#baseball team

[timmurleyart]

Peanuts 75th anniversary at Fenway. Snoopy at bat. ⚾️🔴🧦

[jdobsessor]

Optioned - A Jarren Duran Fanfic

⚾︎ Jarren Duran is used to playing through pain — the aching muscles, the bruised ribs, the sore feet. What he wasn't prepared for? The weight of Boston's expectations. That kind of pain can’t be iced down or taped up. He's breaking beneath the surface. But you see through his facade. ⚾︎

Trigger Warnings: Past trauma, mental health struggles (anxiety, depression, panic attacks, mentions of self-harm/self-destructive behaviors), alcoholism, (implied) abusive behaviors, fighting, smut

Pairing: Jarren Duran x Female Reader

Word Count: 5,460

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The glare of the Fenway lights felt like a physical weight, pressing down, suffocating. Jarren Duran shifts under the reporters' gaze, his Bruce Bolts feeling like weights in his pockets. The Boston Globe, Boston Herald, Lowell Sun, WCVB, some stupid college publication — they're all waiting there, waiting to pound into him. Or worse, praise him senselessly.

"Jarren, another solid night at the plate, a walk, a double, and a triple. You're really finding your rhythm. What's clicking for you out there?"

Boston Globe. He recognizes his voice — a cheerful, oblivious drone — without having to look at him.

Rhythm? Clicking? It was a lie. Every swing, every sprint, every catch was a battle against his brain, the suffocating blanket of dread that threatened to pull him under. He forced a smile, a practiced, empty gesture.

"Just trying to see the ball well, put good swings on it. Doing my part for the team."

His voice sounded flat, even to his own ears. He could feel the tightness growing in his chest. The air in the stadium felt thin, as if it was recycled. He could see the faint flicker of the camera's red light, a tiny, judgmental eye.

"The Red Sox are really heating up, Jarren. Do you feel like this team has what it takes to make a deep playoff run?"

Deep playoff run. The words echoed, hollow and meaningless. All he felt was the deep run of exhaustion. His mind raced, replaying every minor misstep from the game. The slightly off-target throw to second, the split-second hesitation in the outfield that could have been costly. They were insignificant details, but in his mind, they swelled into monumental failures, proof of his inadequacy.

A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, cold against his skin. He longed for the clubhouse, the heat of the shower, anything to escape this performance. He could feel the tremor in his hands, hidden behind his back. The urge to scratch, to dig his nails into his skin, was constantly in his mind. 

"Yeah, definitely. We've got a great group of guys, everyone's pulling in the same direction. Just gotta keep grinding."

Grinding. The word felt like sandpaper on his tongue. He was grinding himself down, piece by agonizing piece. The lights seemed to grow brighter, hotter, searing into his eyes. He could feel his breath catching in his throat, shallow and ragged.

He just needed to get out.

He needed to be alone.

After what felt like years of answering the same pointless, dull questions he's always asked, Jarren bolted from the room, the polite smile dropping from his face the moment he was out of sight.

He just wanted to disappear.

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You listened for the sound of his key in the lock, your fingers tangled in the sleeve of his hoodie like it could anchor you to something. Anything.

When the door finally opened, it didn’t creak. It didn’t bang. It was soft. Too soft — like it meant to be quiet.

He stepped in with his cap low over his face, hoodie pulled tight. His shoulders were hunched, like the weight of the world — or maybe just the season — was carved into his spine.

His duffle bag hit the floor harder than it should’ve.

The silence of the apartment was a stark contrast to the stadium's roar, but it wasn't the peaceful quiet he craved. It was a heavy, suffocating silence, filled with the echoes of his own racing thoughts. The apartment was tidy, a testament to your quiet care. 

A stark reminder of the order he felt incapable of maintaining within himself. 

A reminder of what he’s not.

"Hey, you're home. Long day?" You leaned against the kitchen island, a soft smile gracing your lips. 

He managed a nod, the effort feeling monumental. "Yeah. Just tired."

Your eyes seemed to linger on his face, something Jarren took note of. He could feel the weight of your gaze, the unspoken questions. He hated lying to you, hated the way the truth felt like a barbed wire fence, tearing at him if he tried to climb over it. 

But the alternative? 

He didn’t dare to let you see.

