#red sox

[radtechsp]

Finally got another full frame digital camera, a Nikon Df Here are a few favorites from today's test shots, hopefully you enjoy them :3

[shiningfens]

red sox tape pedro to the dugout pole. '99

[thecaywild]

Let’s go redsox

[dizzymonsters]

IM Cuphead is my favroittest cup ever and he’d absolutely 100% play baseball on the Red Sox team

no cap 10000% canon to IM this absolutely happens /silly

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

out of left field

summary: jarren duran was supposed to be just a stranger, but he becomes the man who chooses you and your daughter without fear.

word count: 8.4k words

a/n: this was a request, i hope you enjoy!! this is also my first ever jarren fic!! thank you for reading!!!

⸻

The community center smells like popcorn and poster paint, and you're trying to keep track of Layla in the chaos of the spring carnival. She's darting between booths with the fearless energy that she has, her hair bouncing as she runs. You follow close behind, your hand instinctively reaching out whenever she gets too far ahead.

"Mama, look!" She's pointing at the face painting station, her eyes wide with excitement.

"Okay, baby. Let's go." You guide her toward the line, your hand resting protectively on her shoulder. It's a habit you've developed over the years keeping her close, keeping her safe. Not just physically, but emotionally too. You've learned the hard way that the world can be cruel, that people can promise forever and then slowly, quietly, take it back.

The line moves slowly. Layla chatters about wanting to be a butterfly, then a tiger, then a butterfly again. You smile and nod, only half listening, your mind wandering to the grocery list you need to tackle after this, the laundry waiting at home, the bills on the kitchen counter. Single parenthood is a constant juggling act and you're always one dropped ball away from everything crashing down.

That's when it happens.

Layla breaks free from your side, chasing after a balloon that's escaped someone's grip. It's bobbing through the crowd, pink and shiny, and she's running after it with her arms outstretched.

"Layla!" You lunge forward, but she's already collided with someone a tall figure in jeans and a hoodie. You reach them in seconds, your heart pounding, your hands already pulling her back against you.

"I'm so sorry," you say quickly, barely looking at the person she's bumped into. Your focus is on Layla, checking her over, making sure she's okay.

"No worries at all." The voice is warm, amused. "She okay?"

You finally look up, and your breath catches slightly. He's younger than you expected, maybe late twenties, with kind eyes and an easy smile. There's something familiar about him, though you can't quite place it. He's crouching down now at eye level with Layla, holding out the pink balloon.

"I think this is what you were after," he says gently.

Layla looks at you for permission, and you nod. She takes the balloon carefully, her small fingers wrapping around the string.

"What do you say, Layla?"

"Thank you," she whispers, suddenly shy.

"You're very welcome." He stands back up, and you notice the Red Sox logo on his hoodie, the athletic build, the way people are starting to glance over with recognition in their eyes.

"Thank you," you echo, your hand still resting on Layla's shoulder. "She got excited about the balloon."

"I get it. Balloons are pretty exciting." He's still smiling, and there's something genuine about it that makes your chest tighten. "I'm Jarren, by the way."

"Hi." You don't offer your name, don't encourage the conversation to continue. Instead, you take a small step back, pulling Layla with you. "We should get back in line. Thanks again."

You can feel his eyes on you as you walk away, but you don't look back. You've learned to recognize danger, and kindness from strangers, especially men feels dangerous now. It feels like the beginning of something you can't afford to start.

Layla looks up at you, still clutching her balloon. "He was nice, Mama."

"Yes, baby. He was." You squeeze her shoulder gently, your throat tight. "Come on, let's get your face painted."

But as you stand in line, you can't help glancing back once. He's at the basketball toss booth now, laughing with a group of kids, showing them how to aim. There's something effortless about the way he moves, the way he connects with them. You force yourself to look away.

You've seen nice before. You've believed in nice before. And you've learned that nice doesn't always stay.

⸻

Three weeks later, you're at the grocery store, Layla sitting in the cart, swinging her legs and singing a song she learned at preschool. You're mentally calculating the total as you add items to the cart, trying to stay within budget. Money is always tight, and you've become an expert at stretching every dollar.

You're reaching for a box of pasta when you hear it.

“Hey"

You turn, and there he is again. Jarren. He's wearing shorts and a t-shirt this time, a baseball cap, but his smile is just as warm as you remember.

Layla lights up immediately. "Mama, it's the balloon man!"

Despite yourself, you feel your lips curve into a small smile. "Hi."

"I was hoping I'd run into you again," he says, pushing his own cart closer. It's filled with protein powder, chicken breasts, vegetables the cart of an athlete. "I never got your name last time."

You hesitate, then decide it's harmless enough. "I'm...we're just doing some shopping."

He notices your deflection but doesn't push. Instead, he focuses on Layla. "How's the balloon? Still flying high?"

"It popped," Layla says sadly. "But Mama said we could get another one someday."

"Someday soon, baby," you add, feeling a pang of guilt. Someday when you have five extra dollars for something as frivolous as a balloon.

Jarren's expression softens, and you wonder if he can read between the lines. "You know," he says carefully, "the team is doing a family day at Fenway next month. It's open to the public free tickets, activities for kids, the whole thing. You can sign up on the Red Sox website if Layla would be interested."

Your walls go up immediately. "That's really kind, but we're okay."

"No pressure at all," he says quickly, seeming to sense your hesitation. "Just thought I'd mention it. The kids always have a great time."

