Page 49 of Double Play
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, penpaused, 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?”
