6. Chapter 6

Connor had been weird for the last two days.

Okay, Jackson reasoned, weirder than he had been, anyway.

He'd let the guy stew. Sat rows away on the team bus as it had carried them farther south for their road trip. Hadn't really talked to him since Connor's last start.

Even when they'd hit their room last night, Connor hadn't seemed to feel like talking, telling Jackson in a short tone that he was tired after the trip, and he wanted to get some shut-eye.

He'd been gone when Jackson had woken up.

But it was time.

Jackson grabbed his half-drunk can of Coke from lunch and headed over to where Connor was sitting in the bottom level of the stands, watching Kevin throw a practice session with Charlie.

They had a game today—the first of this long road trip—and the other team had granted them access to the ballpark facilities a few hours early. Not every team did this, but Jackson considered it a boon when it happened.

"Hey," he said, flopping down in the seat next to him, not waiting for Connor's invitation.

Connor gave him a quick sidelong look. He looked like he wanted to tell Jackson to get out of here, but at the last moment, reconsidered.

"You're pissed," Jackson said. "Maybe rightly so."

"Oh, yeah?" Connor drawled.

"Yeah," Jackson said. "Telling that batter the pitch you were gonna throw was a dick move. A necessary move, maybe, but a dick move anyway."

"A necessary move?" Heat blazed in Connor's blue eyes. That was better, in Jackson's opinion. Connor icing him out hadn't done them any favors and had kinda pissed him off.

It was worse, too, because Connor's animated face, even with anger, reminded him that he was attracted to the guy—and didn't want to be.

"You weren't listening to me. You weren't going to listen to me. You've got an arm on you, kid."

"Kid," Connor said bitterly.

"You're what—twenty-one?"

"Twenty-two," Connor retorted.

"Still a kid. The point is that you're going places, but you won't if you don't get your ego under control. You're too close, on the mound, and you can't see the situation plainly. So you gotta let me do it."

"I gotta, huh?"

"You should, anyway. I'm sorry I did it that way. I could've . . ." Jackson sighed. He'd spent way too much time over the last few days agonizing in a way he didn't want to over the way he'd handled the situation. "I could've gone about it in a different way. But if you kept going the way you were, they were gonna light you up."

"I'd only given up a couple of hits and a walk!" Connor exclaimed.

"But they were getting closer every time they went through the rotation. The pitchers in the show, they got sick shit. You got that arm and some raw skill—but they're gonna eventually figure you out and hit the shit outta you, if you don't slow the fuck down and listen."

"And you know this, from all the time you've spent in the show?" Connor said it without inflection, but Jackson felt the sting, anyway.

"I spent some time there," Jackson said slowly. "Enough time."

Connor didn't say anything, just looked at him.

With anyone else, Jackson might've said, You wanna know why it wasn't more time? It's 'cause I'm attracted to you. It's because I couldn't help who I am, even though I tried so goddamned hard.

But he wasn't going to bring it up with Connor. Not because he believed Connor would judge. But because it was hard enough already to keep the keep off label firmly affixed to him. Not that Connor finding out he was gay was going to magically make Jackson's attraction mutual, but he wasn't willing to take any chances.

"I fucking hate admitting this but . . .I shouldn't have shook you off," Connor said slowly. "You just kept wanting me to go that upper corner, and the ump wasn't giving it to me. It didn't make any fucking sense to keep trying."

"So ask," Jackson said.

Connor's eyes widened. Like that was just now occurring to him.

"We're fucking partners, now, and going forward," Jackson reminded him. "Maybe it seems like I'm making weird ass choices, and maybe I am, but there's always a reason. So ask me."

"Okay. Why did you want me to keep going to that corner the ump wouldn't give me?"

Jackson laughed shortly. "That pissed me off too."

"Really?" Connor looked surprised.

"If I lost my temper on every asshole umpire, I'd have been back in Asheville ten years ago."

"Right." Connor considered this. "So you were challenging him."

"It was a little petty, yeah." Jackson could admit this now. "I thought eventually he might give in, if we forced the issue."

"And if he didn't? And I walked a shit ton of batters?"

"I wouldn't have let that happen."

Connor raised an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't have. You can hit a spot when you need to. You'd have been fine."