Layla is tugging on your sleeve now. "Mama, can we? Please?"

You look down at her hopeful face, then back at Jarren. This is how it starts, you think. The offers, the kindness, the way they make you feel special. And then, slowly, it all fades away.

"We're really busy," you say firmly. "But thank you for letting us know."

Something flickers in his eyes disappointment, maybe, or understanding. "Sure. No problem. It's on the team website if you change your mind. They usually have passes available at the box office too."

"It was good seeing you both," he adds, and there's a sincerity in his voice that makes your chest ache. "Take care."

He walks away, and Layla slumps in the cart seat. "Why can't we go, Mama?"

"Because we have other things to do, baby." You turn back to your shopping, trying to ignore the disappointment in your daughter's voice.

That night, after Layla is asleep, you find yourself pulling up the Red Sox website on your phone. The family day event is right there on the homepage free admission, activities for kids, player meet and greets. It looks legitimate, exactly what Jarren said it was.

You stare at the registration page for a long moment. You think about throwing your phone aside, about forgetting the whole thing.

Instead, you bookmark the page and try not to think about the way he smiled at Layla, or the way he didn't push when you said no.

⸻

Two weeks pass, and you can't stop thinking about that event. Layla has mentioned it exactly seventeen times, you've counted. Each time, you've changed the subject or distracted her with something else, but the hope in her eyes is getting harder to ignore.

You've been doing this alone for over a year now. After he left after he slowly, painfully pulled away from both of you, you promised yourself you'd never let anyone close enough to hurt Layla again. The engagement ring you'd worn for six months had felt like a promise, like security. But promises, you learned, are just words. And words are easy to take back.

He came into your life when Layla was two. He was charming, attentive, said all the right things about being ready for a relationship with a single mom. He'd read her bedtime stories in funny voices, making her giggle until she couldn't breathe. He'd show up at the playground after work just to push her on the swings for twenty minutes. After eight months, he proposed, and you'd believed him when he said he wanted to be a family.

But then things started to change. It started small plans that got canceled. The bedtime stories he was suddenly too tired to read, even when Layla would bring him her favorite book and climb into his lap. He started staying late at work, coming home after she was already asleep. He stopped reaching for your hand when Layla was around, stopped including her in conversations.

He missed her third birthday. Said he had to work, but you saw the instagram post from his friend's party that same night. When you confronted him, he said he "wasn't sure he was ready to be a dad," that he "needed space to figure things out." The man who'd promised to be there forever suddenly couldn't handle a three year old's bedtime routine.

The worst part wasn't the breakup itself. It was watching Layla ask for him, day after day. "Where is he? When is he coming back? Did I do something wrong?" You'd held her while she cried, made excuses you didn't believe, and hated yourself for bringing someone into her life who could hurt her like that.

Now, watching Layla play with her dolls, making them go on adventures she'll never get to have, you feel that guilt like a physical weight. She deserves more than this. She deserves experiences and joy and memories that don't fit within your tight budget and tighter schedule.

You pull up the Red Sox website again, the family day is this Saturday, free admission. You just need to register online or pick up passes at the box office. It's a public event there will be hundreds of families there. The chances of even running into Jarren are slim.

And even if you do...it's not like accepting an invitation from him personally. You're just taking your daughter to a free community event. That's all.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you fill out the registration form, two passes. You and Layla. You hit submit and immediately want to take it back.

But it's done. And when you tell Layla the next morning that you're going to Fenway Park on Saturday, her scream of joy makes every bit of anxiety worth it.

Saturday arrives too quickly. You dress Layla in a pink shirt and shorts with sneakers. You pull your own hair back into a ponytail and try not to look like you're trying too hard.

Fenway Park is overwhelming. The crowds, the noise, the sheer size of it all. Layla grips your hand tightly, her eyes wide as she takes it all in. You show your registration confirmation at the gate, and they hand you wristbands and a schedule of activities.

The stadium is set up differently than you expected. Instead of crowds in the seats, families are gathered on the field and in designated activity areas. There are stations set up everywhere a batting cage with foam balls, a pitching area with targets, face painting, a meet and greet zone where players are signing autographs. Kids are running everywhere, laughing and playing, and the energy is infectious.

Layla's eyes are huge, taking it all in. "Mama, can we do everything?"

"We'll try, baby." You check the schedule. There's a skills station starting in twenty minutes, then base running, then player meet and greets throughout the afternoon.

You buy her a hot dog and a lemonade from one of the concession stands, splurging because this is special, because she deserves this. You find a spot to sit and eat, and Layla is bouncing with excitement, watching the other kids play.

"You made it!"

You look up, and Jarren is there, in athletic gear and a Red Sox coaching shirt, clearly part of the event. He's grinning at you both like seeing you here has made his entire day. The surprise on his face is genuine, he clearly wasn't expecting you.

"Jarren!" Layla practically shouts, and before you can stop her, she's reaching for him.

He doesn't hesitate. He crouches down, giving her a high five. "Are you having fun?"

"So much fun! Mama got me a hot dog and everything!"

"That's awesome." He looks up at you, and there's something in his eyes that makes your breath catch. "I'm really glad you came. I wasn't sure if you would."

"It's a free event," you say, maybe a bit too defensively. "Seemed like something Layla would enjoy."

"Well, I'm glad you're here." He stands, and there's no judgment in his voice, just warmth. "Have you done the skills station yet?"

You shake your head.