"Did you eat? I saved some pasta if you're hungry." You moved closer to him, only for him to step back.

His stomach churned at the thought of food. "No, I'm good."

“Interview looked rough,” You tried.

Nothing.

He opened the fridge. The cold light spilled out, casting blue across his cheekbones. They looked sharper than they used to. His face thinner. His eyes… god.

“Jarren,” You said again, quieter this time.

He didn’t look at you.

“I’m fine.”

Flat. Automatic.

The kind of fine that meant anything but. The kind of fine you say to shut someone up.

It made your skin crawl. Like he was quoting a script he didn’t believe anymore.

You leaned back on the kitchen island, watching him pull out the bottle of Tito’s from the bottom shelf.

“No,” You whispered.

He didn’t even pause. Just uncapped it, grabbed a glass from the dish rack, and poured two fingers deep.

“It’s just one,” he muttered.

“That’s what you said two nights ago.”

He didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at you. The clink of the glass on the counter was the only answer you got.

“Jarren, please don’t do this tonight,” You said, stepping forward until you were barely two feet apart. “Not after the way you looked in that interview. You’re not okay, and you—”

“I said I’m fine!”

In that split second, something behind his eyes — something that had been held together by duct tape and willpower — broke.

There was a flicker of something there. Fear? Guilt? Grief? Maybe all of it, tangled into one big, raw knot.

And then it was gone.

He downed the vodka in one gulp. No wince. No hesitation. He set the glass down gently, too gently, like it was a peace offering.

"I'm gonna shower," He mumbled, not looking at you. He needed the scalding water, the brief, intense sensation to cut through the numbness.

He moved past you, trying to keep his movements fluid, normal. He could feel your eyes on his back until he reached the bathroom. 

As soon as he got into the bathroom, he let out a sigh of relief. He stripped quickly, his eyes avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He couldn't bear to see the haunted look he knew would be there.

Under the shower, the hot water beat against his skin. He scrubbed himself raw, as if he could wash away the grime of his own thoughts. 

But the thoughts clung. 

The feeling of being a fraud, of not being good enough, of letting everyone down. He leaned his head against the cool tiles, the steam filling his lungs, making it harder to breathe. He closed his eyes, but the darkness behind his eyes was no escape. It was just another chance to relive his failures, real and imagined.

He stayed under the spray until the hot water turned lukewarm, then cold. He wrapped a towel around his waist, the dampness clinging to his skin. He caught a glimpse of his arm in the mirror. The faint, silvery scars, a testament to battles fought and lost, battles he was still fighting. He quickly pulled on a sweater, covering them, as if concealing them would make them disappear from his mind.

When he emerged, you were sitting on the couch, a book open in your lap, but your gaze was fixed on the television, which was off. You were waiting. He knew it.

"Feel better?" you asked, your voice soft, not pushing.

He nodded, sinking onto the opposite end of the couch, putting a safe distance between you. He wanted your comfort, desperately, but he also feared it. Feared that if he let himself lean into it, he'd crumble completely.

"Yeah. Just tired, really." He repeated the lie, the easy out.

You sighed, a quiet, almost imperceptible sound. You didn't press, and he was grateful for that. But he could feel the unspoken concern radiating from you, something he felt unworthy of. He picked up his phone, scrolling aimlessly through social media, pretending to be engrossed, anything to avoid eye contact. 

He didn’t let you see what he was searching for. What was recommended to him in his Twitter feed. How the media was tearing him apart. Calling him an idiot. Wishing he was traded. Complaining that he’s too focused on his looks to play good baseball.

He just wanted the day to be over. He just wanted to sleep, to escape into the oblivion of unconsciousness, even if only for a few hours.

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The roar of the crowd was a physical entity, vibrating through the ground, up through his cleats, and into his bones. It was the bottom of the seventh, and the game was tied. Two outs, runner on first. The batter, Cal Raleigh, stepped into the box, his eyes narrowed, focused. Jarren stood in center field, the Green Monster looming behind him like a silent, watchful giant.

His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that had nothing to do with the game. It had started subtly in the fifth inning, a faint tremor in his hands as he adjusted his batting gloves. Then the tightness in his chest, a familiar vise clamping down, making each breath a conscious effort. 

Now?

A full-blown assault.

