Trade Deadline - A Jarren Duran Oneshot
⚾︎ Jarren Duran is used to trade rumors. Used to being the name casually tossed around in deadline talks like a chess piece. But this year feels different. This year, the rumors feel real.⚾︎
Trigger Warnings: Anxiety (Panic Attack)
Pairing: Jarren Duran x Reader (Gender Non-Specified)
Author's Note: If my glorious king gets traded, I'm personally traveling to Breslow's house and kidnapping him!
(joking, joking, i can't drive)
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The soft hum of the fan overhead did nothing to drown out the silence that followed the sound of the front door clicking shut. You were sprawled across the couch, the Red Sox game muted on the TV, half-watching the replay of the last inning when you heard it—the silence. The kind that wasn’t empty but heavy. The kind that said something had gone wrong.
You sat up as Jarren walked in, dropping his bag with an exhausted thud by the door. His face was unreadable, the kind of blank that only came after carefully choosing which emotion to bury.
“Hey, babe,” you said gently. “Good game today."
He didn’t answer. Just walked over to the coffee table, pulled out his phone, and tossed it down like it burned him. The screen lit up for a second as it landed. You caught a glimpse of a tweet before it dimmed.
"Red Sox shopping Duran, teams interested."
You didn’t say anything right away. Your heart lurched in your chest, a sharp pang of anxiety creeping up your spine. Jarren didn’t sit, just hovered beside the couch, hands flexing at his sides.
“Twitter?” you asked quietly.
He finally looked at you, but his eyes were too far away. “Yeah.”
He shook his head, too fast. “Probably not. Just one of those bullshit accounts. Trying to stir the pot.”
But his voice was tight, his shoulders tense. You knew him well enough to see the truth hidden behind his nonchalance.
"Are you sure? What did it say?"
"Boston news is saying they wanna trade me and some prospects for Joe Ryan." He mumbled, refusing to look at you in the eye.
"The Twin, right? Pitcher?"
Jarren doesn't respond, just leaning down and kissing your forehead. He lingered for a beat too long, his hand gripping your shoulders a little too hard. His lips were soft, but his smile never reached his eyes.
“Let’s not talk about it,” he murmured.
So you didn’t. But you both thought about it all night.
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The bathroom mirror fogged from the steam as you stood side-by-side brushing your teeth. The comforting silence of your morning routine filled the space: the rhythmic brushing, the occasional bump of elbows, the creak of the floorboards under your socked feet.
You spat and rinsed, patting your mouth with a towel, when Jarren’s voice broke through, soft and cautious.
“Would you move to San Diego? Or Minnesota?"
He was still brushing, eyes on the mirror, but you saw the way his brows pinched slightly. He spit and wiped his mouth, finally meeting your gaze.
Your heart sank. So the rumors hadn’t just been rumors. Or at least, not in his head.
You turned and leaned against the counter, facing him fully. “I’d follow you anywhere. You know that.”
He nodded, but his jaw stayed clenched. You reached out and touched his cheek, brushing your thumb over the bone.
“But it’s okay if you’re scared,” you added softly.
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck. His breath was warm against your skin.
“I just don’t want to be unwanted again,” he whispered.
You held him tighter, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re not. Not by them. And never by me.”
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The sheets were cool beside you, the faint creak of the floorboards giving away his location. You padded out into the living room to find him pacing, eyes bloodshot, a half-zipped suitcase on the floor.
Your stomach turned. “Jarren?”
He didn’t look at you. “Just being safe.”
You walked closer, touching the edge of the suitcase. “Do you know something?”
He finally looked up, eyes glassy. “No. Not yet.”
But his voice was hollow.
You crossed to the kitchen and started making breakfast. Scrambled eggs, toast, fruit. Something to ground you both.
He didn’t eat. Just stared at the floor.
You sat beside him at the kitchen island and reached for his hand. At first, he stiffened, shoulders still locked in tension. But then, slowly, he softened, leaning into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling.
Later that morning, while you folded laundry in the bedroom, you heard a sharp breath from the living room. A choked sound.
You rushed out to find Jarren sitting on the floor, back against the couch, phone in hand. His thumb hovered above the screen, his face pale.
“What happened?” you asked, heart racing.
He didn’t respond right away. His chest rose and fell in erratic bursts. You knelt beside him, glancing at the phone. A new tweet from a Blue Jays insider: "Duran linked to Toronto in late-developing trade talks."
"I can't—" he gasped, voice breaking. "I thought it was over."
His hands trembled. You grabbed them quickly, grounding him, guiding them to your chest so he could feel your heartbeat.
“Breathe with me,” you whispered. “You’re safe. Right here. I’ve got you.”
It took a few minutes, but eventually the panic passed. He collapsed into your arms, eyes wet, body shaking.
“I hate this,” he whispered. “The waiting. The not knowing.”
You kissed his temple. “I know. I’m here.”
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You answered instantly. “Hey—”
His voice was hushed, low. “They pulled me into a room.”
Your breath caught. “What?”
He sounded like he was in a closet. “Said nothing’s official. But… they’re working on something.”
You couldn’t form words. Couldn’t process anything except the fear in his voice.
“I just wanted you to know. Before Twitter does.”
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You were curled on the couch, eyes glued to the clock on your phone.
It wasn’t pretty crying. It was messy, gasping, snot-and-sobs crying. Relief crashed into you like a wave.
Ten minutes later, the door opened. Jarren walked in, dropped his bags, and didn’t say a word. He just crossed the room in three long strides and picked you up, holding you against his chest so tightly it hurt.
“I thought—” he started, but didn’t finish.
You just shook your head into his shoulder. “You’re here.”
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The bedroom was quiet, the soft hum of the AC mixing with the sounds of the city. You lay tangled in the sheets, your leg draped over Jarren’s hip, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.
“I thought I was gone,” he said into the dark.
You turned your head. “What?”
“I was convinced. I kept thinking—I knew it was too good to last. That I’d get traded. That they didn’t see me as part of the plan.”
His voice cracked, just a little. "Sometimes it feels like I'm always one bad week away from being disposable. Like no matter what I do, they’ll never see me as more than… temporary."
You scooted closer under the covers, pressing your palm flat against his chest, right where his heart was thudding.
“You’re not disposable. You’re a cornerstone. I’ve watched every game, every inning—you’ve made yourself undeniable.”
Jarren let out a bitter laugh. “Tell that to the front office. Tell that to Craig and Rob. They’ll trade a soul for a stat line.”
You frowned. “You’re more than your OPS. More than your sprint speed, your glove. You’re a whole person. You matter.”
He blinked rapidly in the dark. “You really believe that?”
He was quiet for a beat. Then, almost a whisper: “You make me believe it too.”
You cupped his face, your thumb brushing over the skin beneath his eye.
“You belong here. On the team. With me.”
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your collarbone.
“I just needed someone to say that out loud.”
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The crowd at Fenway roared louder than usual as Jarren stepped up to the plate.
You were in your usual seat, right by the dugout, wearing his jersey and chewing your nails nervously.
The first pitch came. He connected, sending a line drive into right-center for a single.
As he stood at first base, he glanced toward your seat and pointed directly at you.
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