"I'm actually helping run it," he says. "Would you want to join, Layla? We're going to teach throwing and catching, and there's going to be base running after."

Layla is nodding so vigorously you're worried she'll hurt her neck.

The skills station is wonderful. There are about twenty kids, all around Layla's age, and four players leading them through basic baseball skills. Jarren is one of them, and you watch as he patiently shows a small boy how to hold a glove, then helps a girl adjust her stance for throwing.

There's something natural about the way he moves between the kids, crouching down to their level, celebrating their small victories, encouraging them when they struggle. He doesn't have the slightly awkward energy of someone unused to children this is clearly familiar territory for him. You remember seeing photos on the team's social media, players surrounded by their teammates' kids at family events, children of family friends at charity functions. He has that same comfortable energy now, like he's spent plenty of time around little ones even if none of them are his own.

When it's Layla's turn, he crouches down to her level, showing her how to hold the foam ball, how to step and throw. She's terrible at it, the ball going everywhere except where she aims, but he just laughs and encourages her, running to retrieve each wild throw like it's the most important thing in the world.

"You're doing great!" he tells her. "Want to try catching now?"

He tosses the ball gently, and she misses the first three times. On the fourth, it lands in her glove, and she screams with delight. Jarren gives her a high five and you feel tears prick your eyes.

This is what you wanted for her. This is what you thought you'd have someone who would show up, who would make her feel special, who would stay.

After the catching and throwing, there's base running. The kids line up, and one by one, they run the bases while parents cheer and take pictures. When it's Layla's turn, Jarren runs with her, matching his pace to her small legs, cheering her on as she rounds each base. Other parents are taking pictures, kids are laughing, and your chest feels tight with emotion.

The afternoon continues with more activities face painting, where Layla gets a butterfly on her cheek, a photo booth with player cutouts, and finally, the meet and greet area where several players are signing autographs and taking pictures.

As the event winds down, Jarren finds you again. Layla is exhausted but happy, her face painted, clutching a signed baseball and a foam finger.

"So," he says, hands in his pockets, looking almost nervous. "I'm really glad you guys came today. Layla seems like she had a great time."

"She did. Thank you for...for being so great with her."

"She's easy to be great with." He pauses, then pulls out his phone. "Look, I know you're cautious, and I respect that. But I'd really like to see you both again. Maybe at an actual game sometime? No pressure, just...if you're interested, I'd love for you to come. I can leave tickets for you at will call, or you can just text me and let me know if you want to come to any games. Whatever you're comfortable with."

He's giving you an out. Multiple outs, actually. You could take his number and never use it. You could say no right now. You could thank him politely and walk away.

But Layla is tugging on your hand, looking up at you with those hopeful eyes, and you think about how happy she's been today. How long it's been since you've seen her this happy.

"Okay," you hear yourself say, pulling out your phone. "I'll...I'll think about it."

He gives you his number, and you save it in your contacts. It feels significant somehow, like you're opening a door you've kept locked for so long.

"No pressure," he says again. "Whenever you're ready. Or if you're never ready, that's okay too. I just wanted you to have the option."

As you walk to your car later, Layla chattering nonstop about running the bases and meeting the players, you feel something shift inside you. Just slightly. Just enough to let in a sliver of hope.

And that terrifies you more than anything.

⸻

The text comes three days later, while you're making dinner and Layla is coloring at the kitchen table.

Hey. Game this Friday night if you guys want to come. No pressure at all. Just thought I'd let you know.

You stare at the message. Layla has asked about him twice since the family day when they'll see him again, if they can go to another baseball thing. Each time, you've deflected, changed the subject, told yourself it's better this way.

But you're tired of saying no to everything, tired of letting fear make all your decisions.

What time? you type back before you can overthink it.

His response is almost immediate. 7pm. I'll leave tickets at will call under your name. Good seats, I promise.

You almost argue about the tickets, about not wanting charity, but you stop yourself. This is what he does he gets tickets to games. It's not charity, it's just...kindness.

Okay. We'll be there.

Can't wait to see you both.

Friday night, you're back at Fenway. The energy is completely different from the family day the stands are packed, the crowd is loud, and there's an electricity in the air that makes Layla bounce with excitement. The tickets are good, really good, and you try not to think about what they would have cost.

Jarren is playing tonight, and you find yourself watching him more than you should. The way he moves on the field, the focus and intensity, the way he celebrates with his teammates. When he makes a great catch in the fifth inning, the stadium erupts, and Layla jumps up and down, screaming his name even though there's no way he can hear her.

After the game, a Red Sox win your phone buzzes.

You guys still here?

You hesitate, then type back: Just heading out.

Wait by the family exit? I'll walk you to your car.

You should say no, should maintain boundaries. But you find yourself directing Layla toward the family exit, waiting with a handful of other families for players to emerge.

When Jarren comes out, hair damp from a quick shower, Layla runs to him. You start to call her back, but he's already crouching down, catching her in a hug.

"Did you see me catch that ball?" he asks her.

"Yes! It was so cool! You jumped really high!"

"I had to make sure I impressed you," he says seriously, and she giggles.

He stands, Layla's hand in his, and walks over to you. "Hey."

"Hey. Great game."

"Thanks." He looks tired but happy. "I'm glad you came."

He walks you to your car, carrying Layla when she gets tired, chatting easily about the game and an upcoming team barbecue. It's comfortable, natural, and that scares you almost as much as it comforts you.

