

But that fire that simmered inside him—the fire that he knew wouldn't be quenched by Millie or any of her friends—argued otherwise. Even worse, Connor didn't think he was alone in feeling this way. Or alone in not wanting to feel this way.

"I'm good here. I'm just gonna finish my beer. Head off."

Charlie stood, patted his shoulder. "It was a great game, really. You pitched lights out. Could see what you could be, Connor."

Connor had caught glimpses of it too—but grabbing them and holding on to them was still elusive.

He finished his beer. Waved Millie over.

"Whatcha need?" she asked, leaning her hip against his table.

"Just need to take care of my tab—and uh, the others." Connor remembered what Jackson had said about it, the other night. But it was a habit now, and maybe a habit he shouldn't break.

"Too late," Millie said. "It's already done."

"What?"

Millie glanced over at Jackson, who must've sensed the conversation occurring now, because he raised his glass, right at Connor, and grinned fiercely.

That smile hit Connor right in the solar plexus.

It wasn't—

He wasn't—

"Fine," Connor said, standing up. He couldn't sit here anymore, turning this over and over in his mind. He was tired, aching all over from his start, and if he was lucky, he'd drop right into a dreamless sleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Millie shrugged. "He swore you knew about it, Connor. Sorry."

"No, no, it's all good. It's . . ." Connor took a deep breath. "It's good."

He was back in the bar.

Naked.

But when Connor glanced around wildly, worried that someone might see him like this, there wasn't anyone.

He was alone, the neon beer signs pulsing forlornly above the mirrored shelves of bottles.

"Shit," he said out loud as he peered behind the bar, searching for a lost and found T-shirt or sweatshirt he could use to cover up, but there was nothing.

He tried grasping for what Jackson had told him before.

Own it. Be proud. Walk out there like you stroll into the Strike Zone. Like everyone wants a fucking piece of you.

But he was still fucking naked. He could see a hundred versions of him reflecting in those mirrors behind the bar. Jackson was right; there wasn't anyone who wouldn't look at him and keep fucking looking. There was his tall, slim tan form, muscles bunching in all the right places, eyes surprisingly dark in the dim light, hair glinting pink and then purple and then blue from the neon lights.

Then, suddenly, he wasn't alone in the reflection.

There was someone else there. Connor lost the battle; flinched, anyway.

Except it wasn't just anyone. It was . . .

Connor inhaled sharply.

It was Jackson.

But this time—for better or for worse; Connor wasn't sure which—he wasn't naked.

Nope. He was fully clothed. In a T-shirt and jeans, sleeves straining against his ripped biceps, just like he'd been dressed tonight.

His gaze was just as intent as it had been, right before Connor had left. Run away.You fucking ran away.

He stepped closer to Connor, and this time when he reached out, he didn't dissolve in a haze. Instead, he sharpened, every edge of him defined against the shadowy background, more real and immediate than anything else around him.

The bar dissolved, and it was just the two of them in the dark, Jackson's fingers on his shoulder, a replica of all the just-friendly touches he'd given him over the last few weeks, but this felt different. Intent. Purposeful.

Connor's heart raced wildly. He knew what he wanted. He could lean in. Discover what those full lips and all that scruff felt like against his own. All he had to do was reach out and take it . . .

He hesitated forever, Jackson not speaking. Not even moving. Like he knew Connor had to be the one to close the distance between them.

But just when he was going to, just when he'd nearly almost decided to say fuck it and just do it, Jackson vanished, melting away before Connor's eyes.

Connor woke with a gasp.

Flopped back in bed and tried to catch his breath.

Out of fucking breath from a dream.

He couldn't even call it a sex dream—though his dick would probably argue differently, right now—because they'd barely touched each other.

Connor had wanted to, though.

And undeniably, there'd been that intense, coaxing look in Jackson's dark eyes. Like he wanted him to, too.

Like it was all he wanted.

But that was dream Jackson. Regular Jackson didn't look at him like that.

He wouldn't.

Connor tried talking himself off the ledge—but that was hard, because he was hard. That was kind of a difficult thing to explain away if a part of him, if all of him, wasn't interested.

It was just because Jackson was so good-looking. That had to be it.

He didn't even like the guy. He was kind of asshole. A brash asshole, who exuded all this fucking confidence that sucked all the air out of the room. Sucked the certainty out of everyone around him.

He wasn't God's fucking gift to baseball. He was just another random guy, floating around the minors. He wasn't going places, not like Connor.

And yet, everyone listened to him. Even Andy. Even the skipper. Even Charlie now. He's pretty damn good, Charlie had insisted just last night, when Connor had tried to argue otherwise.

If he was so goddamned amazing, then why had he kept calling for Connor to hit that corner the ump wasn't giving him? That didn't make any fucking sense.

Okay. So he didn't like him.

But it wasn't like he'd had to like any of the girls he'd ever hooked up with. In fact, there'd been one out in LA that he could barely stand to exchange small talk with before they'd always fallen into bed.

That fact certainly hadn't stopped him before.