The sounds of the game, once distinct – the crack of the bat, the umpire's call, the chatter from the dugout – had begun to blur into an overwhelming din. The crowd's roar became a monstrous, shapeless beast, its collective voice a judgment. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, cold despite the humid night air. His vision seemed to narrow, the edges of his perception blurring, as if he were looking through a tunnel.

The batter swung. A sharp crack. The ball launched into the night sky, a white blur against the dark. It was a towering fly ball, deep to center.

Jarren instinctively turned, sprinted back, his eyes fixed on the ball. But his legs felt heavy, as if he were running through water. His mind screamed at him to go faster, to track it, to make the play. But his body felt disconnected. 

You're going to miss it. You're going to let them down. Everyone is watching. They know you're a fraud.

The thoughts screamed in his head, drowning out the faint shouts from the dugout. His chest tightened further, a crushing weight. He couldn't get enough air. His lungs burned. The familiar, terrifying sensation of suffocation began to set in. He stumbled, his feet tangling, but he forced himself forward, eyes still on the descending ball.

It was going to hit the wall. He knew it. He was too slow. He wasn't good enough.

The ball slammed against the Monster, high off the wall. He scrambled to retrieve it, his hands shaking so violently he almost fumbled it. He picked it up, threw it in, the throw weak, off-target. The runner on first rounded third, scoring easily. The crowd groaned, a collective sound of disappointment that pierced him like a thousand needles.

He stood there, frozen, the world spinning around him. The lights of the stadium seemed to pulse, blinding him. The noise was unbearable, a symphony of failure. His heart was a hammer in his chest, threatening to burst through his ribs. He felt lightheaded, dizzy, as if he might black out. He just wanted to curl into a ball, to disappear into the earth beneath his feet.

"Jarren! Get in here! Roman, you're in center."

The words barely registered through the fog of panic. He nodded numbly, his legs moving on their own, carrying him towards the dugout. He could feel the eyes of thousands on him, burning into his back, judging him. The shame was a bitter taste in his mouth.

Jarren sank onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. His chest heaved, desperate for air that wouldn't come. His body shook uncontrollably, a violent tremor that destroyed him to his core. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes, hot and stinging, but he fought them back, refusing to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

A shadow fell over him. He flinched, expecting Cora, expecting a lecture. But it was Roman Anthony, his face unreadable, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. Cora had told him to go in, but Roman didn’t listen. He didn't say anything, didn't try to touch him. He just sat down beside him, a silent, comforting presence.

Jarren could feel Roman's gaze, but he couldn't bring himself to look up. The shame was too overwhelming. He was a professional athlete, and he was falling apart in the middle of a game. He was weak. He was broken.

Roman cleared his throat, a soft, almost inaudible sound. "Hey, man. You good?" His voice was low, gentle, without judgment.

Jarren shook his head, unable to speak, unable to form words around the lump in his throat. He just wanted to be invisible. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

Roman nodded slowly. "It's okay, man. Just breathe. Focus on my voice."

He started talking, his voice an anchor in the storm of Jarren's panic. He wasn't talking about the game, or the missed play. He was talking about anything and everything else – the weather, the upcoming road trip, a funny story about his dog. Mundane things, ordinary things, things that slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to pull Jarren back from the brink.

Jarren kept his face buried in his hands, but he listened, clinging to Roman's voice like a lifeline. Slowly, the war in his chest began to slow, the frantic drumming subsiding into a dull throb. The tunnel vision receded, the edges of his sight returning. He could feel the air entering his lungs, shallow at first, then deeper, more regular. The trembling in his body lessened, though a faint tremor still ran through him.

He lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed and unfocused. Roman was still there, sitting beside him, his gaze steady and unwavering. He offered a small, sympathetic smile.

"Better?"

Jarren managed a shaky nod. He still felt raw, exposed, but the immediate terror had receded. He was back, tethered, if only barely, to reality. He owed Roman. He didn't know how he was going to repay him.

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Jarren let the door click shut behind him, the sound echoing in the stillness. The game had ended in a loss, a bitter pill made even harder to swallow by his public breakdown. He’d barely spoken a word in the clubhouse, avoiding eye contact, desperate to escape. Roman had caught his eye, offering a silent, understanding nod, and Jarren had managed a weak, grateful smile in return.

