Page 24 of Double Play
Instead, he just leans in and presses his forehead to mine, quick, subtle, and hidden by the chaos. A touch that could be nothing to anyone else.
A touch that is everything to me.
I close my eyes, breathe him in, and for the first time all day… my chest unclenches. This may be an away game, in a different city, with a different crowd that doesn’t give a shit about knowing us as people. But this right here…
It's the same love it’s always been.
Him and I.
I’m starting to really believe we’re allowed to be out and happy.
EIGHT
ANDRES
The hallway outside our hotel room smells like stale recycled air and carpet shampoo. We’re all still buzzing from the win, some of the guys’ loud voices bleeding through doors, laughter ricocheting off the walls. Somebody down the hall yells, “Woooo!” like we just won the World Series instead of a regular-season away game.
Jackson’s hand is in mine, and it’s the only thing that matters.
Not the noise. Not the city.
Just him.
The key card beeps green, and I push the door open, stepping aside so he can walk in first. I always do that, not because of manners, but because of a habit I formed without meaning to. Like my body decided a long time ago that if the world is going to swing at him, I’m going to take the hit.
Jackson tosses his cap onto the desk and exhales. “Thank God,” he mutters, voice rough. “No more people.”
I lock the door behind us and set the latch, because I’m not playing about safety even when we’re in a hotel with a front desk and cameras and key cards.
Fans can be crazy.
His eyes flick to my hands because my baby notices everything.
“You’re doing it again,” he says.
“Doing what?”
“Building a fortress,” he says, but it’s soft. Not like he’s annoyed. If anything, he likes it, even if he pretends he doesn’t.
I cross the room slowly, trying hard not to rush things. Jackson’s body is still running on adrenaline, and I know what comes after. The crash. The quiet. The part where his brain tries to convince him he doesn’t deserve the happiness he just earned.
I stop in front of him, close enough that his breath warms my throat. He lifts his chin and his blue eyes are bright, but there’s tension tucked in them.
“You played your ass off tonight,mi sol,” I whisper, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead.
A smile tugs at his mouth. “I think my ass is still attached to me.”
I slide my hands down his back to cup his perfect ass, and he groans. “Mmm, I think you’re right,” I murmur.
“It is a great ass,” he chuckles. “It’s served me well.”
I huff a laugh, then slide my hands to the hem of his hoodie and grip it. Jackson’s gaze drops to my mouth and the entire day has been nothing but restraint. The plane. The terminal. The bus. The field. The crowd.
His father lives in the back of his head like a curse he’s trying not to speak aloud.
All day I’ve been careful.
All day I’ve been patient.
