7. Jackson #2
His lips find mine, and I forget how to be a baseball player. Forget how to be a person. Forget how to be anything but the thing he’s holding together with his hands and his breath.
The kiss is short, but it’s not polite.
A reminder that I’m his and he is mine.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“You’re doing good,” he murmurs.
I laugh once, breathless. “At what? Not combusting in public?”
“At letting yourself have this,” he says. “We deserve this, Jack.”
My chest aches and I swallow around it and force a joke because feelings are scary and I am, at my core, a coward.
“So… which bed are we pretending is yours?”
Andres's mouth twitches. “Neither,” he says, nodding toward the bed that doesn’t have his duffel on it, like it’s obvious. “We’re sleeping together.”
My stomach flips again. “What if someone—”
“Let. Them.” He cuts in. Then in a much softer voice, “We’re not doing this halfway anymore.”
Andres steps back, reaches into his bag, and tosses me a granola bar.
“Eat,” he orders.
Catching it before it can shoot past me, I give him a look. “I’m not low.”
“I know,” he says. “But I know you’re stressed, and you tend to get dramatic, and then your body gets petty.”
“I do not get dramatic.”
Andres raises an eyebrow, so I unwrap the granola bar and take a bite, because he’s right and I hate that he’s right.
He pulls out his toiletries bag, sets it in the bathroom like a man who’s done this a hundred times, then comes back and sits on the edge of the bed.
“Okay, so let’s talk schedule,” he says, pulling out his phone all businesslike. “Meals. Pre-game. Warmup. Making sure your numbers are in range.”
I lean against the wall and sigh. “You’re so hot when you micromanage me.”
Andres's eyes flick up to mine. Dark and warm with just the right edge of dangerous.
“Careful, pretty boy,” he says, his voice low. “I’ll micromanage you into this mattress.”
I choke on the granola bar.
“Dre.”
He just winks.
Gorgeous bastard.
I finish eating, chuck the wrapper in the trash can, and then check my CGM again.
124 steady.
Good, my body is fine. I bolus and start to unpack my own stuff. It’s about to be a very long day.
The field is louder than I expect. Not because the stadium is huge or the crowd is bigger than ours. It’s loud because away games are always personal. The home team’s fans treat you like you’re the villain in a movie and they’ve paid good money to see you fail.
We jog out for warmups, cleats biting into dirt that isn’t ours.
The air smells like grass and hot dogs and that sharp rubbery scent from the warning track.
I take my cap off, wipe sweat from my forehead, and immediately feel eyes on me.
I glance toward the stands and catch a cluster of people near the third-base line with their phones already out.
Andres is beside me, stretching his shoulders, jaw set. He must feel my unease because his eyes follow my gaze, then look back at me.
“Why are they taking pictures of us warming up?” I ask.
Tossing me a ball so we can play catch. “I mean… have you seen your ass in those pants, hermoso? I’d be taking pics of you too.”
I swallow the rest of the question and focus on the routine.
Throw. Catch. Stretch. Breathe.
Stop living inside your head, Jack. Everything is fine.
It doesn’t take long for fans to file in and fill the seats. A guy near the rail shouts something. I can’t make out all of it, but I catch just enough to make my shoulders tense.
“…The Coyotes are a bunch of dick-sucking pussies.” It’s loud enough to punch me right in the throat. My hands go cold.
Andres stiffens so fast it’s like someone pulled a string in his spine. He turns, eyes narrowing toward the man, and I know that look. That look is violence wrapped in a PR-friendly package.
I step in front of him without thinking, like my body moves on instinct.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
Andres's gaze snaps to mine.
“Mi sol,” he says, voice tight. “He—”
“I know.” My throat burns. “Just… don’t. Not here. Not like that.”
Andres's throwing hand curls into a fist at his side. I reach out and hook a finger into the side of his glove, grounding him the way he grounds me.
“Focus on the game,” I whisper, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Let’s win and show that asshole we’re winners who suck dick.”
His eyes soften, just a fraction, and he nods once. “Okay,” he breathes.
Sometimes my protector needs me to protect him. Well, more like prevent him from jail time and a PR nightmare.
Kai jogs over, eyebrows up. “Everything good?”
Andres's expression goes blank. “Fine.”
Kai looks at me and I give him a tight smile that isn’t a smile. His jaw shifts, like he understands without being told.