You were waiting for him, sitting on the couch, a blanket draped over your lap. Your face was etched with concern, but your eyes held no judgment, only a deep, aching worry. He felt a fresh wave of shame wash over him. He hated that you had to see him like this, hated that he couldn't shield you from his mind.

He walked slowly towards you, his legs still feeling heavy, drained. You rose, meeting him halfway, and without a word, you wrapped your arms around him. Your embrace was soft, comforting, a silent anchor in the storm. He leaned into it, letting his head rest on your shoulder, the familiar scent of you a small comfort. He felt the tension in his body begin to ease, just slightly.

"Hey," you murmured, your voice a gentle whisper against his ear. "Are you okay?"

He shook his head, unable to articulate the emotions swirling within him. Shame, fear, exhaustion, a profound sense of failure.

You held him tighter, stroking his hair. "It's okay not to be okay, Jarren. You don't have to be strong all the time."

The words, so simple, yet so profound, broke something inside him. A dam burst. The tears he had fought back in the dugout, that he had held in for so long, finally came, hot and furious. He buried his face in your neck, the guttural sounds tearing from his throat. He clung to you, his hands fisted in your shirt, as if you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

You didn't say anything, just letting him cry. He cried until his body was wracked with shivers, until his throat was raw and his eyes burned.

When they finally subsided, leaving him hollowed out and exhausted, you gently guided him to the couch. You sat beside him, pulling him close, letting him rest his head on your lap. You ran your fingers through his hair, a soothing, repetitive motion that slowly began to calm his nerves.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you asked, your voice soft, tentative.

He shook his head, still unable to speak. The words felt trapped, too heavy, too ugly to voice.

"That's okay," you said, understanding. "You don't have to. Just rest."

He closed his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of your breathing, feeling the gentle touch of your fingers in his hair. He drifted, not quite asleep, but somewhere between consciousness and oblivion, the panic finally receding, replaced by a profound weariness.

Later, you brought him a glass of water, holding it to his lips as he slowly drank. You didn't push him to eat, didn't ask him about the game. You just sat with him. 

He knew he couldn't keep his issues from you forever. The panic attack, so public, so undeniable, had brought it all to a head. He couldn't pretend anymore. But tonight, he just needed to exist, to feel your warmth, to be held. And you, in your quiet strength, gave him exactly what he needed.

But it would only get worse from there.

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He started talking in his sleep again two weeks after the All-Star break.

At first, it was just mumbling. You’d lie there next to him, half-awake, tracing the rise and fall of his chest with your eyes. Sometimes it was his mother’s name, whispered like a prayer, soft and lost. Sometimes it was numbers—batting averages, ERA, slash lines—stats burned into his brain so deeply they haunted him even in his sleep. 

And once… it was something else.

“Don’t send me down.”

He said it with his fists clenched in the sheets, knuckles whitening as if gripping a bat instead of cotton. His arms trembled. His jaw flexed. His legs kicked at something invisible. Like he was back in the box, down 0-2, trying to swing his way out of a slump no one else could feel.

You watched him from the dim glow of the bedside lamp—eyes flickering behind closed lids, breathing ragged. His lips moved again.

“I’m good. I’m still—don’t send me down.”

And then he gasped awake, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with fear. For a moment, he didn’t see you. He didn’t see the bedroom, the cool gray walls, the dog plushie at the foot of the bed. He wasn’t there at all.

He saw Worcester.

The cracked concrete of the dugout. The cold metal benches that left his thighs numb. The sad vending machines in the hotel lobby that buzzed louder than they worked. The long, brutal road trips where the only company was a pair of headphones blasting music loud enough to try and drown out his self-doubt.

He saw the text from Craig that came without warning. The reassignment. The silence that followed. He saw the shame in headlines. The comments. The fans who forgot how hard he fought to get here. The reporters who talked about his potential like it had an expiration date.

“Jarren,” You whispered, sitting up, sliding my hand over his chest, the sweat-soaked fabric clinging to his skin. “You’re safe. You’re not going anywhere.”

He didn’t say anything. Just laid there, blinking at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling like he was sprinting. You kept rubbing slow circles over his sternum, grounding him. Letting his presence pull him back from wherever his mind had taken him. Eventually, his eyes slid toward you, but they looked glassy, unsure—like he wasn’t convinced you were real yet.