"So, speaking of the barbecue," he says as you reach your car. "It's next Saturday. Just a casual thing players, families, kids. Would you guys want to come?"

Every instinct tells you to say no. To thank him politely and create distance, to protect Layla from getting any more attached. But then you look at your daughter's face, still flushed with joy from the game, and you think about how long it's been since you've seen her this happy.

"Okay," you hear yourself say. "We'll come."

His smile is brilliant. "Yeah? That's great. I'll text you the details."

The week passes in a blur of anticipation and anxiety. Jarren texts you during the week nothing pushy, just friendly messages. A photo of a funny sign he saw that he thought would make Layla laugh. A question about whether she has any food allergies. Small things that show he's thinking about you both.

It's been so long since anyone has thought about you like this, since anyone has made space for you in their life.

You can't help but notice the consistency. Every morning, there's a message. Every night, he checks in. When you mention something in passing Layla's favorite color, a book you're reading he remembers. He asks about it later.

It's so different from before. From how things were with him, how the daily texts slowly became every other day, then just when he felt like it, then not at all. How "I'll be there" became "I'll try" became "we'll see" became silence.

You keep waiting for Jarren's messages to slow down, for the gaps to grow longer. But they don't.

Saturday arrives, and you dress Layla in shorts and a t-shirt, something she can play in. You change your own outfit three times before settling on jeans and a simple top.

The barbecue is at a park near the stadium, and when you arrive, there are already dozens of people there. Players with their families, kids running around, the smell of grilling food in the air. It's overwhelming and warm and exactly the kind of thing you've avoided for the past year.

Jarren spots you immediately and jogs over. "You came!" He grins at Layla. "Hey, superstar. Ready to have some fun?"

Layla nods, but she's pressed against your leg, suddenly shy with all the new people.

Jarren seems to sense her hesitation. He crouches down to her level. "I get it. Lots of new people, huh? Tell you what, how about we start with something easy? See that table over there with all the drinks? Want to help me pick out the best lemonade?"

Layla looks up at you for permission, and you nod. You watch as Jarren takes her hand and leads her to the drink table, talking to her gently, making her laugh.

"Your daughter's adorable."

You turn to find a woman standing next to you, a toddler on her hip. She's smiling warmly.

"Thank you," you say. "So is yours."

"I'm Emma. My husband plays with Jarren." She nods toward the field where a group of players are tossing a football around. "Is this your first team event?"

"Yeah. We just...Jarren invited us."

Emma's smile widens knowingly. "He's a good guy. One of the best on the team, honestly. Great with kids too, as you can see." She watches as Jarren helps Layla pour lemonade into a cup, steadying her hand. "He's always been like that shows up to every teammate's kid's birthday party, remembers all their names, plays with them like he's got all the time in the world. My son asks for him specifically. And he doesn't even have kids of his own. He just has that way about him, you know?"

You watch as Jarren celebrates when Layla successfully pours without spilling, giving her a high five. Your chest tightens. "He seems like it."

"He talks about you, you know."

Your head snaps toward Emma. "What?"

"Not in a weird way," she adds quickly. "Just...he mentioned meeting this woman and her daughter, said he hoped they'd come today. He seemed really happy when you showed up."

You don't know what to say to that. The idea that Jarren has been talking about you, thinking about you, makes your chest tight with something you can't quite name.

The afternoon passes in a blur of food and games and laughter. Jarren stays close to you and Layla, introducing you to his teammates, making sure you're comfortable, including you in conversations. Layla is in heaven, running around with the other kids, playing games, eating too much cake.

You find yourself relaxing, laughing at stories the other wives and girlfriends tell, feeling like maybe you could belong here.

At one point, Layla trips while running and goes down hard on the concrete path. Before you can even reach her, Jarren is there, scooping her up, examining her scraped knee with serious concern.

"That's a pretty good battle wound," he tells her gently. "You're very brave."

"It hurts," she whimpers, tears on her cheeks.

"I know, sweetheart. Let's get you cleaned up, okay?" He carries her to a first aid kit, and you follow, your heart in your throat.

You watch as he gently cleans the scrape, talking to her the whole time, distracting her with a story about the time he fell during a game and had to keep playing anyway. By the time he's putting on a bandaid one with cartoon characters that someone's parent had in their bag she's smiling again.

"All better?" he asks.

She nods, then throws her arms around his neck. "Thank you, Jarren."

He hugs her back, and when he looks up at you over her head, there's something in his eyes that makes you want to run and stay in equal measure.

You remember the time Layla fell at the playground when you were still with him. How you'd called, asking if he could bring bandaids on his way over. How he'd said "sure, yeah" but then showed up empty handed two hours later, saying he forgot. How Layla had waited, crying, because she wanted him to fix it. How you'd learned to stop asking, to stop expecting him to show up when it mattered.

But Jarren didn't hesitate and didn't make excuses. He just acted.

Later, as the sun starts to set and families begin to leave, Layla falls asleep on a blanket, exhausted from the day. You're sitting next to her, and Jarren drops down beside you, two bottles of water in his hands. He offers you one.

"Thanks." You take it, grateful.

"She had a good time," he says, looking at Layla's sleeping form with a soft smile.

"She had an amazing time. Thank you for inviting us."

"I'm glad you came." He's quiet for a moment, then adds, "I wasn't sure you would."

You look at him, at the honesty in his face. "I almost didn't."

"What changed your mind?"

