10. Andres #2
He looks straight at me, and they’re clearer now. Still tired-looking, but present. Relief hits me so hard it makes my vision blur with tears.
“You’re okay,” I say immediately, voice shaking. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Jackson exhales. “I… I’m sorry.”
I want to yell.
I want to kiss him.
I want to pick him up and carry him somewhere safe and never let him step onto a field again. Instead, I keep my voice steady, because steady is what he needs.
“Don’t apologize,” I tell him.
His gaze drops and I tilt his chin up gently.
“You need to eat more before games,” I order, because sometimes my love looks like commands when fear is in the room.
Jackson nods; it’s small but I’ll take it.
The medic is already ripping open something from the bag, face hard with concern. “Here,” he says, handing over a glucose gel packet. “Once you get this down, we’ll get you off the field.”
Jackson takes it with clumsy fingers and I watch him suck it down. I watch the world keep moving around us, and I don’t care about any of it except the fact that he’s breathing and chewing and staying with me.
Coach crouches near us, voice controlled. “He coming out of it?”
The medic answers before I can. “Yeah, but we’re going to be monitoring him.”
I nod once, sharply. “I’ll be with him.”
Jackson starts to protest weakly. “Dre—”
“No,” I say, with absolute certainty. “I stay with you.”
His eyes soften in that way that breaks me; all he can do is nod again.
The medical staff moves him to the training room afterward, away from the bench, the dugout, and prying eyes.
I walk with him the whole way. When the door closes and it’s just us and the medic, I finally let myself breathe a little deeper.
Jackson sits on the table, shoulders slumped, face pale.
I step between his knees and place my hands on either side of his thighs, and he looks up at me.
“I didn’t want to…” His voice cracks. “I didn’t want to make a thing of it. Not today.”
God, what the fuck am I going to do with him?
“Mi sol,” I say softly, “you are the thing. You’re the only thing that matters.”
His eyes go glossy and I cup his jaw, not caring that the medic is right there.
“And we’re not holding back anymore,” I add, in a much softer voice. “Remember? Not about us. Not about you needing help. Not about anything.”
Jackson swallows, leaning into my chest, allowing me to wrap my arms around him.
“I’m scared,” he admits, barely audible.
My chin rests on the top of his head. “I know,” I whisper. “But we’ve got a whole bunch of people on our side. Our friends. Most of our family. Each other.”
Outside the room, the stadium roars and the game goes on. But in here, in this small bright training room, my whole world is in front of me, breathing, alive, and stubborn as hell. And I swear on everything holy and unholy that I’m going to keep him that way.
Even if I have to drag him into safety by the collar of his jersey.
Even if I have to curse him in Spanish until he laughs again.
I’m done letting him pretend he doesn’t deserve to be taken care of.
Not when he’s mine.
Not when I’m his.
The press room always feels like you’re on a different planet. Same stadium. Same air. But here, it’s all fluorescent light and manufactured calm, with cameras staring like hungry eyes and microphones lined up like little weapons on the table.
I sit down, adjust the brim of my cap, and fold my hands in front of me.
I’m still keyed up from watching the love of my life’s blood sugar try to take him from me, but he’s stable now.
The medic cleared him to go home with monitoring.
He’s with Kai and Gael in the training room, eating and being stubborn.
So I’m here.
Because PR asked if I would answer some questions.
The media loves a hero moment.
And I know the questions are coming either way, and I’d rather be the one holding the bat when they throw the pitch.
The first question is about the away game and how we played. The second question is about Kai’s home run. And the third question is about our bullpen. I answer them professionally. Coach jumps in to speak with a little edge, but that’s nothing new.
Then the room shifts and I feel it before the question even lands.
The way the reporters lean forward, the way their eyes brighten like they're about to get the biggest chisme they’ve ever heard.
A woman in the second row raises her hand, and she has the kind of smile that looks polite, but you just know it isn’t.
“Andres,” she says, voice sweet. “There’s been a lot of chatter online about you and Jackson Baker. Can you confirm if you’re just really good friends or maybe… together?”
Everything goes quiet and the PR guy to my left stills like he’s trying to disappear into his chair.
Showtime.
I think about Jackson’s laugh in the dugout, about his ears going red. About him staring at the field like he’s trying to convince himself he’s allowed to be happy under stadium lights.
Then I think about his blood sugar dropping so low it scared the color out of my world. About how small he looked for a second. About how quickly he came back when I told him to stay with me.
I look straight at the reporter.
“Jackson is my best friend—” The room begins to chatter, so I clear my throat and finish. “But more than that, he’s my boyfriend.”
The word boyfriend lands hard, leaving no room for interpretation. A ripple moves through the room, a soft sound of surprise that turns into scribbling and camera shutters. The reporter’s eyebrows lift, like she didn’t expect the answer to be that easy.
Another hand shoots up immediately.
“Don’t you think that could be a distraction?” a man asks, already phrasing it like a problem. “Teammates dating each other?”
“No,” I say flatly. “We’re professional athletes and we can handle our jobs.”
I pause, then add, because I’m done swallowing things to make other people comfortable. “The only distraction would be people making it weird. We’re here to play baseball, and people really shouldn’t care who players are dating.”
Someone else tries to jump in. “Was Jackson’s medical situation today connected to—”
I cut that off before it turns into a spectacle.
“Jackson’s health is his business,” I say, voice calm but sharp. “He’s stable. He’s safe. That’s all you need to know.”