“I’ve got you,” You said again, quieter this time. “You’re here. You’re home.”

But even as you whispered reassurances — over and over, like mantras — you weren’t sure he believed you.

And maybe that’s because part of him didn’t. Maybe part of him was still stuck in the minors. Maybe he was still waiting for the call. Still terrified it’ll come again, this time for good.

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You were curled on your side of the bed, reading a page for the third time without absorbing a single word. He hadn’t spoken since dinner. Barely touched the food. Barely touched you.

Then, without a sound, he shifted closer. His hand slid over your waist, tentative. His mouth brushed your shoulder.

“I need you,” he murmured. “Please. I just… I need to feel. Something. Anything.”

His voice was wrecked, already fraying at the edges.

He kissed you like he was trying to drown. Deep and frantic and messy, teeth clashing, hands shaking as they pulled at your clothes. His fingertips skimmed over your ribs, your thighs, your neck — not with desire, but with desperation. Like he was searching for something buried inside your skin.

When he slid into you, it wasn’t slow. It wasn’t loving. It was raw. Brutal in how gentle it tried not to be. You cried, but he didn’t stop. His hand gripped your waist hard enough to bruise, his thrusts shallow at first, then erratic, like he couldn’t quite control himself — like he wanted to disappear into the rhythm. He moved slowly—agonizingly so—as if he wanted to stretch the moment until it drowned him.

He didn’t look at you. Not really. You could see him disassociating — his far off look, his dilated pupils, the small head tic he always got.

“Jarren,” you whispered. “I’m here.”

He let out a sound — not quite a sob, not quite a moan — and buried his face into the curve of your neck.

His movements faltered, hips stuttering. He was close, the tension in his body trembling through yours.

He gripped the pillow beside your head like he was afraid he'd float away if he let go. His breaths grew shorter, panicked — not from pleasure, but from pressure. You could feel the fear in his body, not the kind that came before release, but the kind that breaks him.

You whispered his name again, softer this time, cupping his face even though he still wouldn’t meet your eyes. His skin was hot with shame. He blinked rapidly, like if he could just keep his eyes moving, he wouldn’t have to be here. Wouldn’t have to admit how much he was unraveling in your arms.

He kissed you like he didn’t want to be alive anymore but thought maybe, just maybe, your mouth could make him forget.

“Tell me I’m here,” he whispered. “Tell me I’m still here.”

“You’re here,” You whispered back. “I feel you. I see you.”

But he cried when he came. He bit your shoulder and shook and cried. Not out of pleasure. Out of grief. 

His weight collapsed onto you, heavy and unresisting. His breath hitched against your collarbone. He was still inside you, softening, but neither of you moved. Your hands slid through his hair, damp with sweat. You felt his tears on your skin, salt and sorrow and silence.

He clung to you like a child, like a man with nothing left to lose.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice shaking. “I know this isn’t fair to you. I don’t know why you stay.”

You kissed his temple, your own throat tight. “Because I love you. Even when you don’t love yourself. Especially then.”

“I wish I could be better,” he whispered. “I wish I could be enough for you.”

“You already are.”

But neither of you believed it.

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It started with a phone call.

Jarren had just gotten out of the shower, towel still around his waist, when his phone buzzed across the counter. You were brushing your teeth, watching him through the mirror when you heard it vibrate again. Again.

He glanced at the screen. Froze.

You turned. “Who is it?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared. Pale. Eyes wide. You stepped closer, and that’s when you saw it.

“Breslow.”

The front office.

He answered the call with shaking hands, voice so thin it didn’t sound like him. “Yeah?”

You couldn’t hear the other side. Only the silence that followed. Only his body folding inward like a house collapsing in slow motion. He sank down onto the floor, towel loosening at his waist, hair dripping down his neck as he pressed the phone against his forehead.

“No. Please don’t. Craig, please  don’t do this to me.”

You dropped the toothbrush. Fell to your knees beside him. 

“Jarren. What’s going on?”

He didn’t look at you. Just nodded slowly. Numb.

When he ended the call, he didn’t move.

“They’re optioning me,” he whispered. “Worcester. Again.”

Your heart cracked.

“They said I need more consistency. Said my head’s not right. Like I don’t fucking know that already.”

He looked at you then, and you almost wished he hadn’t. Because behind his tears was something deeper. A total vacancy.