“Cool, cool,” Kai says, too casual. “So I’m gonna go ruin their pitcher’s self-esteem.”
We both snort and I smack him with my glove. “How the fuck does your wife put up with you?”
The look that’s plastered on his face says it all. “My tongue and dick do a lot of convincing.” He hits the bill of my hat and then jogs off.
Brooks appears at the edge of our bubble, eyes sharp behind those stupid sunglasses. He glances toward the stands, then back to us.
“Need anything?” he asks, voice low.
Andres's mouth tightens and I shake my head. “We’re good.”
Fuck, why is everyone so observant all of a sudden?
Brooks nods slowly, then says, “Look, just know… none of us give a shit about you guys being together. You’re our brothers and we love you for who you are. Plus, we all knew it was going to happen. Fuck everyone else. Let’s go out there and make their team lose so hard that they cry.”
Then he walks away like he didn’t just offer felony-level loyalty.
Bottom of the first inning.
First base is my home, glove ready, body loose, brain locked in.
Ball. Batter. Pitch.
Crack.
The ball rockets down the line, and I move without thinking, scoop it, step on the bag, and hear the ump call, “Out!” The crowd groans. I don’t look at them. I look over at second base to find Andres watching me like I’m the only thing on the field.
Breathe.
We’ve got this.
The second inning passes. Third, then the fourth, settling into the rhythm. The game becomes the game. My muscles remember what to do and my mind stops spiraling and focuses on what’s in front of me.
At the bottom of the fifth, I feel my pump vibrate. I pull it out of my pocket while Brooks sets up his pitch.
78 with a down arrow.
Of course. A low during our first away game. Between the flight, the game, the heat, and the stress, my body decides now is the time to be petty. I signal time, subtly, and jog to the dugout like I’m just grabbing water.
Andres's eyes follow me immediately.
“Jack, what’s your number?” he shouts, moving closer to first base.
“Gonzalez!” Coach shouts. “Back to second. Medical’s got this.”
The team medic is already waiting for me, pulling a glucose gel from his bag. I take it, rip it open with my teeth, and squeeze all of it into my mouth.
It tastes like berries and desperation.
Andres is on the field, watching me swallow. I toss the medic the empty packet and run back to first base.
“Give me a heads-up next time.” He taps my butt with his gloved hand and heads back to second base.
This fucking man.
I know for a fucking fact that if I were to tell him during the game, he would stop everything and run to personally grab my low treatment.
By the seventh-inning stretch, my blood sugar is back up, my hands are steady, and the game is still tight. The crowd is loud, but it’s the normal loud now. No more cheap shots from fans. Or at least none that I can hear.
Maybe someone told them to shut up.
Either way, the air feels a little lighter and I’m ready to end this game.
In the top of the ninth, we’re down by one and Coach calls a quick huddle. We’re sweaty, dirty, and breathing hard, and the whole world narrows to this one moment.
Andres looks at me across the circle; his eyes are steady.
Just a quiet, we’ve-got-this between us.
“Get me this win, boys. I need you to get out there and make every swing count. I don’t want to leave St. Louis without that W.”
We go back out and Gael sends one deep into left field and makes it to third. Two pitches later, I get on base, and Gael crosses home to tie the game.
Then Kai hits a monster of a home run, bringing both of us home. We shift to the bottom of the ninth, and their first baseman steps up to bat. It’s 5—3, and we need Brooks to keep throwing heat so we can bag this win.
When the final out is called, the Coyotes explode out of the dugout like they’re escaping a cage. I find Andres in the chaos like my body knows where he is before my eyes do. He grabs me around the waist and lifts me just enough that my cleats leave the dirt.
“Dre,” I laugh, breathless and he sets me down, hands still on me, eyes locked on mine.
For one second, the noise from our team and the stadium fades. The lights blur, and the whole world becomes his face. His smile and the way his eyes almost shine when he looks at me. Andres opens his mouth like he’s going to say something.
Maybe I love you.
Maybe I’m proud of you.
Instead, he just leans in and presses his forehead to mine, quick, subtle, and hidden by the chaos. A touch that could be nothing to anyone else.
A touch that is everything to me.
I close my eyes, breathe him in, and for the first time all day… my chest unclenches. This may be an away game, in a different city, with a different crowd that doesn’t give a shit about knowing us as people. But this right here…
It's the same love it’s always been.
Him and I.
I’m starting to really believe we’re allowed to be out and happy.