You consider lying, deflecting, but something about the way he's looking at you makes you want to be honest. "Layla. She deserves this. She deserves to have fun, to feel included, to have..." You trail off, not sure how to finish.

"To have people who show up for her," Jarren finishes softly.

You nod, feeling your throat tighten. "Yeah."

He's quiet for a long moment. "Can I ask you something? And you don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Okay."

"What happened? With Layla's..." He hesitates. "With whoever hurt you both?"

You take a shaky breath. You haven't talked about this with anyone, not really. But something about Jarren about the way he's been so patient, so consistent makes you want to try.

"He came into our lives when Layla was two," you say quietly. "Said all the right things about being ready for a relationship with a single mom. He was great at first showed up, played with her, made promises about being a family. He even proposed." You twist the water bottle in your hands. "But then things changed. Slowly. He stopped responding to texts as quickly. Started saying 'we'll see' instead of 'yes' when we made plans. Stopped wanting to be in photos with us—I noticed that around month four, but I told myself I was being paranoid." Your voice cracks. "He missed her third birthday. Just...didn't show up. And when I confronted him, he said he wasn't sure he was ready to be a dad. That he needed space."

"And Layla?" Jarren's voice is tight.

"She asked for him every day for weeks. Kept asking what she did wrong, why he didn't want to see her anymore." Tears are streaming down your face now. "I brought him into her life. I let her get attached. I let her call him family. And then I had to watch her heart break when he left."

Jarren is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is fierce. "That's not on you. He made a choice. A cowardly, selfish choice. He let a three-year-old think she was the reason he left. That's..." He stops, jaw clenched. "That's unforgivable."

"I should have seen the signs earlier. Should have protected her better."

"You did the best you could with the information you had. He's the one who failed. Not you."

You look at him, at the anger in his eyes not at you, but for you. "I'm scared," you admit. "I'm scared of letting you into her life and then having you leave. I'm scared of her getting attached and then being heartbroken again. I'm scared of—" You stop, swallowing hard.

"Of getting hurt yourself," he finishes gently.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

Jarren shifts closer, his voice serious and sincere. "I can't promise I'll be perfect. I can't promise I'll never make mistakes. But I can promise that I'm not going anywhere. I can promise that if I'm in, I'm all in. And I can promise that I would never, ever hurt Layla intentionally. Or you."

You want to believe him. God, you want to believe him so badly.

"I need time," you whisper. "I need to go slow. For her sake."

"Okay." He nods immediately. "We'll go as slow as you need. I'm not going anywhere."

You look down at Layla, sleeping peacefully, her small hand curled near her face. You think about the joy on her face today, the way she laughed and played and felt safe.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."

When you look back at Jarren, he's smiling. Not triumphantly, not smugly, just...warmly.

"Thank you," he says. "For trusting me this much. I know it's not easy."

You don't respond, but you don't pull away either when his hand briefly touches yours. It's just a moment, just a small connection, but it feels like something shifting. Like a door you've kept locked is opening, just a crack.

⸻

The texts start the next day.

Hope you guys got home safe. Layla's knee doing okay?

You stare at the message for a moment before responding. She's fine. Already asking when we can see you again.

Just her?

Despite everything, you smile. We both had a good time. Thank you.

The messages continue throughout the week. Nothing overwhelming, nothing that demands too much. Just small check-ins, funny observations, pictures that he thinks Layla would like. A dog he saw at the park wearing a Red Sox bandana. A rainbow after a rainstorm.

You find yourself looking forward to them. Find yourself smiling at your phone in a way you haven't in years.

But there's a part of you that's waiting. Waiting for the messages to slow down, for the gaps between texts to grow longer. That's how it started before the daily good morning texts became every other day, then just when he felt like it, then not at all. The enthusiastic responses became shorter, less engaged. "Can't wait to see you" became "maybe this weekend" became "I'll let you know" became silence.

You keep expecting Jarren to follow the same pattern. To start "forgetting" to respond, to get too busy, to slowly fade away.

But he doesn't. Every morning, there's a message. Every night, he checks in. When you mention something in passing Layla's favorite color, a book you're reading, a problem at work he remembers. He asks about it later. He shows up, consistently, in a way that feels almost too good to be true.

On Wednesday, he texts: Game on Friday. Would you guys want to come? No pressure at all.

You hesitate. You've already gone to two games, already accepted so much. You don't want to seem needy, don't want to take advantage.

Are you sure? We don't want to impose.

You're not imposing. I want you there. Both of you.

Friday night, you're back at Fenway. Layla is wearing the Red Sox shirt you found at a thrift store, and she's bouncing with excitement. The tickets are waiting at will call, good seats again, and Jarren waves at you both from the field during warm ups.

After the game, another Red Sox win he walks you to your car like he's been doing. Layla is half asleep on his shoulder.

"She's getting attached to you," you say quietly as you reach your car.

"Is that a bad thing?" He asks it carefully, like he already knows the answer might hurt.

”I don't know yet." You're being honest, at least. "I just...I need you to understand what that means. If you're going to be in her life, you have to really be in it. You can't just...fade away when it gets hard or boring or inconvenient."

"I won't." His voice is firm. "I promise you, I won't."

You've heard promises before. But you nod anyway, because what else can you do?

The next week, Jarren is on a road trip. You don't expect to hear from him much he'll be busy, focused on games, living his life. That's what happened before. Road trips became a relief, a break from the "responsibility" of being around. The texts would stop, the calls would be forgotten, and he'd come back distant and distracted.

