The sun beat down hard over the field as the seventh inning dragged into the eighth.
Mark wiped sweat from his brow and crouched behind home plate, holding up two fingers to signal for a slider. Jared narrowed his eyes on the mound, wound up—and threw a fastball.
Again.
The batter made contact with a sickening crack, sending the ball flying over third base. The rival team's dugout erupted in cheers as another run crossed home. 10-2.
Mark slammed his glove against the dirt, chest heaving. That was the third missed signal today.
Coach Callahan's voice exploded from the dugout. "What the hell is going on out there?!"
No one answered.
By the time the ninth inning came around, the score was 13-3. The crowd thinned. Some students booed.
Mark didn't care about the score anymore. He didn't even care about the coach's wrath. He was done playing this silent game with Jared.
When the final out was called, the team dragged themselves back to the dugout, heads hung low.
Coach Callahan paced like a man possessed. "That was pathetic. We were uncoordinated, unfocused, and frankly, embarrassing. I don't care if you've got beef with each other, but it ends now. You play like a team or you sit your asses on the bench!"
The team fell quiet, staring at the dirt.
Mark tore his mask off and turned on his heel to face Jared. "You wanna say something?" he snapped, voice louder than he intended.
The locker room stilled. Everyone froze mid-step.
Jared stood still by the water cooler, glove tucked under one arm. He didn't look at Mark. Didn't say a word.
Mark stepped closer, jaw clenched. "I called for a changeup. You threw a fastball. That's the fourth time this week. What's your problem?"
Jared stared at the grass like it had answers.
Mark's voice cracked with frustration. "You're seriously not gonna say anything? After all this crap? After tanking another game? After making me feel like I did something wrong for just—existing?"
Still nothing. Just silence. Unmoving.
Something inside Mark snapped.
"You're such a coward," he spat.
Gasps rippled through the team like wind through dry leaves. No one moved. Not even the coach.
Mark stormed past him, shoulder brushing hard against Jared as he shoved through the dugout gate.
"Mark, wait!" Travis called, jogging after him.
The two of them disappeared toward the back of the bleachers.
Jared didn't move for several long seconds. His knuckles whitened around his glove. Then, without a word, he turned, marched across the dugout, and slammed the locker room door behind him.
By the time anyone thought to follow, the roar of his truck tires could already be heard screeching out of the campus parking lot.
---
Mark collapsed onto the concrete curb behind the bleachers, panting with anger and adrenaline. Travis dropped down beside him.
"Hey," he said gently. "You okay?"
"No," Mark muttered. "He just stood there. Like I was some crazy person yelling at a wall. Like none of this even matters."
"It does matter. You're not crazy."
"I trusted him. And he left me to deal with all the fallout alone. Then when I finally call him out, he shuts down. Again."
Travis was quiet for a moment. Then, "You know it's not about you, right?"
Mark shot him a look.
Travis held up his hands. "I'm not saying it's okay. It's not. But I've seen Jared. He's unraveling, man. I think he doesn't even know who he is without all the popularity and pressure. He's drowning."
Mark leaned back, letting his head fall against the fence. "Then he should've said something. Anything."
They sat there in silence for a moment.
Behind them, the rest of the team slowly exited the dugout in stunned silence, whispering to one another. Confused. Nervous.
No one had ever seen Jared lose it like that.
No one had ever seen Mark like that either.
The tension that had been simmering under the surface for weeks had finally erupted—and the team had no idea how to pick up the pieces.
------
Jared's hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned bone white. The windshield wipers slashed across the glass in desperate arcs, but they couldn't keep up with the downpour. The road ahead was a blur of rain, headlights, and rage.
He couldn't stop replaying it—Mark's words, his stare, the shocked faces of their teammates. The silence he'd chosen instead of honesty.
Coward.
The word echoed louder than the thunder cracking overhead.
He slammed his palm against the wheel, shouting into the empty cab. "Why couldn't you just shut up, Mark?!"
Lightning lit up the sky, and for a split second, the road ahead disappeared into white.
His truck veered slightly to the right—he corrected too fast.
The tires hit a slick patch, and the world tilted sideways.
"Shiii—!"
The truck spun out.
Metal groaned as it skidded off the road and slammed sideways into a ditch, jarring Jared forward against the seatbelt. The airbags deployed with a deafening thud.
Then silence. Just the pounding rain.
Jared slumped against the seat, dazed, blinking at the deflated airbag inches from his chest. Blood trickled from a shallow gash on his forehead. His chest heaved with each breath.
He wasn't dead.
But part of him wished he didn't have to face what came next.
---
3:08 a.m.
Coach Callahan's phone buzzed on his nightstand.
He picked it up, bleary-eyed. "Who the hell is—hello?"
A voice on the other end rattled off something urgent. Jared. Hospital. Minor accident. Being evaluated.
Within twenty minutes, the team's group chat was flooded.
By 4:00 a.m., every player, still half-asleep in sweatpants and hoodies, shuffled into the sterile halls of the university hospital.
Mark's heart pounded as he followed behind Travis.
"Room 214," someone whispered.
They approached quietly. Jared was lying in bed, hooked up to fluids. A bandage rested just above his right eyebrow, and his left arm was in a sling.
He looked pale. Exhausted. Hollow.
Coach stepped in first. "Hey, son. You scared the hell out of us."
Jared managed a weak half-smile. "Sorry."
Then one by one, the team filed in. Noah, the first baseman, was the first to speak up.
"Look, man. I've been a real dick. I didn't know what to think when… when everything came out. I let the rumors get in my head. But you're still my teammate. That should've mattered more."
Jared blinked at him, swallowing hard. "Thanks."
Others followed. Apologies. Awkward jokes. Some slapped his foot gently, others clapped him on the shoulder.
Even guys who hadn't spoken a word to Mark since the rumors began offered quiet glances of regret.
Then Mark stepped forward.
He held Jared's gaze. "Hey."
Jared's lips parted.
But before he could answer, the door creaked open.
A tall, broad man in a suit stepped into the room.
His presence was cold. Controlled. Dangerous.
"Son."
Jared's entire body tensed.
Mark took a step back instinctively, the hairs on the back of his neck standing.
"Dad… I didn't know you were coming."
"Got a call from the hospital." His father's eyes briefly swept the room, landing on Mark with visible disgust. "Thought I'd better come see for myself."
Coach stepped up. "Sir, he's fine. A few bumps, nothing broken."
"I'll take it from here."
It wasn't a suggestion.
Mark gave Jared a hopeful glance.
Jared turned his face to the window.
No words. No acknowledgment.
Just silence.
Mark felt the weight of it like a punch to the chest. The same silence that had haunted every missed pitch, every locker room glare.
Travis gently touched his arm. "Come on," he whispered.
As Mark turned to leave, he hesitated just outside the door, hidden by the partially drawn curtain.
"I told you," Jared's father said, his voice low and venomous. "You can either live under my roof and get back on track, or you can throw it all away for some goddamn phase. You think anyone's going to take you seriously once they find out what you really are?"
Mark's breath hitched.
"You think playing baseball's gonna mean shit if your own team sees you as a joke? You want to be some freak in the locker room for the rest of your life?"
Jared didn't reply.
"Make your decision," his father said coldly. "Because I'm not paying another dime if you plan on embarrassing this family any further."
The door opened.
Mark stepped aside, but the man didn't even look at him.
When the door clicked shut behind him, Mark turned to look back through the tiny gap in the curtain. Jared's shoulders were shaking.
Not from pain.
From silent, bottled-up sobs.
Mark stood frozen, not knowing if he should go back in or walk away.