And God, Jackson was hot.

In a way that Connor had never, ever noticed about a guy before.

He knew there were some guys—less secure guys, for sure—who shied away from even the idea of being attracted to another guy. Like it made them less of a man.

Connor didn't agree. If he was able to admit this, own this feeling, then didn't that make him strong and confident? That he didn't give a shit about what anyone thought of him?

Of course, owning it to himself was one thing and acknowledging it to Jackson was another thing entirely.

Wouldn't it just make him so much cockier, to know about Connor's attraction?

Look at me, look at how hot I am, I even turned Connor Clark, the famous Comet, gay.

Connor knew that wasn't a thing. That, like his sister said, they all existed on a spectrum. But it sure felt like he had just been going on, minding his own fucking business, and then Jackson had appeared, the key to his particular lock.

He flopped over and reached for his phone.

There was only one person he could call about this. Not Maya, who would only crow about how she'd been right. Besides, she wouldn't have any concrete advice to offer, not like Tristan.

It was early, so he texted first, even though Tristan was probably up early too, because he was in Miami for training camp.

Tristan Nicholson was wide receiver for the Miami Piranhas, currently heading into his third year. They'd met last summer in LA, at one of the many house parties in the hills. Tristan had been with his boyfriend, Wade, who was also his teammate. And he and Connor had hit it off, chattering half the night and as Wade said wryly more than once, trying to outshine each other.

Tristan was a very good-looking guy. Objectively, Connor could acknowledge that, and yet, he'd not felt a thing for the guy other than friendship.

So why now? Why Jackson?

Instead of texting back, Tristan called.

"It's early," Tristan complained. "And you woke me up."

"Actually," a voice added, that Connor recognized as Wade's, "you woke me up."

"Sorry," Connor said.

"Everything alright?" Tristan asked, after shushing his boyfriend.

"I . . .uh . . ." It had seemed so right to call Tristan to tell him—to ask him what the hell was happening to him, but now faced with the prospect of speaking it out loud, Connor wondered if he was really ready to do that.

"Aw," Tristan teased, "have you finally decided to tell me you love me? That you've been waiting your whole life for me?"

Ironically, this was a joke that Tristan made often.

Frankly, he was young and hot and incredibly talented. He'd made it, in the way that Connor craved, and probably everyone who met him did fall in love with him, a little.

But not Connor. No. Connor had to be attracted to the asshole catcher who seemed determined to turn him into his own personal puppet.

It was so fucking unfair.

"Actually—" Connor gulped. "Not you. But . . .uh . . ."

"I knew it!" Tristan crowed, and Connor couldn't help smiling. This was why he liked Tristan. He approached everything with such positive energy. "You were too cute to be straight, honestly."

"It's . . ." Connor took another deep breath. Tried to find his words. "I don't know what the fuck is happening."

"Well, honey, tell me about it," Tristan said. "I just left the room, went out on the patio, so Wade won't hear us, not that he'd mind."

"You're going to tell Wade everything right after we get off the phone." Connor knew Tristan—and his boyfriend—well enough by now to know they shared everything. Especially oversharing.

"Only if you want me to," Tristan said, and his tone was surprisingly serious. "This is a big deal, Connor."

"Don't say that and freak me out more," Connor begged.

Tristan chuckled under his breath. "Okay, it's absolutely no big deal. How's that?"

"You're a shit liar."

"I know. It's a failing." Tristan paused. "How about this? You wanna tell me about him?"

"How do you know there's a him?" Connor drummed his fingers on the mattress.

"Because last time we saw each other, you were as straight as they come and now you're wondering if you're not. So . . .there's someone. I don't even want to talk about what a number you've done on my ego to know it wasn't me. But that's okay, I can overcome it. Be here for you, regardless."

"Thanks," Connor said dryly. "You're such a giver."

"Seriously, tell me about him. Where'd you meet him?"

And this right here was why he'd called Tristan.

"Uh, he's a player on my team. A new guy. The guy they brought in to catch me."

"I thought Charlie was catching you," Tristan said.

"Yeah, me too." Connor made a face. "But this is who the organization brought in. To take me to the next level or some such shit."

"You must've hated that," Tristan said soothingly.

"He's an asshole."

Tristan didn't say anything, like he knew there was a second part to this statement.

"And okay, fine," Connor continued, because goddamn Tristan for being such a good friend he actually knew when to shut up. "He's hot, okay? Like . . .fucking gorgeous."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Oh, please, you can't say that and not tell me more. This is me."

"His name's Jackson, and he's my catcher. He's an asshole, and he's hot. That's the story," Connor said testily. "Oh, and last night, Charlie told me he's gay. Kind of an open secret sort of thing. Like Deke."

"And that threw you." Tristan stated it, didn't even bother to ask.

"Well, yeah, 'cause I didn't even know what was happening. I just knew there was like this . . .prickling at the back of my neck, a weird feeling in my stomach, whenever he was around. I didn't know what I wanted to do with him."

"Punch him or get on your knees and suck his dick?" Tristan asked sagely.