“I tried,” he said. “I tried to be better. I tried to hold it together. And it still wasn’t enough.”

You grabbed his face in your hands. “This doesn’t mean you’re not enough. This doesn’t mean anything about your worth.”

“Yes it does,” he snapped. “Don’t—don’t lie to me right now.”

And then, all at once, he broke.

Jarren slammed his fist into the cabinet so hard the wood cracked. He stood, shouting something hoarse and unintelligible, sweeping everything off the sink in one chaotic motion—his cologne, your moisturizer, a candle. Everything shattered against the tile floor. You flinched but didn’t move away.

He collapsed against the wall, sliding down it until he was curled into himself, sobbing into his knees. And then suddenly, as swift as his outburst, he stands up, gets dressed, and leaves.

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You stood in the wreckage of your bathroom, heart pounding so loud it made your vision throb. The shattered bottle of cologne soaked into the bath mat. His blood from his relapse two nights ago still faintly stained the tiles. The cabinet door hung off its hinge. The towel he’d dropped was still warm.

He was gone.

And you didn’t know where.

You checked your phone. Nothing. Tried calling. Straight to voicemail. You texted him, over and over:

Please come home.

I’m scared. Please just tell me you’re okay.

Jarren, I love you. Just let me help.

The hours crawled.

You called Roman. Called Garrett. Nobody had heard from him. Nobody knew anything. No one even knew about the option yet. It hadn’t hit the news. It hadn’t hit Twitter. It hadn’t hit you, not really. Not until now, when you sat on the kitchen floor with your knees to your chest, wondering if he’d ever come back.

At midnight, the door opened.

He stumbled in—drunk. Soaked through from the rain. Hoodie clinging to his skin, hat twisted sideways. Eyes red. Hands scraped. Your stomach turned when you saw the smear of dried blood on his knuckle and face.

“I fucked up,” he mumbled. “I went to the harbor. I just... I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.”

He collapsed onto the couch. Didn’t even take his shoes off. Just stared at the ceiling like he was waiting for it to crush him.

You knelt beside him, pressing a hand to his chest. His heart was racing. Terrified. But alive.

“You scared me,” you whispered. “You scared me so bad.”

He finally looked at you. Eyes so full of guilt, it made you want to scream.

“I thought about it,” he said, his voice so hoarse it barely made it across the room. “I stood on that bridge for twenty minutes. Just... wondering. Would anyone even notice if I wasn’t here?”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, unfocused. Rainwater still dripped from the ends of his hoodie onto the hardwood floor, pooling beneath him like proof that he’d come back soaked in something darker than water.

“I kept looking down at the water,” he continued. “Kept thinking about how fast it would happen. If it would hurt. If I’d feel anything at all, or if it’d just be quiet. Finally.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, choking back a sob.

“I thought about my mom,” he said, the words tumbling now. “About that stupid Little League trophy she keeps on the bookshelf. About how hard she worked to get me here. And then I thought about how I’ve done nothing but let her down.”

"I thought about my dad,” He continued. “He...he trained me from the moment I could hold a ball. Used to tell everyone I’d make it to the majors. That I’d be his legacy.”

He stared at the floor, voice brittle. “He’d pepper me with baseballs in the backyard. No glove sometimes. Just to see if I’d flinch. Said it was the only way to toughen me up. Said big leaguers don’t blink. He didn’t care if I cried. Didn’t care if I bled. All he wanted was a ballplayer. Not a damn disappointment.”

You reached for his hand. He let you take it.

"I’m finally becoming the son he expected—someone who disappoints."

Tears welled in your eyes. "You’re not disappointing, Jarren. You’re right here. With me. You’re not him."

He turned to you, finally, eyes glossy and broken.

“And then I thought about you,” he said. “How you’d probably find my hoodie on the couch. My cleats by the door. How you’d still feed the stupid fucking cat even if I never came back. Like life would just... go on.”

His voice cracked. “And I hated that. I hated the idea of leaving you here with all this.”

You crawled into his lap before your knees gave out. Threw your arms around him like you could hold his soul in place. His hands clutched at your back like he was still falling.

“You’re here,” you said. Over and over, like prayer. “You’re here. You’re here. You’re here.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until he wiped your tears away.

