“Don’t,” I whisper, fighting the smile and losing.
“Qué bonito te ves cuando te pones rojo, mi sol. Más cuando yo soy el que te hace sonrojar,”he says, like that’s a normal thing to say to a man in a bus full of teammates. My throat tightens and I stare out the window and pretend the passing streets are suddenly the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen.
Hotel check-in is chaos.Key cards. Coaching staff shouting. Players arguing about who snores and who talks in their sleep and who steals pillows.
Andres and I get assigned a room together.
Coach doesn’t even blink when he hands us the key card. My brain does some quick overthinking, per usual. It’s a small moment that hits like a fastball to the chest. There are no comments. No jokes.
No “Are you sure?” or “Keep it professional.”
Just a key card, like this is normal.
Like we’re just Andres and Jackson. The first and second basemen.
I follow Dre to the elevator with my shoulders tight and my heart beating loud in my ear—it’s only when the doors slide shut that the world is silenced. It’s just us and the hum of the elevator and the faint scent of his cologne surrounding me. It’s the perfect combination of leather and spice.
Andres glances over at me. “You okay?” he asks again, like it’s his favorite question.
I nod, but it’s the kind of nod that doesn’t convince anyone. He reaches out and hooks a finger under my chin, gently.
“Talk to me, baby,” he says.
My brain stutters a little at the contact. “It’s just… I keep waiting for someone to make it weird.”
His eyes soften. “If someone makes it weird, I’ll handle it. But everyone that matters to us has known for a long time that we’ve always been… us. Now that they know it’s only going to be us from now on, it’s not going to be a big thing.”
“I know,” I swallow. “What scares me is… everyone else.”
His brow furrows. “Why would that scare you?”
“Because you’ll burn the whole world down,” I admit, my voice low. “And I’ll feel guilty about it, even if they deserve it.”
Andres's thumb brushes once over my jaw.
“Jack,” he says, quiet and deadly sincere, “if someone tries to shame you for loving me, that’s notyourguilt to carry.”
Every part of me knows he means my dad. Because I mean my dad.
The elevator dings and the doors creep open. We step into the hallway, and the spell breaks, but his words stay lodged in me like a promise.
Our room smells like standard hotel detergent and cold air conditioning. Two beds, because of course. A desk. A TV. Heavy curtains. A little safe that nobody ever uses. Andres tosses his bag onto one bed, then looks at the other like it has no purpose in being here.
I shut the door behind us and for one glorious second, it’s just silence.
Then Andres crosses the room in three strides and grabs me by the front of my hoodie, pulling me in. It’s not rough, but it’s urgent in the I need your mouth on mine kind of way.
His lips find mine, and I forget how to be a baseball player. Forget how to be a person. Forget how to be anything but the thing he’s holding together with his hands and his breath.
The kiss is short, but it’s not polite.
A reminder that I’m his and he is mine.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“You’re doing good,” he murmurs.
I laugh once, breathless. “At what? Not combusting in public?”
