9. Chapter 9

Connor supposed he shouldn't have expected a thank you. Or really, any kind of positive acknowledgment at all.

He'd done what he'd needed to do. Skipper knew that. He respected what Connor had done to defend Jackson and to defend the Rogues.

He hadn't thrown at that guy because he'd wanted to. He'd done it because he'd needed to.

If Jackson hadn't stopped him, he'd have clipped him. No questions asked.

How was it possible he didn't even really like Jackson, but he already felt protective over him? Like he'd told him the other day, he was his. Sometimes it was hard to accept Jackson's control over his pitching, but at least he believed that Jackson always wanted to do the best thing for him.

Maybe that wasn't like. Maybe the pesky attraction he kept feeling towards the guy wasn't like either, but together, those two things added up to something.

But God if he knew what it was.

Only that he burned with it, even when he was trying to ignore Jackson, trying to give him the space he'd asked for.

For a day or so after Jackson had told him to back off—when he'd accused him of deliberately testing him, of trying to flirt with him to soften him—Connor had hoped his blunt words might be what killed this attraction dead.

But it hadn't.

Not even close.

Neither did Jackson's eye roll at Connor's concern.

"It doesn't matter how many times you say you're fine, it doesn't make it true," Connor pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I'm still gonna do it."

Connor was not used to Jackson being such a vocal pain in the ass.

Usually that was him, and it clued him in to just how much pain the guy must be in.

"Did they give you any painkillers?"

"No, because I wouldn't take them." Jackson's jaw jutted out stubbornly, and oh my God, this guy.

"You should ice it, at least," Connor said and didn't quite manage to smother his gasp when Jackson pulled his shirt up in front of the mirror.

The bruise was horrible already, bright purple and red blooming across Jackson's side, tinges of sickly brownish-green on the edges.

But it wasn't just the colors spreading across his skin that drew Connor's gaze.

His whole torso was a fucking work of art. Smooth ridges of muscle, sloping gracefully downwards, and Connor's eyes caught on the trail of dark hair that led under the waistband of Jackson's sweatpants, riding low on his slim hips.

He'd wondered before if he was actually interested in what was hidden by that gray fabric, but now he knew he was.

He itched to reach out and tug them down. Look his fill.

He imagined, in a very different scenario, Jackson gazing back, the warmth in those dark eyes blazing into an inferno, the way he'd set a careful hand on Connor's shoulder as he loosened his pants.

Trust him to explore and touch all he wanted, with no pressure, no hurry, no obligation.

Until Connor wanted it, until he couldn't live without taking it further, without letting Jackson touch him in return.

"Hello? Are you even listening?"

Connor snapped out of it, suddenly, far too aware he'd gotten caught standing there, with his own pants metaphorically down, fantasizing about pulling Jackson's down.

"Uh, yeah, sorry. I was . . ." Connor trailed off, because he could hardly say what he had been doing.

"I said, yes, I should ice it."

"You want me to get some ice?" Connor asked. Maybe it would be good to get some air. For a week at least, he'd wanted Jackson to take his shirt off in a place where he wouldn't look like a major creeper for staring, and yet, now that it had happened, he didn't know how to even look.

"That'd be nice," Jackson said. "Then after that, I can at least be comfortable while I lecture your stupid ass about how dumb retaliation is."

"It wasn't—"

"It's dumb," Jackson interrupted, emphasizing every single word.

"Fine," Connor said, grabbing the ice bucket.

It only took a few minutes to head down to the lower floor, fill the bucket, and return to their room.

When he walked back in, Jackson was still in front of the mirror, wincing as he poked at the bruise.

"Stop that," Connor ordered as he set the ice down on the dresser. "You're only going to make it worse."

Jackson made a face. "Trust me, I get that. But I've got to put this stupid topical ointment on. The instructions say to let it sit for at least five minutes before I get it wet, so the ice is out until then."

"Ah, okay." Connor shoved his hands in his pockets. Maybe it was shitty of him to be turned on watching Jackson's fingertips linger across his skin when he was hurt—but that ship had sailed.

"Ugh." Jackson grimaced again, twisting his torso more dramatically, like he was having trouble getting access to the spots that were really bothering him.

And before Connor could think better of it—or talk himself out of it—he said, "Why don't you let me do that?"

Jackson turned to him, shock etched on every line of his face.

"What?"

"I said, why don't you let me do that for you?" Connor reached for the tube of ointment and plucked it easily out of Jackson's fingers.

Jackson didn't fight him. Didn't even argue. Just stared at him, like he couldn't quite believe what Connor was saying.

What made Connor hesitate, his hand hovering near Jackson's side, wasn't that he was about to touch Jackson's bare skin, but how Jackson was so thrown by the fact he'd volunteered to do it.

