Page 35 of Double Play
We stand there for a beat in the entryway, like we don’t know what to do with all the leftover adrenaline. Then we start walking toward the elevator, and once inside, I hit the next floor down. When the doors close, Jackson’s mouth opens, and I can already see the joke coming before he says it. The way he reaches for humor when his insides are shaking.
“You know, if the legal route doesn’t work,” he says, voice too casual, “the insulin would just take care of the problem.”
My head snaps toward him.
“Jackson,” I say.
He raises both hands. “What? I’m just saying, hypothetically?—”
“Ni siquiera lo digas,”I cut in, my tone rougher this time.“Ni en broma. ¿Me oyes?”
Jackson’s eyes widen, and he swallows.
“I’m joking,” he insists, but it’s weaker now. “I hear you, baby.”
I step closer and lower my voice, because this is important and I want it to land.
“Escúchame, mi sol,”I say, steady and firm.“Esa mierda no se dice. Ni se piensa. Porque tú no eres ese tipo de hombre.”
Jackson’s throat bobs.
“And because I won’t watch you destroy yourself trying to be funny,” I add in English, softer but no less absolute. “We keep our hands clean. We keep you safe. We keep ourselves safe.”
He looks down, shame flushing his cheeks.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
I take his wrist and squeeze once. Not punishment. Just grounding.
“I couldn’t live without you, Jack,” I say quietly, because it’s the truth.
His lashes flutter. “Stop.”
“No,” I say, and my mouth twitches. “I’ll never stop loving you.”
TEN
ANDRES
The energy for home games feels different the second I step into the stadium. The air isn’t just air. It’s ours. It smells like cut grass, sunscreen, hot dogs, and that specific mix of dust and adrenaline that only exists when you’ve got cleats on and something to prove. Fans are already filling the stands, a low roar building like the crowd is waking up from a nap and choosing violence in our favor.
San Jose doesn’t boo us like away fans do. No, they cheer for us like they’re personally invested in our survival.
Well, they kind of are invested.
I roll my shoulders, adjust my cap, and glance down the first baseline. Jackson is stretching near the bag, sunlight catching the sweat on his throat. He looks clean and sharp in the uniform, like he was built for this. That pretty boy was made to stand on a baseball diamond and be adored.
He catches me looking and his mouth twitches. He tilts his head in that way that means he’s about to say something that’s going to get me in trouble.
I walk over slowly, like I’m casual, because we aren’t being casual anymore.
That’s the point.
What better place for us to come out than our home field?
The people who matter already know. We had long FaceTime conversations with my parents, my sisters, his sister, and his mom. The only person who still haunts Jackson’s happiness is a man who doesn’t deserve free rent in his head.
Jackson leans in just enough that it looks like we’re talking game.