For a long time, Connor was silent. Jackson hoped he understood what he was really saying. I trust you, and you need to trust me back. Connor's gaze moved out to the bullpen, where Kevin was throwing to Charlie.

"You're not catching Kevin today," Connor observed.

Anyone else might have thought he was changing the subject, but Jackson understood what Connor was really asking.

Why're you here and not out there, catching Kevin, when you've been helpin' straighten him out?

"No. Not today. Charlie's his regular catcher. He needs to find that control, that balance, with him. Not just with me." Jackson paused. "Besides, I wanted to make it clear where I'm meant to be."

Here. With you.Even if you don't want me to be. Even if it makes you hate me.

"Ah," Connor said.

"You want to throw any? Work off some of that rust? I know Andy said you could, if you wanted. That it was up to you."

Connor shrugged.

"Come on," Jackson said, patting him on the shoulder. "It'll be good for you. Better than sitting here, sulking."

"Why do you think I'm sulking?" Connor frowned.

"You've been quiet and not just ignoring me, but avoiding me." Jackson hated how he was the one who sounded like a petulant child. You shut me out and I hated it, thanks.

"And of course it's all about you," Connor snarked back.

"Isn't it?"

"Maybe? I don't know. That shit you pulled during the game did piss me off."

Jackson chuckled under his breath. "Tell me something I don't know."

"But there's other stuff too. We're . . ." Jackson watched as Connor swallowed hard. "We're rooming together. That's a hard adjustment."

Oh, Connor didn't even know the half of it.

He wasn't going to have to adjust to falling asleep and waking up next to all that gorgeousness every single fucking day.

Not for the first time—more like the millionth—Jackson wished that he wasn't who he was. That he'd been born different, somehow.

But your queerness is part of what makes you you.

It was. But it was also goddamned inconvenient.

Or maybe that was just Connor Clark.

"Sure, but we're both adults, we'll manage."

"I thought I was a kid," Connor teased, and there was a glimmer of that smile Jackson was still pretending wasn't haunting his thoughts.

"You can definitely be both," Jackson said wryly.

Wishing, more than a little, that he could actually pin that kid label on Connor and make it stick.

But when Connor glanced over at him, that knowing look in those stunning eyes, it was hard to remember that he was both twenty-two, way too young for Jackson and straightto boot.

"Alright. Let's throw some." Connor stood and, throwing his arms above his head, stretched. His T-shirt rose and Jackson had a front row seat to a swath of slim, tan torso. Not as cut as his own, but undeniably muscled. The slight dusting of hair under his belly button was as blond as the hair on his head.

Jackson swallowed and turned away.

He supposed, as he stood and followed Connor down towards the bullpen, that he should be counting his lucky stars that this was only happening now. After Davy, he'd never been attracted to a teammate. Why it had to happen with this one was beyond him, because he still wasn't sure he even liked Connor Clark. But there was something undeniable about the guy. Hadn't he dragged a reluctant and frankly unwilling Jackson right into this hell?

He shook off his frustration, as he picked up his mitt and did a few stretches.

He'd gone to the hotel gym this morning, getting a workout in, and he still felt loose-ish, but he knew his thirty-three-year-old catcher's knees wouldn't be happy if he didn't limber up.

"Don't worry about your pads," Connor said, glancing over as he did his own stretches, warming up his arm and the rest of his body.

"Feeling good this morning?" He hadn't intended to put his pads on. Connor was too good to lose control.

"Better, anyway," Connor admitted.

"Good." He'd hoped by clearing the air between them—and not just reminding Connor of why he'd done it, but admitting his own misstep—they could move beyond it. Finally find a decent rhythm together.

Jackson watched as Andy settled down, near to where they'd been sitting, and pulled out his radar gun, clearly hoping to clock the speed on Connor's pitches.

Noticed that as soon as he did, Connor's shoulders tensed.

"Hey, you still good?" Jackson asked, a few minutes later, as Connor was getting set up on the bullpen mound.

Connor shot him a strange look. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"You just tensed back there. When Andy pulled out the radar gun. You don't want that today?"

Connor scuffed the dirt under his cleats. "No, it's not that I care about that."

