Page 38 of Double Play
Kai vaults off the top step like a man possessed, grabbing Jackson’s spare medical bag from where it’s stored like he’s done it a thousand times.
“What do you need?” Kai says, voice clipped. “Dre, talk to me.”
My hands are steady even though my mind is screaming. I do what we’ve been trained to do. What we’ve practiced. What I’ve lived through enough times that my body knows the steps even when my heart is trying to claw out of my chest.
“Give me the nasal spray.” Kai pulls it out and tosses it to me.
Jackson makes a weak sound, like he wants to argue, like he wants to pretend he’s fine.
“Shh,” I tell him, pressing my palm to his cheek. “Don’t try to fight me.”
The medic is right there now too, bag open, ready to take over. I administer the medication quickly, following the protocol we’ve been taught and not wasting a second. Jackson flinches, eyes squeezing shut tighter.
I keep my hand on his face.
“Breathe,” I murmur. “Stay with me,mi sol. Stay right here.”
Kai and Gael hover at my shoulder like guard dogs, eyes scanning the dugout, blocking sightlines, ready to bite anyone who stares too hard.
Gael’s telling Coach something I can’t make out over the thumping of my pulse. Probably telling him to pull Jackson and me off the field.
The crowd roars above us, pissed at the delay in the game. I lean closer to Jackson, mouth near his ear, and the Spanish spills out of me like heat.
“¿Qué te dije?”I hiss softly, not for the whole dugout to hear, just for him.“Te dije que comieras más antes del juego, cabrón.”
Jackson’s mouth twitches faintly, like even half-conscious, he knows exactly what I’m doing.
Grounding him.
Keeping him here.
“You always do this,” I continue, voice low and furious and terrified all at the same time.“Te haces el fuerte. Te haces el invencible. Y me asustas.”
His lashes flutter, and I watch his chest rise and fall, counting breaths like prayers.
“One,” I whisper. “Two. That’s it. Keep breathing.”
The medic checks his responsiveness, his pulse, his vitals—all of it quick and efficient. Time stretches thin and the game carries on without us. My world narrows to Jackson’s face, to the faint sweat on his brow, to the way his hand curls weakly in his lap.
I hate this.
I hate numbers.
I hate adrenaline.
I hate that his body can give up on him without warning and I can’t force it to behave. But out of all of it, I hate that he has ever learned to ignore the signals because he doesn’t want to be a burden. Because he thinks he has to earn being cared for.
Not with me.
Not ever.
“Come on, baby,” I whisper, stroking the side of his face. “Come back to me.”
Another minute passes, maybe more. Then Jackson swallows and his eyes open.
He looks straight at me, and they’re clearer now. Still tired-looking, but present. Relief hits me so hard it makes my vision blur with tears.
“You’re okay,” I say immediately, voice shaking. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
