Page 17 of Double Play
I grin, unapologetic. “I’m not going to let another day go by without people knowing that you’re mine. Only mine.”
Jackson rolls his eyes but can’t hide the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I never pegged you to be the possessive type.”
I wink at him, pulling him back down to the blanket. “You wanna top me? You said pegged.”
“I’ll top you any day, Dre. You know that. I just prefer you being inside me.” His lips ghost over mine, and he lingers a moment before settling in my arms.
We lie there, watching the sunset paint the sky with hues of orange and pink. This is what I want—Jackson by my side, the world knowing he’s mine. I lean over, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.“Eres mi todo, Jackson.”
He looks up at me, his eyes shining with emotion. “Tú … eres mi todo también.” He pauses. “Did I say that right? My comprehension of Spanish is way better than my actually speaking it. It gets all jumbled up in my brain and never sounds right.”
God, I love him.
“You said it perfectly,hermoso.”
We stay like that for a while, just holding each other, the sound of the ocean and the chatter of other beachgoers our only companions.
It’s perfect, and I never want it to end. But as the sun sets, casting long shadows across the sand, I know it’s time to head back to San Jose. We have to pack for the game, and I need to make sure we have his medical kit squared away.
Reluctantly, we pack up our things and make our way back to the car. Our drive home is filled with the random-ass playlistJackson put together. It’s got all the Latin vibes and then what I can only describe as “metal baby-making music.”But I’m here for it.I reach over, taking Jackson’s hand in mine, and he squeezes it, a small smile on his face.
The song changes, and when Jackson belts out the lyrics at the top of his lungs—using our joined hands as a microphone, windows down, breeze blowing in his hair—I can’t hold back my smile.
This is the man I want to spend forever with.
When we get back to the apartment and I park the car in my spot in the garage, Jackson turns to me, his expression serious. “Today was perfect, Dre. Thank you.”
I lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Anything for you, Jackson.Anything.”
He smiles, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Anything, huh?”
I give him a once-over and see that bratty Jackson has come out to play. There’s only one way to deal with bratty Jackson.“No juegues conmigo, guapo. Si sigues así, sabes exactamente dónde va a tenerte Papi.”
“Oh yeah, and what’s that?”
Reaching across the center console, I grab him by the throat, feeling it constrict under my palm. His pulse beats wildly against my fingertips as I squeeze.“With my cock buried in your ass, fucking you so hard that you cry for me.”
SEVEN
JACKSON
The airport smells like cinnamon pretzels, burnt coffee, and commercial-grade disinfectant—the kind that makes you feel like you should be wearing gloves because you know this place is teeming with germs. The team moves like a pack, duffels rolling behind us, hats pulled low, earbuds in, and that familiar mix of tired and wired clinging to everyone’s shoulders.
First away game of the season.
A hotel. A new crowd that’s going to boo my name like they pay rent with it. And there's a new layer of pressure sitting right under my ribs—because this is the first trip where I’m not just traveling with my best friend.
I’m traveling with my boyfriend.
That word still tastes unreal in my mouth. Like I stole it from someone else’s life, and I’m waiting for an ump to call me out and tell me to give it back.
Andres walks at my side, close enough that our shoulders brush every now and then, not touching me like he wants to, but not not touching me either. His chain glints when the fluorescent airport lights catch it. The Saint Andrew pendantswings against his chest every time he shifts his duffel higher on his shoulder.
Dre looks calm. Like he’s just here to play baseball and win.
I know him better.
He’s watching me out of the corner of his eye, tracking my movements like I’m a flight risk. Like I’m a bomb with a pretty face and blood sugar that likes to fuck up everybody’s plans. My pump hums against my hip, the tubing tucked under my shirt. My CGM patch sits on the back of my arm, a tiny piece of plastic that controls half my life.