"This okay?" Connor asked, kneading the tube in his palm. Trying to warm it. Also trying to postpone the inevitable a moment longer, even as he desperately wanted to do it.

"You uh . . .doing this?" Jackson asked.

Connor didn't think he'd ever seen him hesitate this much. Sure, they hadn't known each other that long, but he'd never felt this way before. Not about a woman. Definitely not about a man.

"Yeah."

"Sure, uh, yes. I can't seem to do it myself," he said.

But Connor didn't miss how he braced himself. Was it for the inevitable bloom of pain as Connor's fingers brushed his bruise? Or for something else?

"Happy to help," Connor murmured. If he didn't do it now, he'd lose his nerve. And he really didn't want to lose his nerve.

Squeezing out a portion of ointment onto his fingertips, he reached out and, as gently as he could, smoothed it along the blooming red and purple edges.

Jackson quaked. Because of the pain? Because of something else?

Connor didn't know. He didn't ask. But he didn't stop.

It was a big bruise and he wanted to make sure every bit of it was covered. And, if he was being very honest with himself, he liked touching Jackson, even like this.

His skin was so much smoother than he'd expected, unexpectedly soft with all that hard bunched muscle underneath. Connor wanted more. So much more.

He didn't know how else to say so, but at least he could make sure he covered every bit of bruised skin with the ointment. Gave Jackson the relief he'd earned.

Leaning in closer, he let his world close in tight to just him, Jackson, and the exposed skin of his side.

He must have hit a particularly sensitive spot, then, because Jackson exhaled sharply. Connor glanced up and he realized he was practically on top of the guy, his body cradled around Jackson's.

Jackson's eyes were dark and wide, his face flushed.

Connor wondered if he had the same look on his face.

"I . . .uh . . .I think you got it all," Jackson said quietly.

"Think there's a little more here," Connor insisted, not ready for this moment to end. His fingertips brushed the ridge of a muscle, tracing the sickly green edges of the bruise.

"I don't . . .I didn't . . ." Jackson stuttered. "This isn't something I'm used to. Guys doing this. Or guys . . .uh . . .being on my bed."

Connor found his eyes again. "What?" Was he saying what Connor thought he was saying? That guys wouldn't touch him the same? Avoided even sitting on the edge of his bed? Because he was gay?

Ugh, what assholes. What insensitive, fucking assholes. Connor wanted to throw at each and every one of their heads.

"You heard me," Jackson said.

"I did, but I think it's bullshit. I just . . .I wouldn't. I couldn't." Connor knew he should hesitate. Think through this a little better, but once he started talking, he couldn't really stop. "How could I do that to you when I . . .when I . . .feel the same way you do? When I'm . . ." Connor swallowed hard. What was he even? He didn't know. "When I feel attracted to men too?"

If Connor had thought Jackson had been astonished over his offer to help, he was shocked now.

He reared back and put some distance between them.

Connor's hand fell to his side, his fingers tingling from the numbing ointment.

"What?" Jackson's voice was rough. "What are you trying to say?"

"I think you know what I'm trying to say," Connor said wryly. Maybe if he could brush this off as something that just was, that hadn't just happened, that was as routine and matter-of-fact as anything else, he could get the words out without bungling them.

"No. No. You gotta be clear," Jackson insisted, shaking his head.

"Fine," Connor said. So much for the casual approach. He looked Jackson right in the eye and said, "I'm attracted to you."

Whatever Connor had expected when he said those words—and he'd imagined plenty of scenarios: Jackson smiling, Jackson leaning in, Jackson kissing him, and maybe even more—what he hadn't expected was the guy to rear back like he'd just been shot.

"What, what," Jackson said, very flustered.

It was easier the second time. "I'm attracted to you," Connor said. "I think you're gorgeous. I want to touch you. More than I just did. That means I'm not straight either, right? I don't know the exact label—I'm still trying to figure that out. That's okay, right? To not know the exact label?"

Jackson opened his mouth and shut it again with an audible click. "Sure. Of course. But . . .what."

"You can't be surprised, I was flirting with you. And not cause I was testing you." Connor rolled his eyes. "I was doing it because I couldn't help myself."

"You couldn't . . .you couldn't help yourself," Jackson said. "Unfuckingbelievable."

Connor had certainly not expected this was how things would go if he ever screwed up the courage to tell Jackson the truth. The last thing he'd anticipated was Jackson being angry about it.

"We don't even like each other," Jackson continued, before Connor could try to get the conversation back on track. A more flirtatious track that might lead to more touching. Or even kissing. Or more.