But it was obvious, now that Jackson was looking for it, that he did. "Feel free to lie to yourself," he said, lowering his voice, "but don't lie to me, okay? Why does Andy pulling out the radar gun bother you?"

Connor frowned. "It doesn't bother me. It's just. . .maybe everyone's right. Maybe all I've got is the heat."

"Not true," Jackson argued. Even though it felt like a week ago, that was exactly what his theory had been. That the Comet was an unbelievable arm and nothing else.

But he'd caught him enough times now, in several bullpen practices and simulated games and now a real game that he knew that wasn't true.

He overthought. He resisted advice. And both of those things could cause him to lose control. But when he regained it, when he relaxed and just let the pitches happen, he could hit any spot Jackson called for.

That was definitely a skill not every pitcher had.

Especially not every pitcher with the kind of heat Connor possessed.

"Everyone says it. You kinda said it," Connor said. He was frowning now and still kicking the dirt, like he might uncover one of the secrets of the universe.

"Well, they're fucking wrong and don't let this go to your head, but maybe I was too," Jackson argued. "You want me to go tell Andy to put it away? 'Cause I will."

Connor looked surprised. "You'd do that?"

"Listen, Andy Sadler's legendary, sure. But he's not infallible. And maybe you're right. Maybe everyone's just a little too in love with your speed."

Jackson turned his hat back and settled it on his head again. "Let me go tell him real quick, and then we'll throw this bullpen, alright?"

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Jackson jogged down to where Andy was sitting, motioned for him to get up and come closer so they could talk.

"Hey, put the radar gun away," Jackson said.

"What?" Andy cupped his ear, like he was convinced he'd misheard.

"Put the radar gun away. You don't need to know if Connor's hitting a hundred on this bullpen. I'll be able to tell you if he is." Jackson could feel the speed as the ball hit his glove.

"It's standard. You know that," Andy said.

"And you should know better than anyone that with a pitcher of Connor's abilities, there isn't a standard. There isn't a ‘norm.' We adjust as necessary."

"And this is necessary," Andy stated, frowning.

"Yeah. For now. Not every bullpen. But for now."

A glimmer of understanding flashed in Andy's brown eyes. "You're tryin' to get him to trust you. Tryin' to convince him you're on his side."

Jackson nodded.

"After that move in his last start, yeah, that's something you gotta work on."

Jackson had hoped that nobody had realized he'd told the batter the pitch Connor was desperate to throw—the one he'd taken to the house. But then, Andy wasn't just any coach.

"You pull shit like that," Andy continued, stare unwavering, "with anyone else, there's gonna be hell to pay. But we brought you in to develop Connor and, clearly, you thought it was necessary."

"It was . . ." Jackson internally squirmed. Had it been necessary? In the moment, he'd believed it was. He'd believed there'd been no other way to make Connor see sense. Explaining it to him hadn't worked. Justifying it hadn't either.

Of course, he'd also lost his temper.

They pushed each other in a way Jackson wasn't used to.

He was used to showing up at a new team and maybe having a moment of proving himself, but by the time he'd established his skill, there were rarely any problems.

But Connor was so goddamn talented he made Jackson want to be a better catcher—he also made him want to throw something. These feelings were probably mutual. If they could ever get on the same page . . .well, they'd be something, that was for sure.

Unstoppable, that's what you'd be.

"I get it," Andy said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "He's frustrating. And you're stubborn."

It was true. Connor was a force and he was an immovable object.

"Yeah," Jackson agreed.

He didn't say, but I gotta keep my temper. Gotta stop him getting under my skin.

But he thought Andy understood anyway.

"No radar this bullpen," Andy said. "But you tell me what he's throwing, in your best estimation."

"Got it," Jackson said and jogged back to the bullpen.

"He just . . .put it away. Just like that. Just because you asked him to." Connor sounded mystified.

"Yeah," Jackson said.

It would defeat the whole purpose to tell Connor exactly why Andy had listened. But he could say something. "It's okay to speak up for yourself, you know."

Connor made a face.

"No, I mean it. You're mouthy enough every other time. Pushing back on me every other fucking pitch. But something that genuinely bothers you? You don't say a word."

"It's . . .it was kinda silly."

