8. Andres #2
We don’t go out. Not that we couldn’t. The other guys will hit up a bar, laugh too loud, flirt with the locals, and pretend the season isn’t chewing them up. But Jackson is still vibrating from everything today, and I’m not letting him spend his first away game night pretending he’s fine.
So I do what any loving boyfriend would do for his significant other: order DoorDash.
Jackson, butt-ass naked, sprawls across the bed like a cat in human form, scrolling through movie options while I pick food that won’t mess with him too badly.
“You want sushi?” I ask.
“Carbs,” he pleads. “I want carbs. I want bread. I want… those little cinnamon bites you like.”
Chain pizza… Why does he have to be so easy to please?
I smirk. “You mean the ones you steal.”
He grins. “Sharing is caring.”
I order pizza, wings, and the cinnamon bites. I add on some zero-sugar lemon-lime soda and hit submit.
“Okay, ETA is forty-five minutes, so how about a shower?” I smack his right ass cheek and grin as the red handprint blooms across his skin.
“Ouch,” he giggles. “Only if you promise to wash my hair.”
“Deal.”
Let’s be for real: these showers are tiny. Granted, team management probably wasn’t anticipating their over-six-foot first and second basemen to be showering together… but damn.
This is not sexy in the way people imagine showering with your partner to be sexy. It’s just warm water and hands and the intimacy of being allowed to be soft together. Jackson stands under the spray, eyes closed, and I wash his hair like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
He opens his eyes, looking at me through wet lashes. “You’re too good to me,” he sighs, the words somehow softer this time.
I cup his jaw. “Basta. Stop trying to bargain with happiness,” I tell him. “You don’t have to earn me.”
Jackson’s throat bobs and he nods, but it’s small. He’s still learning to believe that he’s lovable, that a future is something we can have with each other.
And I’ll wait however long it takes, say everything a million-plus times, and give him exactly what he needs until he understands it.
After the shower, we eat in bed like degenerates, pizza boxes on the comforter, wings dripping sauce on the flimsy paper plates, and cinnamon bites disappearing fast.
The cinnamon bites taste so good that Jackson moans.
I arch a brow. “Relájate, the food isn’t going anywhere.”
He grins, mouth full and cheeks stuffed to the brim. “Never.”
Doing the responsible thing, I open his pump app on my phone and send him a much-needed bolus. Knowing my luck, the pizza, wings, and sweets will be wreaking havoc on his blood sugar at four in the morning, so I’m just trying to help him and me.
We put on a movie that neither of us cares about, something loud and dumb with a predictable plot, and Jackson slowly melts into me like his body finally understands it’s time to rest. His head on my chest, my arm around his waist, my fingers tracing his vine tattoos on his arm.
At some point his breathing deepens and I look down and find him asleep, face soft, mouth slightly open. I kiss his forehead, adjust our position a little, and hold him closer.
This is what I want.
Not the headlines.
Not the fans.
Just this quiet.
Just him.
After a three-game series, the flight back to San Jose is rough.
We hit a big patch of turbulence over Colorado, and Jackson’s stomach does that unhappy flip-flop thing the entire time.
He tries to joke through it, tries to play tough, but I can see the tension in his shoulders and the way his jaw locks.
Two diet ginger ales later, he’s got the armrest up and is curled into my side.
When we finally land in SJ, he looks like he survived a war.
I kiss the side of his head and whisper, “We’re home, baby.”
He exhales. “Never leaving the ground again.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “About that… you kind of play professional baseball and flying is like a requirement, mi sol.”
He flips me off weakly.
I love him so much it feels dangerous.
Days off mean no practice or meetings. No film reviews or workouts… just hanging out.
It means the boys get to breathe.
We end up at a spot in San Jose that Kai likes because the portions are massive and the staff doesn’t treat us like zoo animals. Patio seating. The weather is cooperating, and the chef is fantastic about subbing things for Jackson.
Kai shows up wearing soon-to-be-dad energy like a crown, phone on the table face-up because Isla is pregnant and he’s one of those men who actually listens when his wife says, Be available.
Gael rolls in ten minutes later, still looking half-asleep and half-in love, which is the most annoying kind of happy.
Though I can’t fucking talk, whenever I look at Jack, my mouth instinctively curls into a grin. He sits beside me, thigh pressed to mine under the table. His smile is the brightest today, and I am living for it.
I watch him eat like I’m greedy.
Kai starts talking about baby names like he’s naming a whole franchise. Gael talks about Adriana craving pickles with hot sauce and how he almost fainted in the grocery store when he saw the total after she sent him for “snacks.”
Jackson laughs, and then his pump vibrates. His watch shows his CGM numbers in the corner and I can see the 85 with the arrow trending down. I catch the tiny flinch in his hip. The way his hand almost goes to his pocket… and then doesn’t.
He keeps talking.
Keeps laughing.
Ignoring it completely.
This fucking man.
I don’t say anything at first, giving him a chance to take care of himself. Because he’s grown and capable, and I’m not his father.
But I’m also not going to let him act like he doesn’t matter.
I reach under the table and splay my hand over his exposed thigh. Jackson’s cheeks flush as I tap by his knee twice. He pauses mid-sentence, eyes slowly meeting mine.
I raise my brow. “Food,” I mouth. One singular word from my lips, and I watch his brain stutter.
Jackson looks down at his plate, spears a piece of pineapple with his fork, brings it to his mouth, and eats it slowly. Then he looks back at me, waiting.
“That’s my good boy,” I murmur, and I squeeze his thigh firmly.
“Dudes.” Kai clears his throat, and Jackson and I both look at him.
Kai’s eyes are wide, like he’s witnessing a crime.
“We’re in public,” he whispers, motioning around us.
“What?” I smirk because I can’t help it. “I’m making sure he eats. I’ve gotta make sure he doesn’t pass out on me. Well, at least not until later.”
Gael chokes on his water so violently he starts coughing. Kai smacks his back, still staring at me like I’m the devil.
“Jesus Christ, Andres!” Gael wheezes.
Jackson is bright red now, but he’s smiling. He leans closer to me, his shoulder bumping mine.
“I hate you sometimes,” he murmurs.
I tilt my head and scrunch up my face. “No. Tú me amas, aunque no lo quieras admitir.”
He rolls his eyes, then quietly checks his CGM like he thinks I can’t see it.
I can.
I see the number 72, and the arrow is shifting down.
And I see him take another bite, bigger this time. Then another.
Good.
Kai shakes his head, muttering, “I swear to God, I’m never inviting you two anywhere again.”
“Liar,” Jackson says, grinning. “You wouldn’t do that.”
Gael laughs, finally recovering, and lifts his glass.
“To the Coyotes,” he says. “To winning. To babies. And to… whatever the hell you two are doing.”
Jackson’s hand finds mine under the table, fingers weaving with mine like he doesn’t care who sees.
I squeeze once.
“We’re doing us—”
“More like each other. Just exclusively now.” Jackson cuts in, and Gael laughs so hard water comes out his nose.