"Uh, uh, I don't know," Connor said in a strangled voice. God, he hadn't even gotten that far in his sexual awakening. Suck his dick? Did he want to do that? Did he even want to see his dick? And not just in a dream?

"Oh please, you're not some kind of nervous nellie. You know your way around a hookup. And God knows, you've heard me and Wade talk about it enough," Tristan said.

"True." Connor had even seen more than he probably wanted to, one night when the three of them had shared an Uber back from a party and Wade and Tristan had gotten hot and heavy in the backseat.

And okay, Connor had been a little curious.

Both of them were undeniably attractive and it wasn't like he'd ever done anything with a guy before—but their enthusiasm had tickled the back of his mind a little.

That had been less than six months ago.

Had that glimpse of them aroused something in him, that needed the right guy to light it up?

Connor didn't know.

"I'm just saying," Tristan said, "don't overthink this. It's just sex, Connor."

Connor swallowed hard. "Just sex," he parroted.

"I won't even ask if he's attracted to you because well, we both know someone would have to be dead to not look your way."

"Thanks," Connor said.

He could practically see Tristan wave his retort away. "There's no point in false modesty, Clark. You're hot, and you know it."

"But weren't you the one who told me that just because you're attracted to men doesn't mean you want to climb on everyone you see?"

"I did, and that's one hundred percent accurate," Tristan said.

"And so maybe he isn't attracted to me?" There was part of Connor that he discovered shockingly wanted this to be true. It would make everything a hell of a lot simpler. If Jackson wasn't interested, nothing would ever have to happen.

"He's attracted to you." Tristan said it very matter-of-factly, like he'd never been surer of anything in his life.

"You don't know that. You don't even know him."

"I do know that the feeling you're talking about isn't one-sided. You know it, too, so you won't be taking the easy way out here."

"You aren't going to lecture me about how it's a bad idea to fuck a teammate?" Connor asked archly, and Tristan just laughed.

"Yeah, you did," Connor continued. "But it could still go wrong. Lots of ways it could fall apart, get messy or ugly."

"Undoubtedly," Tristan agreed. "You could just leave it alone. You think you can do that?"

Connor didn't know. Why else had he called Tristan?

"I don't know. And worse, we're bunking together on the road."

"You leave on your first road trip together yet?"

"Tomorrow," Connor said heavily. "We're gonna be in the same room. Alone."

"Exactly." He could practically see Tristan's shit-eating grin.

"I know you two uh . . .hooked up when you were roomies at training camp," Connor said.

"You mean, fell into bed and fell wildly, madly in love?" Tristan asked. "Yep, we sure did. Doesn't mean it'll end that same way for you two."

"I'm definitely not looking to fall in love," Connor said hurriedly. "I don't think I even know what that feels like. Or that I want to know what that feels like. I just want to—"

"Scratch that itch," Tristan said knowingly.

God, reducing it to that, even though that was regularly what Connor did, felt weird and wrong.

But also right.

So fucking right.

"Okay, fine. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"It's a big step. I don't know. I don't want to rush into it."

"I get it. You want to watch some gay porn first. Make sure your skills and knowledge are up to par."

Connor choked on air. Because sure, yes, he'd had that thought. Not acted on it yet, but had it, yes. "No. No. I just . . .want to be sure, that's all. Not necessarily sure of him. But sure of me. More than anything. Maybe I ate something weird, or I'm off, because he throws me off. I don't know."

"You didn't eat something weird," Tristan said, his voice softening. "You know you didn't. But it's okay. You can take your time." He paused, and his tone shifted gears into amusement. "Honestly, that'll only make it hotter, when it does happen. All that repressed sexual tension . . ."

"Tristan," Connor warned.

"I'm just saying. And you'll get plenty of opportunities to ratchet it up nice and hot."

Connor sighed. The fact that they'd be sharing a room had hit him hard when he'd gotten back to his apartment last night and seen his open suitcase on the floor, half-packed for their upcoming road trip.

He wouldn't be able to hide from this. Maybe wouldn't be able to hide it from Jackson, either.

"Whatever happens, you know I'm here," Tristan said.

"Thanks," Connor said, meaning it.

"I gotta run," Tristan said, "we've got an early meeting, but seriously, if you freak out, because it might happen, text me. Call me."

"I'm not going to freak out," Connor grumbled. Except he might.

"Okay," Tristan said kindly.

He hung up, and Connor turned over in the bed. His conversation with Tristan hadn't entirely banished the fizzy remnants of his dream, and he still felt a low level of arousal burning through his system. But he knew if he touched his dick now, he'd think of Jackson.

And he wasn't quite ready for that. Not yet.

A second later, his phone buzzed. It was a text from Tristan.

Is Jackson's last name Evans?

Connor replied with trepidation. Yes. Why?

Because you're right, he's OMG, YES, DADDY PLEASE WRECK ME hot.

Connor groaned and threw his phone down, but not before he saw Tristan's second message.

You're welcome for that image, btw :)