7. Jackson
SEVEN
JACKSON
The airport smells like cinnamon pretzels, burnt coffee, and commercial-grade disinfectant—the kind that makes you feel like you should be wearing gloves because you know this place is teeming with germs. The team moves like a pack, duffels rolling behind us, hats pulled low, earbuds in, and that familiar mix of tired and wired clinging to everyone’s shoulders.
First away game of the season.
A hotel. A new crowd that’s going to boo my name like they pay rent with it. And there's a new layer of pressure sitting right under my ribs—because this is the first trip where I’m not just traveling with my best friend.
I’m traveling with my boyfriend.
That word still tastes unreal in my mouth. Like I stole it from someone else’s life, and I’m waiting for an ump to call me out and tell me to give it back.
Andres walks at my side, close enough that our shoulders brush every now and then, not touching me like he wants to, but not not touching me either.
His chain glints when the fluorescent airport lights catch it.
The Saint Andrew pendant swings against his chest every time he shifts his duffel higher on his shoulder.
Dre looks calm. Like he’s just here to play baseball and win.
I know him better.
He’s watching me out of the corner of his eye, tracking my movements like I’m a flight risk.
Like I’m a bomb with a pretty face and blood sugar that likes to fuck up everybody’s plans.
My pump hums against my hip, the tubing tucked under my shirt.
My CGM patch sits on the back of my arm, a tiny piece of plastic that controls half my life.
I pretend not to notice his worry, and he pretends not to be worried.
We’re both terrible liars.
“Boarding group two,” the gate agent calls, voice sharp through the speaker.
Gael is in front of us, talking to Mike like they’re in the middle of an argument that started three days ago and never ended. Brooks is behind us, wearing sunglasses indoors like a criminal, and Kai is… Kai. Loud, grinning, and still on the phone with his very pregnant stepsister.
Well… now she’s his wife.
“How are you feeling?” Andres murmurs, low enough that nobody else hears.
I take a slow breath through my nose. My body feels fine. My head feels… not fine.
“I’m good,” I say, because the last thing I want is him worrying.
Andres's fingers tap my wrist once. Twice. Three times.
Our new little code.
As if to say, I'm here. I’ve got you. Don’t make me tackle you in public, pretty boy.
“Your good has layers,” he says, voice dry.
“It’s a dip,” I mutter.
He huffs a quiet laugh, and the sound hits me in the chest in a way that makes me want to do something stupid and sweet and wildly inappropriate in an airport full of strangers.
Pretty sure the PR team would hate me if I did.
I’m trying to be normal.
I’m failing, but I’m trying.
We step onto the plane, and the aisle feels too narrow, too crowded, and too intimate for how badly I want to turn my head and kiss him. Not a quick peck. Not a friendly little “bro” thing.
A real kiss.
The kind that says mine in a language no one can pretend they don’t understand.
We’re assigned across the aisle from each other because the universe hates romance and loves inconvenience. Andres stows his bag overhead, then glances down at me like I’m a problem he’s delighted to solve.
Leaning in, close enough that I smell his cologne, warm and clean and familiar.
“I’m right here, mi sol,” he whispers.
“I know.” The words come out choked. I hate flying, and having him next to me keeps me calm, and now I won’t be able to hold his hand.
“Your blood sugar.” He tries to change the subject. “When we take off, sometimes you drop.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll let you know if I feel off.”
Dre’s mouth twitches. “Good boy.”
My stomach flips so hard I swear it tries to relocate. I sit down before my face can betray me. Buckle in and pull my cap lower. Pretend I’m not getting wrecked by two words. Across the aisle, Andres sits, long legs braced, phone already in his hand like he’s preparing for war.
I stare straight ahead as the plane starts to taxi, my heart doing that annoying thing where it acts like I’m about to confess a crime instead of flying to play a game I’ve played since I was a kid.
We aren’t hiding our relationship anymore. Not from the team. Not from cameras. Not after the game.
My dad’s voice tries to crawl up the back of my skull like a roach.
I swallow it down.
Hard.
I will not let him steal this from me.
The plane lifts, my stomach floats, and my pump vibrates once like it’s also nervous.
I check my watch: 112 with a steady arrow.
Decent.
“Just try to relax, hermoso. In a little bit, we’ll get you a diet ginger ale and it’ll make the queasiness go away.”
The way this man can read my body is crazy.
“I’ll try.” Tilting my head to the side so I can give him a smirk. “No promises, though.”
By the time we land, the city outside the windows looks nothing like home.
