“At letting yourself have this,” he says. “Wedeserve this, Jack.”
My chest aches and I swallow around it and force a joke because feelings are scary and I am, at my core, a coward.
“So… which bed are we pretending is yours?”
Andres's mouth twitches. “Neither,” he says, nodding toward the bed that doesn’t have his duffel on it, like it’s obvious. “We’re sleeping together.”
My stomach flips again. “What if someone?—”
“Let. Them.” He cuts in. Then in a much softer voice, “We’re not doing this halfway anymore.”
Andres steps back, reaches into his bag, and tosses me a granola bar.
“Eat,” he orders.
Catching it before it can shoot past me, I give him a look. “I’m not low.”
“I know,” he says. “But I know you’re stressed, and you tend to get dramatic, and then your body gets petty.”
“I do not get dramatic.”
Andres raises an eyebrow, so I unwrap the granola bar and take a bite, because he’s right and I hate that he’s right.
He pulls out his toiletries bag, sets it in the bathroom like a man who’s done this a hundred times, then comes back and sits on the edge of the bed.
“Okay, so let’s talk schedule,” he says, pulling out his phone all businesslike. “Meals. Pre-game. Warmup. Making sure your numbers are in range.”
I lean against the wall and sigh. “You’re so hot when you micromanage me.”
Andres's eyes flick up to mine. Dark and warm with just the right edge of dangerous.
“Careful, pretty boy,” he says, his voice low. “I’ll micromanage you into this mattress.”
I choke on the granola bar.
“Dre.”
He just winks.
Gorgeous bastard.
I finish eating, chuck the wrapper in the trash can, and then check my CGM again.
124 steady.
Good, my body is fine. I bolus and start to unpack my own stuff. It’s about to be a very long day.
The field is louderthan I expect. Not because the stadium is huge or the crowd is bigger than ours. It’s loud because away games are always personal. The home team’s fans treat you like you’re the villain in a movie and they’ve paid good money to see you fail.
We jog out for warmups, cleats biting into dirt that isn’t ours. The air smells like grass and hot dogs and that sharp rubbery scent from the warning track. I take my cap off, wipe sweat from my forehead, and immediately feel eyes on me. I glance toward the stands and catch a cluster of people near the third-base line with their phones already out.
Andres is beside me, stretching his shoulders, jaw set. He must feel my unease because his eyes follow my gaze, then look back at me.
“Why are they taking pictures of us warming up?” I ask.
Tossing me a ball so we can play catch. “I mean… have you seen your ass in those pants,hermoso? I’d be taking pics of you too.”
I swallow the rest of the question and focus on the routine.
