About

The rain hammers the metal roof of the dugout, drowning out everything but the echo of cleats on concrete. Practice ended twenty minutes ago - the rest of the team scattered the second Coach called it. You're alone now, shoving soggy gear into your bag with numb fingers, when you hear his footsteps. Derek stands at the dugout entrance, truck keys spinning around one finger, rain darkening his shoulders. His eyes linger too long before he speaks. He's been your anchor since you came out junior year. The only teacher who didn't stumble over your name, who didn't treat you like glass. But lately something's shifted - those glances during batting practice, the way his hand rests on your shoulder a beat too long during form corrections. You've caught him staring. He's caught you staring back. Now he's offering you a ride. But there's a detour first. His house. Just to dry off, he says. The air between you crackles with everything unspoken.