“I would,” you said. “I would notice. Every second. Every day. Don’t you ever fucking say that again.”

And for a while, neither of you moved. Not even when the clock struck 3 a.m. Not even when the weight of everything settled between you like a third body.

Because maybe he hadn’t jumped.

But part of him had still fallen.

And now it was up to both of you to pull him back.

⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎⚾︎

Jarren didn’t speak much on the drive to Worcester. You offered to take him, and he didn’t protest.

He stared out the window the entire time, hoodie pulled over his head, sunglasses on even though it was cloudy. He looked like someone in mourning.

Maybe he was.

When you pulled up to Polar Park, he didn’t move for a full minute. Then he exhaled slowly, like a man being asked to walk the plank.

“I don’t want to go in there,” he murmured. “I don’t want to do this again.”

You reached for his hand. He let you take it.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” you said. “Not here. Not ever. You’re more than your stats, Jarren. You’re more than a call-up. I know you don’t believe that. But I do.”

He didn’t respond. Just opened the car door.

You got out, followed him, helped carry his bag. He paused before the entrance, turning to you like he might say something. Might ask you to stay.

But he didn’t.

He just stepped forward. The door closed behind him.

You watched the entrance until the chill got to you.

When you got home that night, you found the sweatshirt he always wore draped over the couch. The sleeves were still warm.

You sat with it curled in your lap, breathing in the scent of him. Clean linen, a hint of cedar, something undeniably him.

He texted you a few hours later.

I miss you already. I’ll try to be okay.

You replied.

I’ll wait. Come back when you’re ready. I’ll be here.

He didn’t text back.

But you waited. 

You’ll always wait for that boy. 

No matter what.

[newyorkthegoldenage]

The Giants get a big welcome when they reported to Spring Training in Phoenix in 1955.

Photo: Bettmann Archive/Getty Images/SF Chronicle

[mpregstuff]

Pregnancy Power in the Yankee Clubhouse | In the heart of the buzzing Yankee clubhouse, a 34-week-pregnant man stands confidently, showcasing his baby bump in a snug navy blue jersey. With a serious look on his face, he tunes into a strategy meeting, surrounded by his animated teammates. Some wear uniforms while others chill in casual gear. A vintage baseball bat leans against a locker, waiting for the game. The warm, cozy lights create an inviting vibe as laughter and chatter fill the air. Everyone is in high spirits, supporting each other with every playful jab. This unique scene blends the thrill of baseball with a surprising twist, proving that team spirit knows no bounds. More images are also available at https://mpregstuff.com.

[disclosuro-1999]

Moe Szyslak and Aeropos Walkov in "Abe League of Their Moe"

Season 36 / Episode 19

[lowkeloki]

Takashi Murakami threw out the first pitch at the 2025 Tokyo Series.

[garbage--account]

Nagumohara's baseball team

expectation :

Reality :

[arcasports]

Gotham City

BASEBALL:

Gotham Green Sox (1876-present)

STADIUMS:

Gotham Polo Grounds (1876-1951)

Monument Stadium (1952-present)

Gotham Globetrotters (1876-1957)

STADIUMS:

Robinson Park (1876-1957)

Gotham Aristocrats (1961-present)

STADIUMS:

Gotham Polo Grounds (1961-1969)

Wayne Stadium (1970-2005)

Greenleaf Financial Park (2006-present)

FOOTBALL:

Gotham City Goats (1920-1944)

STADIUMS:

Robinson Park (1920-1944)

Gotham City Goblins (1920-present)

STADIUMS:

Gotham Polo Grounds (1920-1951)

Monument Stadium (1952-1969)

Wayne Stadium (1970-2005)

ArcaLife Insurance Stadium (2006-present)

Gotham Rogues (1960-present)

STADIUMS:

Gotham Polo Grounds (1960-1969)

Wayne Stadium (1970-2005)

ArcaLife Insurance Stadium (2006-present)

BASKETBALL:

Gotham City Nationals (1942-1956)

STADIUMS:

Gotham Garden (1942-1956)

Gotham City Gentlemen (1942-present)

STADIUM:

Gotham Garden (1942-present)

Gotham Slam (2002-present)

STADIUM:

Gotham Garden (2002-2015)

Cardiff-Squire Bank Arena (2016-present)

MORE GOTHAM CITY