Chapter 12
TWELVE
JACKSON
The endocrinology clinic smells like hand sanitizer and recirculated air.
It’s always like someone tried to make medicine feel comforting and failed.
The chairs in the waiting room are too firm, the walls are too beige, and every poster is screaming some version of YOU ARE IN CONTROL OF YOUR DIABETES in bright, cheerful fonts.
I’m trying not to spiral.
I’m failing, but I’m trying.
My leg bounces as I stare at my phone, scrolling through endless feeds for digital escapism. Andres is in a training session across town, which means I walked in here alone, checked in alone, and sat down alone like an adult.
Which should feel good.
It does, kind of.
It also feels like standing on a cliff edge without my favorite hand to hold.
My CGM is steady. 142. Arrow flat.
My heart is not.
A nurse calls my name. “Jackson?”
I stand too fast and immediately regret it when the room tilts, that post-low hangover feeling still clinging to me even though it’s been days.
“Yep,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She smiles like she’s seen twenty people today who also look like they’d rather be anywhere else.
“Come on back.”
We go through the same routine I’ve been through every three to four months since I was thirteen years old.
Height. Weight. The tightness of the blood pressure cuff on my arm and the endless clicking of the mouse as the CNA goes over my medication list with me.
In the next little room, which is really no bigger than a closet, she pricks my finger for the A1C test. Still, to this day, I get nervous about the number.
Too high and you get the talking-to.
If it’s in range, you get praised.
The exam room is cold, with paper on the table that crackles when I sit down.
“Any recent severe lows or highs?” she asks, and her tone stays neutral as she looks at the computer screen.
My stomach twists.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Two lows. One after a night out and one at a game.”
Her eyebrows lift just slightly. Not judgment. Just note-taking.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll make a note and you and the doc can talk about that.”
She leaves, and I’m alone again with my thoughts and the hum of the air vent. My fingers curl around the edge of the paper sheet. I hate feeling like my body is a problem I’m constantly solving.
I hate that I can do everything right and still get punished.
And I hate, most of all, how much a few days ago scared Andres.
My phone buzzes.
Andres
Almost there. Don’t run away.
I snort despite myself.
Jackson
Too late. I’m living in Canada now.
Andres
I’ll find you. Knowing you, you’ll have befriended a moose and then we’ll have to figure out how to bring that thing back to San Jose with us.
He’s not wrong. A moose would be awesome.
I set my phone down and stare at the door like I can summon calm by force. The knock comes, then the door opens.
Dr. Pedersen walks in with her usual smile and calm demeanor. “Jackson! It’s good to see you.”
I nod. “Hi.”
She starts with all the standard questions, the ones I’ve answered a hundred times over the years, and I answer them with ease. I try to keep it simple until she asks the one that makes my throat tighten.
“How have your lows been?” she says gently.
I swallow. “They’ve been… more frequent. Especially during games. And after flights. And after a night out, I forgot to suspend my insulin when I went drinking.”
“Gotcha.” She nods like that fits a pattern. “Tell me about the severe one.”
I glance at the floor and the memory flashes: the dugout bench, my eyes closing and not opening back up, Andres's voice cutting through the fuzz, the nasal glucose.
“Twenty-eight,” I say quietly.
Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes sharpen. “That’s very serious.”
“I know.”
“Were you aware you were dropping?” she asks.
My stomach twists harder.
“I felt my pump alert,” I admit. “I… ignored it. Then my vision started to get blurry and my hands went numb.”
Dr. Pedersen doesn’t react with shock or disapproval. She just types away on the computer, making notes.
“Why’d you ignore the alert?” she asks softly.
And that’s the part that kills me. The softness. The lack of judgment. The way it makes the truth feel more exposed. I swallow. “Because I didn’t want to be a distraction. We were at home and there was the crowd. Cameras. And…” My voice cracks a little. “And I’m trying not to be a problem.”
She looks up. Her gaze holds mine. “Jackson, you are not a problem. You’re a person with a chronic illness that requires constant adjustments. That’s not a moral failing.”
My throat burns.
She keeps going, practical now. “Your needs shift with stress, travel, adrenaline, temperature, and activity level. Sports especially. We can tweak your basal settings, your correction factors, and your pre-game routine so you’re not playing on a knife’s edge.”
I nod, grateful for something I can control.
She asks me about food timing, about what I eat before games, how much, what kind of carbs, what my warm-up looks like, and how often I check during games.
I answer, and I hate how the answers make me sound careless, even though I’m not. I’m just… tired. Tired of thinking about it constantly.
