10. Andres
TEN
ANDRES
The energy for home games feels different the second I step into the stadium.
The air isn’t just air. It’s ours. It smells like cut grass, sunscreen, hot dogs, and that specific mix of dust and adrenaline that only exists when you’ve got cleats on and something to prove.
Fans are already filling the stands, a low roar building like the crowd is waking up from a nap and choosing violence in our favor.
San Jose doesn’t boo us like away fans do. No, they cheer for us like they’re personally invested in our survival.
Well, they kind of are invested.
I roll my shoulders, adjust my cap, and glance down the first baseline. Jackson is stretching near the bag, sunlight catching the sweat on his throat. He looks clean and sharp in the uniform, like he was built for this. That pretty boy was made to stand on a baseball diamond and be adored.
He catches me looking and his mouth twitches. He tilts his head in that way that means he’s about to say something that’s going to get me in trouble.
I walk over slowly, like I’m casual, because we aren’t being casual anymore.
That’s the point.
What better place for us to come out than our home field?
The people who matter already know. We had long FaceTime conversations with my parents, my sisters, his sister, and his mom. The only person who still haunts Jackson’s happiness is a man who doesn’t deserve free rent in his head.
Jackson leans in just enough that it looks like we’re talking game.
“You know you’re staring pretty hard over there,” he murmurs.
“I’m scouting,” I answer coolly.
“Scouting what? My ass?”
He does have a phenomenal ass.
Glancing down and taking it in, I sigh. “Among other things.”
His laugh is quiet, almost lost under the noise of warm-ups.
“Dre,” he warns, but it’s not really a warning. It’s more of an invitation.
I step closer and knock the bill of my hat against his, watching the way the motion lands. The way his body loosens, just a fraction, like being seen isn’t the end of the world.
“Ready to kick some ass?” I ask.
Jackson’s eyes flick to the stands, then back to me.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m ready.”
The dugout is chaos in the best way. Guys yelling, shooting the shit, slapping helmets, adjusting gloves, and throwing sunflower seeds like we have an endless supply.
Music thumps faintly from a speaker somebody definitely isn’t allowed to have down here, and Coach pretends he doesn’t hear it because winning cures all sins.
Kai’s leaning against the railing, jaw tight, eyes scanning the crowd like he’s looking for threats.
More like he’s looking for Steve. He’s protective in a way that’s almost feral now.
Isla’s in a suite with security posted nearby, and Kai still looks like he’d bite through steel if someone breathed wrong in her direction.
Gael sits on the bench tying his cleats, calm as ever, like impending fatherhood has turned him into a man who can handle anything as long as he gets eight hours of sleep and someone doesn’t touch his woman.
Brooks and Mike are going back and forth over something, and Sean is shooting off a quick text while the coach's back is turned. And Jackson is right beside me, shoulder-to-shoulder, not trying to create distance.
That alone changes the temperature of the world.
Kai looks over, his eyes sweeping us, and then he smirks like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“Look at you two,” he says, loud enough for half the dugout to hear. “Finally acting like a couple instead of two idiots doing gymnastics around their feelings.”
Jackson flips him off without looking, a grin already on his face. “Mind your business.”
The smile that breaks over Kai’s face is sharp. “You’re literally my business, dude. You’re both my best friends, and now you’re dating. That’s… a business merger.”
“More like a hostile takeover.” Gael snorts.
Brooks leans in, elbows on the bench behind us. “Can I be a shareholder? I demand benefits.”
“Oh my God, will everyone just shut up?” Jackson says, but he’s smiling, and the sound of it makes my chest feel too full.
Kai points at the center of Jackson's chest and says, “No making out in the dugout. If I can’t have my wife in here, you two can’t be pregaming for later.”
Jackson’s ears go pink immediately.
I lean toward him, mouth close to his ear. “Your ears are red.”
“Stop,” he whispers, but he’s laughing.
Brooks makes a dramatic gagging sound. “Disgusting. Romance. In my dugout.”
“Bro… don’t even go there.” Kai’s eyes drift from Brooks to Mike, then back to Brooks. “Really… don’t.”
“You got something to say, Vaughn? Say it.”
Coach barks from the top step, “Less flirting, more focusing.”
Kai calls back, innocent as sin. “We’re always focused, Coach!”
Coach glares and that just makes Kai grin wider.
Jackson looks at me like he can’t believe this is our life, and neither can I. I reach out and hook two fingers under the back of his jersey for one second, and his eyes soften. He steps closer, brushing his shoulder into mine again like he’s learning he’s allowed.
