8. Chapter 8

"Feels like we've already been on the road forever," TJ complained as they headed into the dugout from the clubhouse to get ready for the fourth game in this series.

The game Connor was starting.

"Yep." They'd dropped two out of three on this road trip so far. None of the losses had been bad, the Rogues only losing by a run here, two runs there. But it had been enough.

Baseball was a game of inches and a game of hundreds of feet.

Jackson turned, looking for Connor so they could finish getting warmed up.

They hadn't talked much since Jackson had warned him.

Connor had seemed scared straight—wrong choice of words, Evans, he told himself—after Jackson had confronted him over his behavior.

He'd tried to act normal after he'd hopped out of the shower. Connor hadn't spoken much either, turning on the TV like he didn't want to talk, and then a few hours later, they'd headed to the ballpark for the night's game. Connor had gone to the bullpen, and Jackson had taken his spot on the bench.

The next day had been about the same. Minimum amount of conversation, which Jackson was used to, because some teammates just never warmed to him, and yet it wasn't as bad as the icing out Connor had given him a week ago.

It was exactly what Jackson had wanted, so it shouldn't have bothered him.

He'd wanted to cut through all that bullshit faux-flirting. But why had Connor been doing it in the first place? Had he believed it was a way to soften Jackson up, make him vulnerable, make him weak? Convince him to take it easier on Connor? Because there was no fucking chance of that. No matter how gorgeous Connor was. No matter how he fluttered his eyelashes and batted those unreal blue eyes in his direction.

And, no matter what he'd told Connor, he didn't really think it was a test either. Deke was proof of that. Mikey had even asked for Jackson specifically, and he knew the truth of his sexuality. So why bring him here if they didn't want him around? If they didn't trust him?

Connor's behavior just didn't make sense to him. Which was why it was better to stop it, Jackson believed, no matter how awkward it made things.

Not that we got along all that well before this.

But at least the awkwardness meant he didn't spend nearly every moment burning for the guy and trying to ignore said burning.

That was fucking something, at least.

He didn't like the feeling of being tempted. He didn't like the worry, lingering in the back of his mind, that maybe this might go beyond just temptation.

"Connor's just over there," Andy said, gesturing towards where Connor was throwing a few pitches to Ro, getting warmed up for his start tonight.

Like Jackson could miss the six-foot, four-inch guy with his bright blond hair, penetrating blue eyes, and a face that could doom any angel—and Jackson hadn't been even close to angelic in many, many years.

"How's he doing?" Jackson asked.

Andy shot him a look. "Aren't you roomin' with the guy?"

"Yeah."

"Then you should be tellin' me," Andy pointed out wryly.

"We're not close, you know that." An understatement of the century. Especially after he'd just torched anything they had been building with his insistence that Connor stop whatever the fuck it was he was doing.

Andy shot him a look.

"Okay, we're figuring out how to do this. You know it's not easy, especially not with a guy like Connor. He's . . ." Hot. Flirtatious. Tempting beyond belief. "Stubborn."

"He sure is."

"So, we're getting there." Or else we were, before today.

"Alright. I just don't want him worked up," Andy said. "He gets worked up, it's way too fucking hard to get him to calm down. And breathing? Forget about it."

"I'll make sure he's fine." Except maybe he's already not.

"Good," Andy said with a sharp nod. "Then, get over there."

Jackson did as he was told and was more than a little relieved that when he approached, Connor didn't seem to be giving him any icier of a reception than he had earlier.

"Ready?" Jackson asked, and Connor nodded.

They moved to the mound, Jackson situating himself behind home plate.

Connor seemed solid, each pitch coming in with a nice zip, as they had during his last bullpen. Even better, he hit every pitch Jackson called for, even skating beautifully right along the edge of the zone.

Andy was right; when he was thinking—or not thinking—Connor absolutely had the goods.

It was just a matter of keeping him on the right track.

First inning went smooth as butter. Three batters came up, and Connor sent them down with only a handful of pitches. With his speed and placement, the hitters just looked like they were waving at his balls, and he looked every inch his reputation as a future major league pitcher.

The second and third inning went much the same. Jackson let Connor stay in his own corner of the dugout between innings, not stewing but keeping himself focused, while he congregated with the rest of the team on the other end.

In the fourth, Jackson came up to bat, in the middle of the order.

Ahead of him, Ro had hit a solid double, but then TJ had struck out, just after, on a nasty slider that had nearly sent the guy into the dust.

He'd strode right past Jackson, in a total snit about the pitch, and Jackson had idled up to the plate, hesitant but determined to do what he could to bring Ro home and score a run.

