Jackson exhales. “I… I’m sorry.”
I want to yell.
I want to kiss him.
I want to pick him up and carry him somewhere safe and never let him step onto a field again. Instead, I keep my voice steady, because steady is what he needs.
“Don’t apologize,” I tell him.
His gaze drops and I tilt his chin up gently.
“You need to eat more before games,” I order, because sometimes my love looks like commands when fear is in the room.
Jackson nods; it’s small but I’ll take it.
The medic is already ripping open something from the bag, face hard with concern. “Here,” he says, handing over a glucose gel packet. “Once you get this down, we’ll get you off the field.”
Jackson takes it with clumsy fingers and I watch him suck it down. I watch the world keep moving around us, and I don’t care about any of it except the fact that he’s breathing and chewing and staying with me.
Coach crouches near us, voice controlled. “He coming out of it?”
The medic answers before I can. “Yeah, but we’re going to be monitoring him.”
I nod once, sharply. “I’ll be with him.”
Jackson starts to protest weakly. “Dre?—”
“No,” I say, with absolute certainty. “I stay with you.”
His eyes soften in that way that breaks me; all he can do is nod again.
The medical staffmoves him to the training room afterward, away from the bench, the dugout, and prying eyes.I walk with him the whole way. When the door closes and it’s just us and the medic, I finally let myself breathe a little deeper. Jackson sits on the table, shoulders slumped, face pale. I step between his knees and place my hands on either side of his thighs, and he looks up at me.
“I didn’t want to…” His voice cracks. “I didn’t want to make a thing of it. Not today.”
God, what the fuck am I going to do with him?
“Mi sol,”I say softly, “youarethe thing. You’re theonlything that matters.”
His eyes go glossy and I cup his jaw, not caring that the medic is right there.
“And we’re not holding back anymore,” I add, in a much softer voice. “Remember? Not about us. Not about you needing help. Not about anything.”
Jackson swallows, leaning into my chest, allowing me to wrap my arms around him.
“I’m scared,” he admits, barely audible.
My chin rests on the top of his head. “I know,” I whisper. “But we’ve got a whole bunch of people on our side. Our friends. Most of our family. Each other.”
Outside the room, the stadium roars and the game goes on. But in here, in this small bright training room, my whole world is in front of me, breathing, alive, and stubborn as hell. And I swear on everything holy and unholy that I’m going to keep him that way.
Even if I have to drag him into safety by the collar of his jersey.
Even if I have to curse him in Spanish until he laughs again.
I’m done letting him pretend he doesn’t deserve to be taken care of.
Not when he’s mine.