"So?" Jackson challenged. "It still fucking matters to you."

"Didn't expect you to be on my side about this," Connor said cautiously.

It was hard—like staring right into the sun—to look Connor in the eye, but Jackson did it anyway, because this was important. More than important. It was vital Connor understood this.

"That's bullshit, because I'm always on your side. I'm never gonna be on anyone else's. Not when I'm your catcher, Connor. You and I? We're a team, and the sooner you realize that, the easier this is gonna be."

"But you were a dick the other day," Connor argued. "You told that batter what I was gonna throw. I gave up a two run homer because of you."

"Yeah, you did. But you weren't listening. I did what I had to do to get your attention."

"Oh, you had my attention. Never lost it," Connor said. Suddenly he was grinning, and Jackson's heart stuttered, because was Connor flirting with him? Right now? Straight Connor Clark flirting with him in the middle of a ballpark in rural Georgia?

"Ah. Uh. Good." Why couldn't he speak?

Probably because Connor was looking at him, the intentness in his blue eyes unmissable and undeniable.

Was Connor not straight after all?

Maybe he didn't even know what he was doing—or saying.

Yep, that had to be it. Connor was just fucking clueless and didn't even know he was playing with fire.

"Come on, let's get started," Connor said and put his hand on Jackson's shoulder. It wasn't just a quick pat, either. But a lingering touch that Jackson knew he'd be feeling long after he jogged back to his position on the other end of the bullpen.

"Sure, sure," Jackson said.

Sure enough that spot burned all the way through the bullpen.

And while Connor gave him a look every few pitches, he hit every single pitch Jackson called.

"You should've come in and caught Kevin."

Connor waited until they were back in the room—it had been a long day, and a long night, with the Rogues ultimately losing six to four to the home team. All because Kevin had given up a three run shot in the eighth.

Jackson glanced over at him. He looked about seventeen, sitting on the bed, mussed hair glinting in the dim light of the room, in a pair of loose gray sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt—with his high school name emblazoned across the front.

He felt old tonight. Especially old, when confronted with all this glorious youth.

Losing was never fun, but losing that way, when they'd had it in the bag the whole fucking game, that was the worst. Every time one of those losses happened, Jackson had to remind himself why he was doing this.

Why he still got up every morning and headed to the ballpark.

"That wasn't my call," Jackson said.

"You told me just today that you weren't catching Kevin because you wanted to make sure I knew that you were my catcher."

Jackson forced himself to not dwell on the possessive slant Connor gave his words.

He didn't mean them that way.

"You were pretty pissed about that, just the other day," Jackson reminded him.

"I saw what you did for Kevin. You settled him down. Charlie doesn't have that ability. Sure didn't today."

He'd seen it. And did Connor think he enjoyed having to sit in the dugout and helplessly watch as the guy gave up three runs?

It had just about killed him, too.

Charlie had been catching the starting pitcher today, and Mikey had liked the matchup of Deke with the opponent's starting pitcher, so all Jackson had done all game was twiddle his thumbs until the last inning when he'd been subbed in to make some magic happen.

The magic had not happened.

He'd lined out to third, and the Rogues had lost.

"He just needs some more work," Jackson said, relaxing against the pillows.

Connor's look was full of heat. "He needs you."

"I don't get to say when he does and doesn't. That's not my call."

"You could tell skipper. He listens to you. Andy practically worships you."

"Just 'cause I got him to put that radar gun away—"

"That's not why. Well, not only why," Connor interrupted. "I watch them with you. They listen to you."

"Not enough," Jackson grumbled. And hadn't he felt that way for awhile now? That he was helpless and ultimately powerless? He could catch the shit out of a game, but if the manager didn't put him in, not when it mattered, nothing changed.

"So you do feel it."

Jackson turned to him. "Of course I fucking do."

"You're just so . . .I don't know . . .stoic."

Jackson laughed. "I am not."

"You are though." To Jackson's surprise, Connor stood and then flopped down at the bottom of Jackson's bed.

He couldn't remember the last time a teammate had ever voluntarily sat on his bed. For the most part, he'd been accepted. But there was still a line they—and Jackson himself—had scrupulously preserved. But Connor, who maybe didn't know about Jackson's sexuality, even though it was pretty much an open secret, apparently didn't care.