The PR guy exhales and gives me a thumbs-up.
The reporter from earlier tries again, softer now. “When did your relationship begin?”
I lean back slightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough for them to feel it.
“Not every detail of our lives is for public consumption,” I say. “But I’ll tell you this: I’m proud of him. I’m proud to be with him, and we aren’t hiding anymore.”
That last part isn’t for them.
It’s for Jackson.
It’s for the kid he used to be, who learned love was something you paid for with pain. It’s for the man he is now, who deserves a partner that says yes without flinching. I stand when the questions start to overlap because I’m not giving them more than they deserve.
“That’s all,” I say, and the PR guy steps in to end it.
As I walk out, the room behind me buzzes like a hive.
They all can fuck themselves if they have a problem with us, because I’m going to the only place that matters.
Back to him.
By the time we get home, the adrenaline has finally started to rot.
That’s what it feels like in my body, anyway.
The fear from earlier is turning sour now that Jackson is safe enough to crash for the night.
He’s quiet in the elevator, quiet in the hall, and when we step into the apartment, he kicks his shoes off like they weigh a hundred pounds.
The second I turn around from putting our bags in the closet, the TV is on, and Jackson is on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, knees bent. Kai must’ve texted him the clip because Jackson doesn’t even have to search. He just hits play with a thumb that looks a little unsteady.
My face fills the screen.
The press room. The cameras. The question.
Jackson’s eyes stay glued to it like he’s bracing for impact, even though he already knows what I said. Even though I told him the second I walked into the training room.
Still, hearing it out loud is different.
He’s my boyfriend.
The word comes out of the speakers and into our living room like it’s a match thrown onto gasoline. Jackson’s breath catches. On the screen, I keep talking. I say I’m proud. I say we’re done hiding.
Jackson swallows hard and doesn’t look at me. For a second, I think maybe I fucked up by telling the world, but he keeps watching the video like he’s afraid if he turns his head, it’ll disappear.
When the clip ends, he replays it immediately.
“Jack,” I murmur, crossing the room and standing at the armrest.
On the third replay, I sit down next to him and slide my arm around his shoulders, pulling him into my side. Jackson folds into me without resistance, forehead pressing against my neck.
His voice is small when it comes. “You said it so… easy.”
“It is easy,” I tell him, kissing the top of his head. “Loving you is easy.”
He makes a sound that could be a laugh if it weren't edged with emotion.
“Well, my dad's going to know now,” he whispers.
“I know,” I say. “But we’ve got each other… and if I have to, I will be more than happy to put your father in his place.”
Jackson’s fingers curl into my shirt and my hand drifts down his arm, feeling for the CGM patch like it’s my own lifeline too.
“Have you checked it again?” I ask.
He nods and lifts his wrist. “One-eighty. Steady.”
Steady.
“Okay, I can handle that,” I murmur. “Now we shower.”
Jackson groans. “I’m too tired to shower right now.”
“Not a request,” I say, and I can’t help the smirk that slips out. “You smell like dirt, salt, and that sickly-sweet smell you get when you’re low.”
He huffs. “Rude.”
“Come on, let me wash you.” I tug him up off the couch.
After I unhook him from his pump and leave it in the bedroom, the shower is warm and quiet. Jackson is standing under the spray with his head tilted back, eyes closed, letting the water run over his face. I wash him gently, hands tracing every inch of his body.
Jackson opens his eyes and looks at me through wet lashes. “You were scared,” he says softly.
“Terrified,” I admit, because I’m done lying to make things lighter.
“I’m sorry.”
I cup his face, water running over my hands.
“No,” I say. “No more apologizing for being human.”
He leans into my palm. “I didn’t eat enough,” he admits, his voice quiet. “I was… anxious. About today. About us being… seen… I guess.”
My chest tightens and I press my forehead to his.
“Mi sol,” I whisper, “I will always see you.”
His breath shudders. “And now that the world sees us too,” I add, “the world is just going to have to deal with two sexy motherfuckers who love each other.”
Jackson’s lips twitch. “I mean… you’re the sexy one.”
“Let’s not start this.” I raise a brow. “You are equally, if not more, sexy than I am.”
Then he kisses me slowly, a thank you he doesn’t have words for. I kiss him back and hold him there until his body stops trembling. “You’re it for me, Jack. Nothing is ever going to change that.”
Afterward, I feed him not because he can’t do it himself, but because I know what his crashes look like. When the body finally realizes it was in danger and decides to punish him with exhaustion.
Jackson sits at the kitchen counter in sweatpants and an old Coyotes tee, his hair still damp, his cheeks still pink from the heat of the water. I set a plate in front of him. It’s nothing fancy, just some chicken and potatoes with grilled veggies that I prepped before the game.
He eyes it like I’m offering him vegetables at gunpoint.
“Dre,” he complains.
“Eat,” I say, voice all command and no patience.
He rolls his eyes, but he picks up his fork and takes a bite. Then another. Halfway through, his shoulders drop. His breathing evens out. The tension starts to bleed away.
“You’re hovering,” he mutters. “I do know how to consume calories without an anxious boyfriend watching over me.”
My brat has returned.
“I’m supervising,” I correct, stealing a piece of squash from his plate.
He snorts. “Micromanaging.”
“If I remember correctly,” I say, leaning in to kiss his temple, “you like when I micromanage you.”
Jackson’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, and his smirk makes my stomach flutter.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I do.”