Page 40 of Double Play
Not when I’m his.
The press roomalways feels like you’re on a different planet. Same stadium. Same air. But here, it’s all fluorescent light and manufactured calm, with cameras staring like hungry eyes and microphones lined up like little weapons on the table.
I sit down, adjust the brim of my cap, and fold my hands in front of me. I’m still keyed up from watching the love of my life’s blood sugar try to take him from me, but he’s stable now. The medic cleared him to go home with monitoring. He’s with Kai and Gael in the training room, eating and being stubborn.
So I’m here.
Because PR asked if I would answer some questions.
The media loves a hero moment.
And I know the questions are coming either way, and I’d rather be the one holding the bat when they throw the pitch.
The first question is about the away game and how we played. The second question is about Kai’s home run. And the third question is about our bullpen. I answer them professionally. Coach jumps in to speak with a little edge, but that’s nothing new.
Then the room shifts and I feel it before the question even lands. The way the reporters lean forward, the way their eyes brighten like they're about to get the biggest chisme they’ve ever heard. A woman in the second row raises her hand, and she has the kind of smile that looks polite, but you just know it isn’t.
“Andres,” she says, voice sweet. “There’s been a lot of chatter online about you and Jackson Baker. Can you confirm if you’re just really good friends or maybe… together?”
Everything goes quiet and the PR guy to my left stills like he’s trying to disappear into his chair.
Showtime.
I think about Jackson’s laugh in the dugout, about his ears going red. About him staring at the field like he’s trying to convince himself he’s allowed to be happy under stadium lights.
Then I think about his blood sugar dropping so low it scared the color out of my world. About how small he looked for a second. About how quickly he came back when I told him to stay with me.
I look straight at the reporter.
“Jackson is my best friend—” The room begins to chatter, so I clear my throat and finish. “But more than that, he’s my boyfriend.”
The word boyfriend lands hard, leaving no room for interpretation. A ripple moves through the room, a soft sound of surprise that turns into scribbling and camera shutters. The reporter’s eyebrows lift, like she didn’t expect the answer to be that easy.
Another hand shoots up immediately.
“Don’t you think that could be a distraction?” a man asks, already phrasing it like a problem. “Teammates dating each other?”
“No,” I say flatly. “We’re professional athletes and we can handle our jobs.”
I pause, then add, because I’m done swallowing things to make other people comfortable. “The only distraction would be people making it weird. We’re here to play baseball, and people really shouldn’t care who players are dating.”
Someone else tries to jump in. “Was Jackson’s medical situation today connected to?—”
I cut that off before it turns into a spectacle.
“Jackson’s health is his business,” I say, voice calm but sharp. “He’s stable. He’s safe. That’s all you need to know.”
The PR guy exhales and gives me a thumbs-up.
The reporter from earlier tries again, softer now. “When did your relationship begin?”
I lean back slightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough for them to feel it.
“Not every detail of our lives is for public consumption,” I say. “But I’ll tell you this: I’m proud of him. I’m proud to be with him, and we aren’t hiding anymore.”
That last part isn’t for them.
It’s for Jackson.