Connor might be pitching great, but if the team didn't give him any support by putting points on the board, then it wouldn't matter. He—and the whole Rogues team—would lose this game by default.

Jackson dug his cleat into the dirt next to the plate and raised his bat, meeting the intent gaze of the pitcher. It was only sixty feet from the mound to home plate, but it felt like sixty miles. When he was the one catching, the distance never felt that significant, but whenever he was up to bat, it always felt like a yawning chasm.

Settling into his stance, Jackson eyed the pitcher. He was into the fourth inning now, and he'd pitched well the whole game—not as well as Connor, but pretty well. The first time he'd been up to bat, Jackson had lined out to first, but if he'd gotten a bit more of it, he could've turned it into a solid double, the way Ro had.

Fourth and fifth inning were always the slippery slopes. When would the hitters figure out the pitcher's tricks? And even if they did, could they turn them to their own advantage?

Jackson was pretty sure he could do it with this guy. He liked to rely on misdirection, but if you weren't misdirected, his pitches were usually balls.

He watched as the first one sailed right by him, a little too high.

Ump called it a ball.

Second one, still too high.

Ball two.

Sixty feet away, Jackson could see the pitcher growing a bit more agitated, scuffing the dirt with his shoe, frowning as he got set up for the next pitch.

This one was just inside the inside corner.

Jackson might've swung for it, but down two to zero, he wasn't ever likely to swing. And on top of that, he knew the ump hadn't been giving Connor that pitch all night.

He didn't give it to this guy either.

He called ball three.

The pitcher's movements were shaky now. Angry.

Jackson could see it. Was practically salivating for the pitch that would be smooth sailing right out of the park. If he didn't throw right down the middle, he was a freaking moron.

But he didn't.

This was another slider, like the one that had nearly clipped TJ only a few minutes ago.

But instead of the ball pulling away, it didn't have the movement it needed and only at the last second did Jackson realize he was in deep shit and he'd better get the fuck out of the way.

Swiveling his hips, he turned and the ball, going at least ninety miles an hour, hit him right in the side.

Pain bloomed, shooting through his back, his legs.

He'd been hit with a lot of balls in his life. More than his fair share, because being a catcher himself and a damn good hitter, he tended to see right through most pitching tricks, and often they lost their tempers.

This one definitely had.

Jackson straightened slowly, the edges of his vision whiting out with the agony of it.

He'd have a fucking insane bruise in the morning but for right now, he didn't think the asshole had actually caught a rib. He'd gotten just far enough around that it had just hit him in the meat of his side.

"You alright?" Belatedly, Jackson realized that Mikey was right there, that he'd come jogging out to make sure he was okay heading to first. That he didn't need a pinch runner.

"Fine," Jackson retorted shortly.

Mikey raised a questioning eyebrow but turned and jogged back to the dugout.

Jackson was sure pissed, but he was technically fine.

Should've gotten a home run off this asshole for that.

Instead he'd have to wait and see if anyone else in the lineup could cash in on having two men on base with only one out.

That stung, but not nearly as much as his side as he dropped his bat and jogged down the first base line.

Two outs later, it was over, without a single run scored for Jackson's pain.

"You alright?" Connor asked back in the dugout as Jackson winced, strapping on his catcher's gear.

"I'm fine," Jackson repeated. Maybe if he said it enough, it would be true for long enough to get him through this game and get some ice on this bruise, sure to be spectacular with half a dozen technicolors by the time they hit nine innings.

"Are you really sure about that? He nailed you," Connor said. He didn't look particularly happy about it.

Well, that made two of them. Jackson waved his hand. "Told you. I'm fine."

Connor did not look convinced, but at least he jogged out, to get warmed up for what would probably be his final inning of the day.

Mikey caught him right as he headed out of the dugout.

"Hey, you get through this inning, I'll sub Charlie in," Mikey said.

"No need, I'm fine." Jackson had said it enough times by this point that surely it had to be true?

Mikey still looked dubious. But not as dubious as Connor, at least.

Geez, he was thirty-three. He was tougher than he looked, and way harder to kill. He could take a little—or a lot—of pain.

Course that didn't stop him from wincing a little as he settled down into his catcher's stance, the straps that held on his breastplate pulling right against where that dickhead had nailed him.

Connor's first warmup pitch was weirdly hesitant, without that usual zip of speed.

Jackson chalked it up to him having gotten a little cold during the longer inning. Called for another.

This one was just as sluggish.

