Curveballs

Mark didn't sleep that night.

No matter how many times he turned over in bed, the image replayed in his head: Jared's hand resting lightly on his waist, the press of warm lips against his own, and that look—the glint in Jared's eyes like he'd just won a game Mark didn't know they were playing. The kiss had been brief, but it hit him like a fastball to the chest.

What the hell did it mean?

He kept analyzing it, picking apart the moment for clues. The girls, the smirk, the way Jared had just walked away like nothing had happened. Was it a dare? A joke? Did he do this to everyone? And yet, Mark couldn't shake the feeling—deep down, in the quiet part of his chest—that it had been something more.

By morning, the lack of sleep caught up with him. His eyes burned, and his limbs felt heavy as he trudged through his first class. The professor's voice faded in and out, a dull drone drowned beneath the pounding in his head. He couldn't stop thinking about it.

And when he wasn't thinking about the kiss, he was thinking about the way his body had responded. The heat that bloomed in his chest. The flutter of confusion and excitement tangled so tight it was hard to breathe.

By the time practice rolled around, Mark considered skipping. He even stood in front of his dorm mirror, glove in hand, debating it. But he wasn't a coward. He didn't run from confrontation—at least, that's what he told himself.

So he showed up.

He arrived early, just like always, going through his stretches and warm-ups on autopilot. The sound of a ball cracking into a mitt, cleats scuffing against the dirt, the low chatter of his teammates—it all felt oddly distant today.

He bent over to tie his cleats again, though they didn't need it, just to keep busy. Just focus. He repeated the mantra in his head. Baseball. Not Jared. Not the kiss. Just baseball.

That illusion shattered the moment Jared walked onto the field.

Wearing his uniform half-zipped and his practice jersey slung lazily over one shoulder, Jared looked irritatingly relaxed. His hair was still damp from a shower, pushed back in loose waves, and his eyes scanned the field like he owned it. He moved like a star—like someone who knew the spotlight belonged to him.

Mark felt his body go rigid as Jared approached, glove spinning lazily in one hand.

"Morning, Carter," Jared said casually, brushing past him with a shoulder bump. "Sleep well?"

Mark stood up slowly, his jaw tightening. "Cut the crap."

Jared stopped mid-step and turned around, lifting an eyebrow. "Whoa. Touchy this morning."

"You know what I'm talking about."

The grin that spread across Jared's face was infuriatingly calm. "Do I?"

Mark stepped closer, eyes locked with his. "Are you messing with me?"

Jared tilted his head like he was genuinely curious. "What makes you think I'm messing with you?"

"You kissed me," Mark said, voice low but sharp. "Right after I saw you with, like, three different girls. Then you just—walked away."

Jared scratched his jaw, pretending to think. "Oh, that kiss. Huh. Didn't seem like you minded."

Mark flushed. "That's not the point."

"Isn't it?" Jared's eyes narrowed, and for the first time, his smirk faded just a little. "You've been glaring at me since day one. Figured maybe if I threw you off your game, I'd see what you were really about."

"By kissing me?" Mark scoffed.

Jared took a step closer. They were almost chest to chest now. "I don't kiss guys I'm not curious about."

Mark's breath hitched.

Jared's voice lowered. "You think I just play around, but you don't get it. People only ever see the surface. They don't look past the smile, the easy jokes. You? You see more than that. And that scares the hell out of me."

Mark blinked, thrown off by the honesty in Jared's tone. There was something different in his eyes now—no teasing, no arrogance. Just... vulnerability. Brief, raw, and real.

Before Mark could respond, Coach's whistle blew from across the field. Both of them turned instinctively.

Jared stepped back. "We'll talk later, rookie," he said with a wink, the mask slipping back over his face. "Focus on not dropping my curveball."

Mark stared after him, heart pounding.

What the hell just happened—again?

Practice started, but the weight of the moment hung between them like static. Jared didn't tease him that day. Not much, anyway. Just a few quiet jokes here and there, passed between pitches. But there were glances—stolen looks when no one else was watching.

And every time Mark met Jared's eyes, he saw something brewing there. Something unfinished.

‐--------

The locker room was quiet after practice.

The rest of the team had already cleared out—laughing, joking, heading off to dinner plans or dorms. Mark took his time lacing his sneakers, trying not to think too hard. His muscles ached from drills, but that wasn't what made his chest feel tight.

He kept expecting Jared to say something else. To pull him aside. To explain.

But Jared had barely looked at him since that moment on the field. He'd pitched like a machine—cold, focused, in control. Not a single joke, not a smile aimed Mark's way. Just business.

Mark hated that it got under his skin.

He stood up and grabbed his bag, about to head out, when the door creaked behind him.

"Hey."

Mark turned. Jared stood just inside the locker room door, hair damp, shirt clinging to his chest from a rushed post-practice rinse. He looked tired—less like the confident golden boy, more like someone carrying a weight he didn't want anyone to see.

Mark didn't say anything.

Jared stepped closer. "You got a sec?"

"Thought you were done talking."

"I never said I was done. Just… bad timing earlier." Jared scratched the back of his neck. "Didn't think it'd mess with your head so much."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "You kissed me, Jared. Then acted like nothing happened. Forgive me for not just shaking that off."

"I didn't act like nothing happened," Jared said, his voice softer now. "I just didn't know if you wanted it to mean something."

Mark paused. "…And what if I did?"

That caught Jared off guard. He blinked. "Then maybe I wouldn't have spent the whole practice overthinking the same thing."

Silence settled between them, tense but strangely charged.

Mark set down his bag. "Why'd you really kiss me?"

Jared looked him in the eye. "Because I wanted to. I've wanted to since you first challenged me on the field. You're not like the others. You don't care who I am, what I've done, how many girls I've been with. You look at me like I'm a person, not a reputation."

"That's not an answer."

Jared stepped closer—close enough that Mark could feel the warmth radiating off him. "Fine. You want the truth?"

Mark didn't move. "Yeah."

"I kissed you because every time you glare at me, I want to pull you closer. Because you get under my skin in a way no one else does. And maybe I've been scared to figure out what that means."

Mark's breath caught. His heart pounded like it did before a game—tight, fast, adrenaline-spiked. "Then what are we doing?"

Jared hesitated, then reached out, fingers brushing Mark's wrist. "I don't know yet. But I know I want to find out."

Mark looked at him for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. "Don't play with me, Jared."

"I'm not," Jared said. "Not anymore."

A beat passed. Then another. And slowly, like a truce being made, Mark nodded.

Jared smiled faintly. "Wanna get food?"

Mark snorted. "You asking me out now?"

"Maybe," Jared said with a grin. "If I am?"

Mark grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "Then yeah… maybe."