"Well, no," Connor said. He felt out of his depth, still, but in an exhilarated, I'm ready to fling myself off a cliff kind of way. There was definitely some fear of the unknown but instead of terror, it felt like freedom. Like he might be falling—but instead, all he felt was the air whistling by his ears, like he was flying instead.

"You have given me nothing but shit since I showed up here," Jackson said, shoving a finger into Connor's T-shirt clad chest. "Nothing but shit. And now what, you want me to fuck you?"

Connor swallowed hard. "I don't know, I just know I . . .just nevermind, okay? Forget I said anything." This had really not gone like he'd expected it to.

Jackson's expression softened. "God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be such an ass about it. Must have been hard for you to admit it."

Maybe if Connor was feeling less ballsy, he'd have just smiled and agreed and then never brought it up again. But he was feeling ballsy. Or desperate. Or maybe those were the exact same feeling.

"Sort of, yeah, but now that I have . . ." Connor trailed off expectantly, shooting him the smile that Ro liked to tease had never failed to close the deal.

Except it didn't now. Jackson didn't look angry anymore—but his face closed up completely. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Well, I just admitted I'm attracted to you. I'm assuming you're attracted to me. And we've got this whole empty room. Nowhere to be until after lunch tomorrow so . . ."

Connor felt like he was flying, right up until the moment he hit the ground.

"No. No." Jackson jerked back even farther, like Connor was poison. "I don't do this. Not with teammates. And why would you jeopardize your career by doing this?"

"You didn't jeopardize yours."

"You don't know. You don't know anything about me," Jackson retorted.

From the totally cold, hard look on his face, Connor would've guessed that Jackson was the straight one, and Connor was the line-crossing gay guy who wouldn't take no for an answer. And that was more fucked up than anything else.

"If you don't want me, you just have to say so," Connor said. And okay, he sounded a little sulky. He was not used to rejection. Especially not like this. Not when he'd been this close. So close he could practically taste it.

"I am saying it," Jackson said.

"You're not really saying it, though. You said we didn't like each other. You said I was a little shit—which, yes, I totally was, no question about that—and then you also said you don't do this with teammates. Oh, and I was going to ruin my career if we did something in this room nobody but us would know about. But you never once said you weren't attracted to me."

Jackson opened his mouth and then shut it again. Glowered. Like he hadn't expected Connor to call him on his bullshit—and it was bullshit. Because the more time they spent together and the longer this conversation continued, the more Connor believed Tristan was right. Jackson was attracted to him.

This crackling between them, that had started from the first moment they'd met each other, it wasn't just dislike. It wasn't just annoyance. It was sexual chemistry.

It hadn't occurred to Connor right away that was what it was, because he'd never had that with a man before, but the more he thought about it, the more undeniable it felt.

"I . . ." Jackson started and then stopped again.

Connor knew, somehow, that he wanted to lie, but also didn't want to, at the same time.

"Fine. Fine," Jackson ground out. "Sure, you're an attractive guy. Not my type. A total pain in my ass. But yeah, okay, you're hot. Which isn't news, because you know you're hot."

Connor had never heard anyone admit with such extreme reluctance that he was good-looking. Maybe, normally, that would've bothered him.

But Jackson had still admitted it.

Tristan had been right.

And Tristan, that voice inside him teased, wouldn't want you thinking about him, especially during this next part.

Connor took a hesitant step forward and was about to take another, about to head right back into Jackson's space, his heartbeat rabbiting at the thought of what might happen. But before he could, Jackson held up a hand.

"Hold it right there, kid," Jackson said.

"Kid?" Connor couldn't fucking believe this. He was kid again, even after all this?

"I meant it," Jackson said firmly. "I don't hook up with teammates. And even though yeah, you're a massive pain in my ass, kid, I don't want you to fuck this incredible chance up. You've got a future. The last thing you want is to worry you're gonna get your ass kicked every time you walk into a clubhouse."

Connor couldn't believe this—but also, he could.

Naturally, continuing the pattern of Jackson's behavior starting the moment he'd shown up in Raleigh, he was going to make this hard on him.

And not even the fun kind of hard.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously." Jackson paused. "Thanks for the help though. With the . . .uh . . .pain stuff. I feel a lot better."

"Do you?" Connor asked a little bitterly. Because he fucking didn't. He was gonna go to bed alone and obsess over the guy in the bed next to him. He'd have to try to go to sleep with the worst case of blue balls known to man.

"Yeah," Jackson said quietly and then reached out and patted him on the arm. "It's alright, Connor. It'll pass and you know? Maybe it'll be a good learning opportunity to not get your way every time. I promise. You'll feel this way again, and with a guy that's better for you than me."

Connor knew he was trying to be kind. But all he could hear was the lie Jackson was telling himself.