He stood, mentally cursing these stupid pitchers and also how much his side was paining him as he jogged over to the mound. Didn't Connor trust him enough to catch what he threw? He'd never let a ball by him yet. He could catch Connor in his fucking sleep—as long as Connor was behaving himself, anyway.

"What the fuck?" Jackson asked conversationally.

Connor shot him another one of those concerned looks.

"Don't you dare take it easy on me 'cause of that little love tap," Jackson continued. "I ever let you down?"

"No." Connor's chin jutted out stubbornly. "It's just . . .you should be in the dugout. Icing that. Not out here, catching me."

Jackson rolled his eyes. "For the millionth fucking time, I'm fine. I'm a professional, aren't I?"

Connor's gaze hardened. "You shouldn't have to be."

"What the fuck does that mean?" A worse fear than Connor pitching easy coalesced deep inside him. It was annoyingly worrisome, but at least it distracted him from the pain in his side.

"I just mean, he lost control. Nailed you. It's not acceptable. Not now. Not ever."

Jackson, who'd been trying so goddamn hard to keep his distance, stepped right into Connor's personal space. Watched as those glorious blue eyes widened. Dilated.

"Don't you fucking dare do anything about it," was all he said before he turned and walked back to home plate.

The first two batters, Jackson was pretty sure his warning had come across loud and clear. Connor threw with his normal speed, and he hadn't shaken off any of Jackson's signals.

All clear, Jackson thought, relaxing just a fraction. It's gonna be alright. We're gonna get through this without Connor Clark trying to be a fucking hero.

But then, on the first pitch of the third batter, Connor elevated his fastball more than Jackson had called for. It hadn't gotten all that close to the batter's helmet, but it had been near enough.

Jackson threw the ball back to Connor and gave him a glare—what he hoped was an effective reminder against what he'd already warned him about doing.

Next pitch, it went even higher.

The batter was shifting uncomfortably now in front of Jackson, like he knew he might have to take a dive to avoid the very thing that had just happened to Jackson.

"Swear to God," Jackson tried, joking, shooting another probably pointless glare in Connor's direction, "I don't really know where it's going."

But that was a lie.

Even as he called for a fastball, low and inside, he knew exactly where it was going.

Connor didn't even bother shaking off his sign. He just fucking ignored it completely, and let the ball fly off his fingers, right towards the hitter's shoulder.

He swerved, like any smart man who'd been warned twice, but Connor's speed was deadly, and it hit in the same spot, so close that the batter ducking had almost not been enough.

"Shit," Jackson muttered and stood, pulling his face mask up. "It's all good," he soothed, right into the angry batter's face as he sprang up.

"He's a fucking lunatic," the guy spit at him. "You gonna take care of him?"

"Jackson, you said you'd take care of him," the ump warned again.

"Yep, I'm gonna," Jackson retorted under his breath—and jogged back to the mound.

Connor was scuffing the dirt underneath his cleat. Looking angry, not contrite.

"I can strike him out still," Connor said, like that was Jackson's concern, not some stupid old-fashioned notion of retribution that as far as Jackson believed, should have died out ages ago.

"I don't give a fuck if you get him swinging," Jackson spat out. "Don't fucking try that shit ever again, okay?"

Connor frowned. "But—"

"No. No. Retaliation is dumb as hell. Did that guy hit me?" He gestured towards the batter taking a few test swings while he waited for Jackson to straighten Connor out.

"No," Connor said sullenly.

"Exactly. He didn't fucking hit me. And the guy who did? Probably didn't mean to start something. We're gonna be the bigger people here, alright? Pitch what I tell you to pitch."

"Fine." Connor didn't look pleased, but he did look like he'd finally given in.

Jackson returned to home plate.

"You sure it's all good this time?" the ump asked.

Jackson nodded.

He gave Connor a steady look—a promise that if he didn't do exactly what Jackson told him to do, they'd be discussing this later—and called the next pitch.

Sure enough, Connor actually got him swinging three pitches later. Which . . .yep, it was annoying how good Connor was, at least when he applied himself.

The next batter approached with trepidation, which Jackson could hardly blame him for. But not shockingly, Connor's control miraculously improved with this next at-bat, and he retired the next two batters without breaking a sweat.

"That," Jackson ground out as Connor met him on the way into the dugout, "was fucking bullshit."

"You should've let me—" Connor started to argue, but before he could get into it, Mikey held up his hand to shut him up.

"Save it for after the game," Mikey said ominously. "We still got a W to put together."