But Jarren texts you from the airport. Sends pictures from different cities. A street performer in New York that he thought Layla would like. A funny sign in Baltimore. A video of his teammate doing a terrible dance in the hotel lobby.

Missing you guys.

You stare at the message, your heart doing something complicated in your chest. Layla misses you too.

Just Layla?

You can practically hear the teasing in his voice. We both miss you, you admit.

On Thursday morning, Layla wakes up with a fever. It's not serious, just a cold, but she's miserable and clingy. You call in sick to work, losing a day's pay you can't afford to lose, and spend the day on the couch with her, watching cartoons and giving her medicine.

You don't text Jarren. You don't want to bother him, don't want to seem needy or like you expect him to care about your everyday problems. He's in another city, in the middle of a road trip. He has more important things to worry about.

But around noon, your phone rings. It's Jarren.

"Hello?"

"Hey, is everything okay? You haven't responded to my messages."

You look at your phone and realize you have three unread texts from him. "I'm sorry, I didn't see them. Layla's sick, and I've been distracted."

"Sick? Is she okay? Do you need anything?"

The concern in his voice makes your throat tight. "She's fine, just a cold. We're okay."

“Are you sure? I can have food delivered, or medicine, or—"

"Jarren." You stop him gently. "We're okay. Really. Thank you, though."

He's quiet for a moment. "Will you text me later? Let me know how she's doing?"

"You're in the middle of a road trip. You don't need to worry about us."

"I want to worry about you," he says, and there's something fierce in his voice. "Please. Just text me later."

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."

That evening, after Layla's fever breaks and she's sleeping peacefully, you send him a picture of her curled up with her favorite stuffed animal.

She's doing better. Thank you for checking on us.

I'm glad. You're a good mom.

You stare at those words, at the simple affirmation, and feel tears prick your eyes. You can't remember the last time someone told you that. Can't remember the last time someone saw how hard you were trying.

The next day, there's a knock at your door. When you open it, there's a delivery person holding a large box. Inside is soup, crackers, juice, children's medicine, and a stuffed bear wearing a Red Sox jersey. There's a small note tucked inside: Hope this helps. Wish I could be there. - J

You stand in your doorway, holding the note, and cry. Not sad tears, but overwhelmed ones. He'd promised to bring soup once when Layla was sick. He never showed up, never even texted to explain why. You'd learned not to count on anyone but yourself.

But Jarren is in another city, in the middle of a road trip, and he still found a way to show up.

Layla is delighted by the bear, naming it "Sox" immediately and insisting it sleep next to her. You take a picture and send it to Jarren.

Thank you. You didn't have to do this.

I wanted to. How are YOU doing?

No one ever asks you that. Everyone always asks about Layla, about how she's handling things, about whether she's okay. No one asks about you.

I'm tired, you admit. But we're okay.

You're doing an amazing job. I hope you know that.

Over the next two weeks, Jarren becomes a constant presence in your life. Not overwhelming, not pushy, just...there. He texts good morning and good night. He asks about Layla's preschool day. He invites you to games, to team events, to casual dinners after games.

And slowly, terrifyingly, you start to let him in.

But then the fear catches up with you.

Layla is asleep, and you're scrolling through your phone, looking at pictures from the past month. There are so many of Jarren with Layla, with you, at games, at the park. Layla talks about him constantly now. Asks for him when he's not around. Draws him pictures. Calls him "her Jarren" like he belongs to her.

She's attached and when he leaves because people always leave she'll be devastated.

The panic rises in your chest, sharp and suffocating. You're making the same mistake again. You're letting someone get too close, letting Layla love someone who might not stay. You should have been more careful, should have kept more distance, should have protected her better.

You pull out your phone and type before you can stop yourself.

I think we need to take a step back.

Can we talk? Please?

There's nothing to talk about. This is just too much, too fast.

Your phone rings immediately. You consider not answering, but you owe him at least a conversation.

"What happened?" His voice is concerned, confused. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No. You didn't do anything wrong. That's the problem."

"I don't understand."

You take a deep breath. "Layla is getting too attached. She talks about you constantly. She asks for you. And when you leave—"

"I'm not leaving."

"You say that now. But people always say that." Your voice is shaking. "He said that too. He said he was ready, said he wanted this. And I believed him. I let Layla get attached. And then he started pulling away slowly, so slowly I almost didn't notice. He stopped wanting to be in photos with us. Started saying 'we'll see' instead of 'yes' when we made plans. Stopped showing up when he said he would. And by the time he was gone, Layla was devastated." Tears are streaming down your face. "I can't do that again. I won't let her go through that again."

Jarren is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is serious, weighted. "I understand what you're protecting her from. I understand why you're scared. And I'm not asking you to just trust me blindly." He pauses. "But I need you to hear this, I'm not him. I'm not going to fade away. I'm not going to make excuses. I'm not going to let Layla think she did something wrong. I'm here, and I'm staying, and I need you to let me prove that to you."

"That's not fair to you," you say quietly. "To wait around while I figure out if I can trust you."

"That's my choice to make. And I'm choosing to stay." His voice is firm. "I know you've heard promises before. I know words don't mean much to you right now. So I'm not going to make a bunch of promises. I'm just going to keep showing up. Every day. Until you believe me."

"I'm so scared," you whisper.

"I know. And that's okay. Be scared. But don't push me away because of it. Let me prove to you that I'm different. Let me prove that some people actually stay."