"You told me today I can always ask—but here's the thing, you're not always easy to talk to. You keep yourself apart."

If he did, Jackson had a pretty good idea why that was.

"Listen, Connor—"

"If you're going to tell me that you're gay and that's the reason you keep yourself apart, I'm going to call bullshit on that."

"Someone told you, then?"

"Charlie. And it doesn't bother me, not at all . . ." Connor trailed off, like he wanted to say more, but just wasn't sure how to do it.

"Well. Good. I'm glad."

"But it bothered other people, didn't it?"

Jackson couldn't help it. He shot Connor a look. "What do you think?"

Connor was quiet for a minute, and when he did answer, his eyes were serious, same as his voice. "I think you probably had to watch yourself, every single time you walked into the clubhouse, every single new team you went to."

He wasn't wrong. But what really baffled Jackson was why he hadn't gotten off his bed. And normally, no, just the presence of a guy on his bed wouldn't have been enough to tempt him—but those other guys hadn't been Connor Clark, either.

"That's a tough way to live," Connor continued. "It explains why you're so fucking prickly."

"Why I'm prickly?" Jackson chuckled.

"You are. But finding out helped me understand why. I just don't get why you didn't tell me yourself."

"I assumed someone else would. This kinda thing . . .well, it's often better coming from someone else."

Connor frowned. "So if they say shit, they don't do it to your face? 'Cause you're not a coward, Jackson. Not even a little."

"Thanks," Jackson said dryly. "And yeah, sure, I guess."

Jackson wished that Connor was a little more of that stupid kid he'd initially assumed. He wasn't used to someone uncovering all his secrets this easily.

It made him wonder when Connor had found out, and if it had anything to do with the silent treatment he'd given him over the last few days. Yes, Connor had been pissed off. But maybe it had been more than that.

Maybe Connor had been processing the info he'd just found out about Jackson.

"Not I guess," Connor pushed.

"In my experience, it's just easier if guys have some time to adjust to the reality, before they come face-to-face with me." Maybe he was wrong, and it was kinda cowardly.

But it was also so much fucking easier to be a supportive teammate and keep the clubhouse drama-free if he didn't have to hear anyone saying shit about him.

That much was true.

"Huh. Guess I can see that." Connor lay down fully on the bed now, his long limbs sprawled out. He clearly had no issue with sharing a mattress.

Jackson swallowed hard. "Yeah," he said uselessly. His head was buzzing and his stomach was cramping, his blood burning. He really did not want to be attracted to this guy, and yet, he was.

More now than he'd ever been.

Maybe attempting to bury it wasn't going to work—but what else could he do? He couldn't embrace it.

"If anyone says shit about you," Connor said, "tell me, okay?"

That surprised Jackson. "What?"

"If anyone says shit about you," he repeated, "tell me."

"Did you tell Deke this?"

"No," Connor said. "Because he's not mine."

Jackson couldn't quite breathe. The heat in Connor's eyes was searing.

"You . . .uh . . .didn't want to claim me, just a few days ago."

"So you think," Connor said quietly. Intently.

He wanted to reach for the water bottle on the table next to the bed, wet his suddenly parched throat, but he also didn't want to move. It preserved, even for a second, the fallacy that Connor might lean over and cash in on all those promises his gaze kept making.

Jackson couldn't stand it anymore. He didn't know what kind of insanity Connor was dealing with, but he looked away. Picked at the blanket with a fingernail. "Sure, yeah," he said, trying to make it light, casual. Like it wasn't the kind of promise that resonated. Like it didn't mean the whole fucking world to him, the guy who'd learned to protect his own back in every clubhouse he'd ever walked into.

But instead, his voice came out deep, guttural. Rough. Desperate. Like he wanted more than just a promise.

You do.

"Good." Connor nodded and finally, thank God, slid off the bed and went back to his own.

But as he did, he peeled off his shirt, and before Jackson could stop himself, his fists clenched in the pooled sheets. There was so much flawless golden skin. Wide shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist. The flex of his shoulder blades and his biceps as he turned around. Leaned in and Jackson got only a glimpse of Connor's knowing smile before he flicked the light between them off.