The crowd above us gets louder as the anthem ends and the first inning begins.
Top of the third is when I notice that something is wrong with Jack. Not because he says anything. He doesn’t call time.
Because I know his tells the way I know the seams on a baseball.
Jackson’s movements at first base go slightly off. He’s a fraction too stiff. There’s a half-second delay on a throw, and his jaw locks and unlocks like he’s biting down on something invisible.
At first I tell myself it’s nothing.
Heat.
Adrenaline.
Home crowd energy.
Then he blinks a little too hard, shakes his head once, and I feel my stomach drop. I end up watching him between pitches, my focus splitting even though it shouldn’t.
He adjusts his glove and flexes the fingers of his throwing hand. Watching the way his shoulders rise and fall with a forced breath has my heart rate kicking up.
When the inning ends, Jackson jogs toward the dugout with the rest of us, but his stride is wrong.
“Jack,” I shout, but he doesn’t look at me.
Fuck.
He reaches the dugout and sits hard on the bench, like his legs just gave up on the idea of holding him upright. He leans forward, elbows on knees, and squeezes his eyes shut.
My blood turns to ice and I’m on him immediately. I crouch in front of him, blocking him from the rest of the dugout, like my body can shield him from being seen. From being vulnerable.
“Jackson,” I say, voice tight. “Mírame.”
His lashes flutter and he forces his eyes open for a second. They’re glassy, and his tracking is too slow.
“Dre,” he whispers, and it’s not teasing this time. “I—”
He’s sweating, but it’s when his whole body trembles with a shiver that my throat goes tight.
A sharp little sound that feels like a siren comes from his pump, and I fish it out of his pocket. The number hits me like a punch.
28
“Fuck,” I breathe. “Medic!”
Jackson’s eyes close again like he’s trying to disappear and his body starts to lean.
“No,” I snap, gentling immediately. “No. Stay with me.”
I look up, my eyes scanning the dugout. “We need a fucking medic!”
Coach is already moving, but Kai is faster.
Kai vaults off the top step like a man possessed, grabbing Jackson’s spare medical bag from where it’s stored like he’s done it a thousand times.
“What do you need?” Kai says, voice clipped. “Dre, talk to me.”
My hands are steady even though my mind is screaming. I do what we’ve been trained to do. What we’ve practiced. What I’ve lived through enough times that my body knows the steps even when my heart is trying to claw out of my chest.
“Give me the nasal spray.” Kai pulls it out and tosses it to me.
Jackson makes a weak sound, like he wants to argue, like he wants to pretend he’s fine.
“Shh,” I tell him, pressing my palm to his cheek. “Don’t try to fight me.”
The medic is right there now too, bag open, ready to take over. I administer the medication quickly, following the protocol we’ve been taught and not wasting a second. Jackson flinches, eyes squeezing shut tighter.
I keep my hand on his face.
“Breathe,” I murmur. “Stay with me, mi sol. Stay right here.”
Kai and Gael hover at my shoulder like guard dogs, eyes scanning the dugout, blocking sightlines, ready to bite anyone who stares too hard.
Gael’s telling Coach something I can’t make out over the thumping of my pulse. Probably telling him to pull Jackson and me off the field.
The crowd roars above us, pissed at the delay in the game. I lean closer to Jackson, mouth near his ear, and the Spanish spills out of me like heat.
“?Qué te dije?” I hiss softly, not for the whole dugout to hear, just for him. “Te dije que comieras más antes del juego, cabrón.”
Jackson’s mouth twitches faintly, like even half-conscious, he knows exactly what I’m doing.
Grounding him.
Keeping him here.
“You always do this,” I continue, voice low and furious and terrified all at the same time. “Te haces el fuerte. Te haces el invencible. Y me asustas.”
His lashes flutter, and I watch his chest rise and fall, counting breaths like prayers.
“One,” I whisper. “Two. That’s it. Keep breathing.”
The medic checks his responsiveness, his pulse, his vitals—all of it quick and efficient. Time stretches thin and the game carries on without us. My world narrows to Jackson’s face, to the faint sweat on his brow, to the way his hand curls weakly in his lap.
I hate this.
I hate numbers.
I hate adrenaline.
I hate that his body can give up on him without warning and I can’t force it to behave. But out of all of it, I hate that he has ever learned to ignore the signals because he doesn’t want to be a burden. Because he thinks he has to earn being cared for.
Not with me.
Not ever.
“Come on, baby,” I whisper, stroking the side of his face. “Come back to me.”
Another minute passes, maybe more. Then Jackson swallows and his eyes open.