Gone are the tall buildings, and even the air feels different.
We file off the plane, all of us in our matching team gear, and I catch the eyes of a few people in the terminal.
Some recognize us. Some don’t. A kid who can’t be older than six points and whispers to his mom, who lifts her phone like she wants a photo.
That part isn’t new.
What’s new is the way my brain immediately calculates angles.
Where are the cameras?
Where’s the nearest person who might see something and assume something and turn it into a headline?
Andres steps closer, shoulder brushing mine on purpose this time. It’s not him holding my hand like I know we both want. Or a kiss to calm my nerves. Just a quiet claim.
It steadies me anyway.
“Bus is outside,” Coach calls, waving us along.
The team piles in, duffels in the undercarriage, bodies filling the seats.
I slide into a window spot halfway back.
Andres takes the seat beside me, finally taking my hand in his.
“You did good on the plane. Don’t worry though, I’ve already decided that when we fly back, I’ll bribe whoever has the seat next to you so we can sit together. ”
Kai sits across the aisle, feet stretched out, grin sharp.
“Look at you two,” he says. “All domestic and shit. It’s about fucking time you guys just—”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
Andres doesn’t even flinch. He just settles in, knee pressing lightly against mine, and pulls out his water bottle. Brooks leans over the seat behind us, sunglasses still on like he’s afraid of daylight.
“You guys gonna start making out?” he teases. “I’m sure we can make a makeshift curtain out of our jackets so you have some privacy.”
I flip him off without turning around.
“Aw,” he coos. “He’s blushing. That’s adorable.”
“I’m not blushing.”
“Your ears are literally red, bro.”
I press a hand to my ear like it’s going to hide the color I’m sure is blooming.
Andres laughs quietly. Then, under the noise of the bus and the team chatter, he leans in and murmurs against my ear, “Your ears are red, mi sol.”
“Don’t,” I whisper, fighting the smile and losing.
“Qué bonito te ves cuando te pones rojo, mi sol. Más cuando yo soy el que te hace sonrojar,” he says, like that’s a normal thing to say to a man in a bus full of teammates.
My throat tightens and I stare out the window and pretend the passing streets are suddenly the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen.
Hotel check-in is chaos. Key cards. Coaching staff shouting. Players arguing about who snores and who talks in their sleep and who steals pillows.
Andres and I get assigned a room together.
Coach doesn’t even blink when he hands us the key card. My brain does some quick overthinking, per usual. It’s a small moment that hits like a fastball to the chest. There are no comments. No jokes.
No “Are you sure?” or “Keep it professional.”
Just a key card, like this is normal.
Like we’re just Andres and Jackson. The first and second basemen.
I follow Dre to the elevator with my shoulders tight and my heart beating loud in my ear—it’s only when the doors slide shut that the world is silenced. It’s just us and the hum of the elevator and the faint scent of his cologne surrounding me. It’s the perfect combination of leather and spice.
Andres glances over at me. “You okay?” he asks again, like it’s his favorite question.
I nod, but it’s the kind of nod that doesn’t convince anyone. He reaches out and hooks a finger under my chin, gently.
“Talk to me, baby,” he says.
My brain stutters a little at the contact. “It’s just… I keep waiting for someone to make it weird.”
His eyes soften. “If someone makes it weird, I’ll handle it. But everyone that matters to us has known for a long time that we’ve always been… us. Now that they know it’s only going to be us from now on, it’s not going to be a big thing.”
“I know,” I swallow. “What scares me is… everyone else.”
His brow furrows. “Why would that scare you?”
“Because you’ll burn the whole world down,” I admit, my voice low. “And I’ll feel guilty about it, even if they deserve it.”
Andres's thumb brushes once over my jaw.
“Jack,” he says, quiet and deadly sincere, “if someone tries to shame you for loving me, that’s not your guilt to carry.”
Every part of me knows he means my dad. Because I mean my dad.
The elevator dings and the doors creep open. We step into the hallway, and the spell breaks, but his words stay lodged in me like a promise.
Our room smells like standard hotel detergent and cold air conditioning. Two beds, because of course. A desk. A TV. Heavy curtains. A little safe that nobody ever uses. Andres tosses his bag onto one bed, then looks at the other like it has no purpose in being here.
I shut the door behind us and for one glorious second, it’s just silence.
Then Andres crosses the room in three strides and grabs me by the front of my hoodie, pulling me in. It’s not rough, but it’s urgent in the I need your mouth on mine kind of way.