Page 50 of Double Play
I stare at my hands. “I’ve got… stuff. Old stuff. And I think it impacts how I handle this. Like… I hate needing help, and I hate being seen as weak. I hate making a scene. So I ignore things and then it gets bad.”
My throat tightens.
“And I don’t want to keep doing that,” I finish.
Andres's hand slides onto my knee, warm and steady.
“That’s very self-aware. Therapy can be incredibly helpful, especially for managing chronic illness stress and the pressure you’re under.”
She offers resources, names, and referrals. She talks about athletes and performance anxiety, and the way trauma can show up as control issues, perfectionism, and, most of all, avoidance.
I listen, and something in my chest loosens, not because it fixes anything. It just means I’m not broken for feeling it. When the appointment ends, Andres stands and thanks her like she saved my life.
Maybe she did, a little.
In the hallway, as soon as the door closes behind us, Andres turns to me, eyes bright.
“I’m proud of you,” he says.
I snort. “For getting lectured?”
“For wanting better for yourself,” he corrects, voice soft. “For saying it out loud and choosing help over shutting down.”
Andres cups my face. “I will always be here,” he says quietly. “And I love you more than anything.”
I blink hard.
“You’re gonna make me cry in public,” I mutter.
“Good.”
I shake my head, but I lean into him.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
He kisses my forehead, quick and sure.
“Come on,” he says. “We’ve got another away game to pack for.”
THIRTEEN
ANDRES
Texas heat clings to you like honey poured straight from the jar—thick, golden, and unapologetically everywhere. Even at night it sits on your skin, warm and humid, smelling like asphalt, barbecue smoke, and the faint metallic tang of a city during a summer that never fully cools down.
The stadium lights bake the field into a bright, artificial day, and the crowd is loud in that Texas way—proud and convinced they’re going to watch us get humbled in the final of this three-game series. We’re tied 1—1.
They don’t.
We win.
It’s baseball. It’s chaos. It’s inches and timing and momentum. By the last out, when the ball smacks into a glove and the ump calls it, our dugout erupts like a shaken bottle of champagne finally uncapped.
Jackson finds me in the pile immediately, jumping into my space like gravity is optional, arms around my shoulders, his laugh bright in my ear. I catch him by instinct, hands locking around his waist, and for a second the whole field becomes onlyhim. Sweat and sun and that clean, familiar scent—that's just Jackson. The crowd is a blur. The cameras are a suggestion.
He pulls back enough to look at me, eyes shining.
“We did it,” he says.