Tired of being the guy who has to plan eating like it’s a strategy meeting.
Then there’s a knock on the door, and it opens. Andres walks in with the nurse from earlier, slightly out of breath and looking a little sweaty in his athletic shorts and compression shirt.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “My training session ran over and I practically ran here from the parking lot.”
He doesn’t even glance at Dr. Pedersen. His eyes go straight to me before he leans in and presses a quick kiss to my lips. The look he gives says so much.
Are you okay? Are you safe? Did you eat? Are they being good to you?
All of that in one look.
I roll my eyes. “You’re so sweaty.”
Andres smiles, relief flickering. Then he pulls a notebook out of his duffel like a man coming to court. He hops up on the exam bed, flips it open, clicks a pen, and looks at Dr. Pedersen with the most polite, terrifying expression I’ve ever seen.
“Hey, doc,” he says. “Good to see you.”
Dr. Pedersen nods warmly. “Glad you could make it, Dre. Jackson and I were just getting all the boring parts out of the way.”
Andres looks back at his notebook. “Okay. So. Questions.”
“Dre—” I groan.
He ignores me completely. “What changes can we make so he’s not having lows in-game?
What should his pre-game carb intake be?
Do we need to adjust basal rates on game days?
What about travel days? What about after a low like twenty-eight?
What's the recommended plan for the next twenty-four hours? Because he tried to act like he could go back in, and I almost lost my mind.”
The nurse’s mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. Dr. Pedersen doesn’t look annoyed. She looks pleased, if anything.
“These are great questions,” she says.
I stare at Andres, half embarrassed, half… weirdly grateful because no one has ever shown up to my diabetes appointments with a notebook full of love and rage before.
Dr. Pedersen answers each question carefully.
She talks about using temporary basal reductions, timing carbs, adding small steady snacks during games, making sure I don’t start a game trending down, adjusting for adrenaline and post-game crashes, having a stricter “no ignoring alerts” rule, and knowing when to use nasal glucagon versus oral glucose.
Andres writes everything down like it’s scripture.
Then he looks up and asks, “Can we get a plan written out? Like a checklist? So he doesn’t try to freestyle when he’s stressed.”
“I don’t freestyle.”
Andres arches one eyebrow. “You free-styled yourself to twenty-eight, baby.”
My face heats. “Okay. Fair.”
Dr. Pedersen smiles gently. “Yes. We can create a written plan. We’ll also review your pump settings today and adjust. And I want you to follow up in a few weeks after your next away game so we can see how you respond.”
I nod, relieved and also… mentally exhausted.
Once the diabetes part is covered, Dr. Pedersen asks, “How are you doing emotionally? Stress, anxiety, sleep?”
My natural instinct is to shrug it off, to joke and downplay everything. But the last week cracked something open inside of me. I glance at Andres and he’s watching me softly now, pen paused, like he’s not here to control the conversation. He’s here to hold it.
I take a breath. “I think…” I start, then swallow. “I think I might want to talk to a therapist.”
The room goes quiet and Dr. Pedersen’s eyes soften. “Do you want to tell me more?”
I stare at my hands. “I’ve got… stuff. Old stuff. And I think it impacts how I handle this. Like… I hate needing help, and I hate being seen as weak. I hate making a scene. So I ignore things and then it gets bad.”
My throat tightens.
“And I don’t want to keep doing that,” I finish.
Andres's hand slides onto my knee, warm and steady.
“That’s very self-aware. Therapy can be incredibly helpful, especially for managing chronic illness stress and the pressure you’re under.”
She offers resources, names, and referrals. She talks about athletes and performance anxiety, and the way trauma can show up as control issues, perfectionism, and, most of all, avoidance.
I listen, and something in my chest loosens, not because it fixes anything. It just means I’m not broken for feeling it. When the appointment ends, Andres stands and thanks her like she saved my life.
Maybe she did, a little.
In the hallway, as soon as the door closes behind us, Andres turns to me, eyes bright.
“I’m proud of you,” he says.
I snort. “For getting lectured?”
“For wanting better for yourself,” he corrects, voice soft. “For saying it out loud and choosing help over shutting down.”
Andres cups my face. “I will always be here,” he says quietly. “And I love you more than anything.”
I blink hard.
“You’re gonna make me cry in public,” I mutter.
“Good.”
I shake my head, but I lean into him.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
He kisses my forehead, quick and sure.
“Come on,” he says. “We’ve got another away game to pack for.”