Even though it was currently tied at zero, Jackson really thought they had a chance at this one. Connor had pitched great, so well he'd kept the other team off the board, but the Rogues couldn't seem to put together a string of hits, at least not enough to make a run.

And then, in the bottom of the ninth, Kevin let a ball hang a little too high in the zone, and instead of the guy striking out, he hit it out of the park.

"Shit," Jackson said with a sharp exhale.

Kevin's head was already slumped down as the guy jogged around the bases.

He'd been so much better, and Jackson knew what a point of honor it had been for Mikey to put him in during this game, when it was tied, when they were angling for a win.

It had spoken of a lot of faith at how much he'd been coming along, and how much better he did pitch when Jackson was catching—Connor was not wrong about that, as much as it pained Jackson to admit it—but there was nothing to do now but to watch as the opposing team celebrated and the Rogues slunk into the clubhouse to lick their wounds.

In Jackson's case, the wounds weren't just metaphorical, but physical, too.

"Sorry, man," Kevin said as Jackson carefully pulled his shirt over his head, groaning a little as the bruise on his side screamed.

"It's alright. I knew it was a risky pitch. Could've finished him off or . . ."

Kevin sighed. "Gone the other way. I know. I thought I had it. I really did."

"You did. You were fucking solid through a few innings. Three innings is a lot for a reliever."

"But not that many for a starter," Kevin said morosely.

That was true, too. Jackson didn't know how to tell him he'd probably kissed that chance goodbye—at least for now. But he probably didn't have to, he realized, because the look on Kevin's face said it all.

God, this day had fucking sucked, all around.

And now Mikey was striding into the clubhouse, fury and frustration etched on his face.

"Y'all got the get up and go of a bunch of pokey horses bound for the glue factory," he exclaimed, his voice carrying, full of heat. "Our startin' pitcher gives us a game like that and you fucking waste it. You're not playing with any urgency. Lollygagging around, barely jogging it out to first. Not approaching at-bats with confidence. Sure, Kevin gave up that home run at the end—" Skip's eyes grew hard. "But he never should've been in that spot. We should've been up half a dozen runs by then. We had the base runners. Y'all just fucking blew it."

They had. Jackson knew it.

"In fact," Mikey continued, "the only one of you with any drive this game was Connor."

Jackson froze.

"He made sure that they know the Rogues mean business. And he didn't have to hit someone to do it."

Jackson hated the slow smile that was dawning on Connor's face. The realization that he wasn't going to get yelled at after all for his dumbass move, but praised.

That was the cherry topper to this whole shit sundae, that was for fucking sure.

Connor's smugness was going to be unbearable now.

Someone nudged his elbow, and Jackson looked over. It was one of the trainers. "Take a shower," he said, "and we'll take a look at your side."

"It's just a nasty bruise," Jackson said shortly. Frankly, it hurt less than everything else, right now.

"Sure, but we gotta check it out. Make sure you didn't bruise a rib or anything."

"Just give me some of those painkillers," Jackson said. Even though he wasn't going to use them. He hated the way they made him feel numb. Numb and dependent.

"Exam first," the guy insisted, and Jackson sighed.

He took his shower, spending more time in the hot water than he should, but what else was awaiting him? A likely-to-be-painful exam, and a smug Connor Clark.

But the trainer had an unexpectedly soft touch, and as Jackson had assumed before, it was just a bruise.

"You're all clear, but baby it, alright?" The trainer said. "Lots of ice. I'll give you some of those painkillers—"

"No," Jackson interrupted. Why should he bother taking them if he wasn't going to use them?

"Then some topical cream. It won't go deep, but it'll at least make it a little more comfortable. Easier to sleep," the guy said and handed him the tube before Jackson could protest.

He was finally on his way out of the clubhouse when Deke caught him. "Hey," he said. "You doing okay?"

"Been better," Jackson grumbled.

"Come out and have a beer with some of us guys," Deke persuaded. "Maybe a little homegrown painkiller?"

"Nah, I'm beat," Jackson said.

"You sure?" Deke asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm sure," Jackson said. "I'm gonna rub this cream on and hopefully fall asleep."

"Good luck with that," Deke said wryly.

He'd hoped that Connor would go out with Deke and the other guys, but sure enough, there he was in the room when he opened the door.

He gave Connor a glowering look.

"How're you doing?" Connor asked, having the nerve to look concerned, still. "Is it just a bruise? Did you get it checked out? Did they give you anything?"

Jackson rolled his eyes. "I'm fine."

"It doesn't matter how many times you say it, it doesn't make it true," Connor said, his voice sounding annoyingly self-righteous.