You're crying now, silent tears running down your face. You want to believe him. You want it so badly it physically hurts.

"I need time," you whisper.

"Take all the time you need," he says gently. "I'll be here when you're ready. I'm not going anywhere."

⸻

The first few days are the hardest.

You don't text Jarren, and he doesn't push. But every morning, there's a message waiting for you. Nothing demanding or nothing that requires a response.

Good morning. Hope you both have a great day.

Thinking about you two.

Won the game tonight. Wished you were there.

Present without being intrusive, you don't respond. You're not ready but you read every single one.

Layla notices his absence immediately. On the third day, she asks, "When are we seeing Jarren again?"

"I don't know, sweetheart. He's been busy with baseball."

"Can we go to a game?"

"Not this week, baby."

By the fifth day, she's more insistent. "Mama, I miss Jarren. Can we call him?"

"He's traveling right now, Layla."

"But he always texts you when he's traveling." She's looking at you with those big, knowing eyes that see far too much. "Did you have a fight?"

"No, honey. We just...we need a little space right now."

"Why?"

Because I'm terrified. Because everyone leaves eventually, because I don't know how to let someone in without falling apart when they go.

"It's complicated, baby."

She goes quiet, playing with the edge of her shirt. Then, so softly you almost miss it "Did I do something wrong?"

Your heart breaks. "No. Oh, sweetheart, no." You pull her into your lap. "You didn't do anything wrong. This has nothing to do with you."

"Then why can't we see him?"

You don't have an answer that makes sense to her. You don't have an answer that makes sense to yourself.

That night, after Layla's asleep, you sit in the dark living room and think about what you're doing. What you're teaching her.

You've spent the past year protecting her from disappointment, from abandonment, from the pain of people who don't stay. You've built walls around both of you, kept your world small and safe and controlled.

But what is she learning from that? Is she learning that love is worth the risk? That some people are worth trusting? That being brave means feeling the fear and choosing connection anyway? Or is she learning that everyone leaves, so it's better not to let anyone close? That walls are safer than vulnerability? That running is easier than staying?

You think about her father how he promised to be there and then slowly, steadily disappeared. How he taught her that the people who are supposed to love you can just stop.

And now you're doing the same thing. Not because Jarren has given you any reason to doubt him, but because you're so afraid of the possibility that he might.

You're teaching Layla to run from fear instead of through it.

The realization sits heavy in your chest. You've been so focused on protecting her from pain that you haven't considered what you might be protecting her from experiencing: consistency, reliability, someone who actually shows up.

Jarren has been nothing but present. Even now, when you've pushed him away, he's still there. Still sending those quiet messages that say I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.

Your ex made promises and broke them. Jarren hasn't made promises he's just shown up, again and again, in all the small ways that actually matter.

And you've been so busy waiting for him to leave that you haven't let yourself see that he's been staying all along.

You pick up your phone. It's late, but you type the message before you can talk yourself out of it.

I'm sorry. I've been scared and I took it out on you. You didn't deserve that.

The response comes within minutes, even though it's past midnight.

You don't have to apologize for being scared. I meant what I said I'm not going anywhere.

Can we talk? Tomorrow?

I'd like that. I'll call you after practice?

Okay.

There's a pause, then another message appears.

I've missed you both. So much.

You stare at those words, feeling something crack open in your chest.

We've missed you too.

⸻

When Jarren calls the next day, you're nervous. But his voice is warm, familiar, safe.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Hey."

"How are you?"

"Scared," you admit. "But...I've been thinking. About what I'm teaching Layla. About what it means to be brave."

"And?"

"And I think being brave means letting you in. Even though it terrifies me. Even though I don't know how this ends." You take a breath. "I don't want to teach her to run from good things because she's afraid of losing them."

"You won't lose me," Jarren says quietly. "I know you don't fully believe that yet. But I'm going to keep proving it to you."

"Layla's birthday is next week," you say, your heart pounding. "We're having a small party at the park. Just a few friends from her preschool. Nothing big. But...I'd really like you to be there. If you want to come."

This is the test, you realize. The real one. Not whether he says yes, but whether he actually shows up.

"I'll be there," he says immediately. "What day?"

"Saturday. Two o'clock."

"I'll be there," he repeats. "Thank you for inviting me."

⸻

The week passes slowly. Jarren texts every day, and this time, you respond. You tell him about Layla's excitement for her birthday, about the unicorn cake you ordered, about how she's been counting down the days.

You don't mention that you're also counting down waiting to see if he'll actually show up.

Saturday arrives bright and sunny. You get to the park early to set up, and Layla is vibrating with excitement, running between the picnic tables and the playground.

"Is Jarren coming?" she asks for the tenth time.

"He said he would, baby."

"When will he be here?"

"Soon."

Parents start arriving with their kids, and you busy yourself with greeting everyone, setting out food, making sure everything is perfect. You check your phone. It's 2:15. The party has started.

He's not here yet.

Your stomach twists. Maybe he got held up. Maybe there was traffic. Maybe—

"Mama! Mama, look!"

You turn, and there he is. Jarren, jogging across the grass toward you, carrying a large wrapped box and looking slightly out of breath.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," he says when he reaches you. "There was an accident on the highway and traffic was completely stopped. I tried to text but my phone died." He looks genuinely distressed. "I was worried I'd miss it."

"You're here," you say softly. "That's what matters."

"Jarren!" Layla crashes into him, and he laughs, setting down the present to scoop her up.

"Happy birthday, princess! Are you having fun?"

"Yes! Come see, come see!" She drags him toward the playground where her friends are playing.

You watch him go, something settling in your chest. He came. He was late, but he came. And he was stressed about being late because it mattered to him to be here.

Later, when it's time for presents, Layla tears into Jarren's gift with enthusiasm. Inside is a child sized Red Sox jersey with "LAYLA" printed on the back, and beneath it, something that makes your breath catch.

It's a baseball glove. A real one, sized perfectly for her small hands and tucked inside is a baseball with writing on it.

Layla pulls it out, squinting at the words. "What does it say?"

Jarren kneels beside her. "It says, 'To Layla, the best catcher I know. Keep being brave. Love, Jarren.'"

Your eyes are burning. He remembered. That day at the community event, when he taught her to catch. When she kept trying even though she kept missing. When she was brave.

"This is the best present ever!" Layla throws her arms around his neck. "Can we play catch later?"

"Absolutely. Anytime you want."

After the party, after the other families have left and you've cleaned up, Jarren helps you carry everything to your car. Layla is wearing her new jersey and carrying her glove like it's made of gold.

"Thank you," you say quietly. "For the gift. For coming. For everything."

"Thank you for inviting me." He looks at you, and there's something soft in his expression. "I know that was hard for you. Trusting that I'd show up."

"You did, though. Even when you were late, even when things went wrong you still came."

"I told you I would." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "I'm going to keep showing up, for as long as you'll let me. For both of you."

Layla is already in the car, buckling herself in, chattering about her party. You look at Jarren, at this man who has been patient and consistent and present, and you feel something shift inside you.

Maybe not everyone leaves. Maybe some people actually mean it when they say they'll stay.

"Same time next week?" he asks. "There's a home game. I can get you guys good seats."

You smile. "We'd love that."

He grins, and it's like the sun coming out. "It's a date."

As you drive away, Layla clutching her baseball and already planning what she'll wear to the game, you glance in the rearview mirror. Jarren is still standing there, watching you go, his hand raised in a wave.

And for the first time in a long time, you're not afraid of what comes next.

You're just hopeful.

⸻

MASTERLIST

⸻

[benigraiek]

Twitter requests

[massachusetts-official]

sorry if this reads as a confession but i feel the need to say i am from the balkans and have no ties to massachusetts but i did spend my entire childhood OBSESSED with it and boston especially. because when i was very little i watched a yankees vs red sox game with my dad and the red sox were losing by a lot so i decided to root for them with no prior knowledge of anything related to them. and the red sox ended up winning that game AND i think the world series (it would seem the year was 2004) which i interpreted as my doing entirely. and from that moment on i passionately hated the yankees and loved the red sox and begged my mom to buy me anything with the word "boston" on it (i still have and wear a knockoff boston college hoodie from a local shop from like 2010). im normal now but new york yankees hats are now very popular here (for no reason!! the only people who know baseball are the 100 or so people in this country who play it!) and i still feel a pang of irritation whenever i see them. anyway thanks for this blog it takes me back to my massachusetts obsessed childhood 👍 go red sox etc

Official Confession of Massachusetts

[apollosdaydreams]

Do You Ever Wish You Were More Athletic?

Jarren was stretched out on the couch in your apartment, long legs taking up way more space than necessary, one arm was thrown over his eyes.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, phone in hand, pretending to scroll while secretly lining up the perfect moment. The idea had been sitting in your head all day, and the more you thought about it, the harder it became not to laugh.

“Babe.” You said casually.

He hummed in response, adjusting his arm and turning slightly on the couch so he could see you in the kitchen.

“Can I ask you something?”

He squinted at you, “Sure, what's up?”

You put on your most innocent expression.

“Do you ever wish you were… more athletic?”

The silence was immediate. Deafening.

He blinked once. Then twice.

He sat up, turning to fully face you. ‘What?”

“Do you ever wish you were a little bit more athletic?” You repeated giggling.

Jarren let out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “I play professional baseball.”

You tilted your head, “Okay… and?”

“People know my name because I run fast.” He said

You hummed thoughtfully. “True. But do you ever wish you could run, like… faster?”

He narrowed his eyes, “Are you messing with me?”

You bit your lip. “Nooooo.”

“You are absolutely messing with me.” He said before making eye contact with your phone, “Are you filming me right now?”

Jarren's head snapped up from the couch the second he realized what you'd done.

“You did not just post that.”

You smiled innocently from the kitchen. “Post what?”

He was on his feet instantly, eyes locked on your phone. “Give it to me.”

“Nope.” You giggled.

You took off as he ran to the kitchen, socks sliding slightly across the floor as you ran to the living room where he once was, he missed you by inches.

“Y/n,” He laughed, chasing you. “Stop.”

You're the one chasing me!”

You circled the couch again, heart pounding, laughter spilling out of you as he nearly caught you, then didn't. He tried cutting you off, stepping over the corner of the couch instead.

“Cheater!” You laughed.

“You're posting my downfall.” He shot back.

You darted towards the kitchen, but he was faster that time, arms wrapping around you from behind as he lifted you just enough that your feet barely skimmed the floor.

“Got you.” He said smugly.

You laughed, phone still clutched in your hand. “Too late.”

He froze. “What do you mean, too late?”

You tilted the phone so he could see the screen. “Already posted.”

He groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Unbelieable.” he chuckled.

You smiled, completely unbothered.

“Maybe if you were faster.”

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