zoey ⚾︎⋆⭒˚.⋆

Corbin Carroll on his go-ahead grand slam against the Mets, 8-28-24

↬ jarren duran, who always knows that you are going to be cold. you are every time the two of you decide to venture out onto the boston streets in the middle of winter. yet every time you swear you’ll be fine, and that the coat would ruin your outfit.

↬ jarren duran, who notices the first little shiver that you give off. all it takes is a quick breeze blowing past to make you tense briefly. it was only for a moment but of course he noticed. he always does.

↬ jarren duran, who knows you don’t want him to make a fuss out of the whole ordeal. he knows better by now to start the ‘i told you so’s’ because he knows. he knows he was right, and you knew you were wrong.

↬ jarren duran, who grabs your hand and pulls it into his coat pocket. it’s like ice, and makes him shiver for once. he wishes you would just, for once, dress appropriately. but part of you does it for a reason. part of you likes the gestures that he does when you start to get cold.

↬ jarren duran, who pulls you just a little closer, if that was even possible. his hand never leaves yours as he guides you down the streets and into a cafe to get you something warm.

↬ you, who ends up wearing his coat home every single time.

be my baby 𝜗𝜚 j. duran

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜ’ʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴍɪɴᴇ!

IN WHICH jarren duran writes more than just his signature on your jersey.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔.:･･:.ೃ࿔.⋆❀°

you were a casual red sox fan.

if you were honest, casual was generous. your dad was the real one. the type who yelled at the tv and owned every world series hoodie since 2004. you remembered having your first legal drink after their 2018 win, half tipsy on cheap beer and adrenaline. you didn’t really watch games on your own, and if someone held a gun to your head and told you to name a player on the 2025 roster, well… you’d be done for.

so when your best friend begged you to stand outside in the cold after a game for an autograph from her favorite player, you’d been reluctant at best.

“he should be coming out soon,” alyssa said, bouncing on her heels like her excitement alone could summon him.

“who are we waiting for again?” you asked, trying not to sound as bored as you felt.

“jarren duran,” she said, eyes lighting up, “he’s one of the outfielders.” then she leaned in conspiratorially. “he’s reallycute.”

“we’ll see about that,” you said, tugging your jacket tighter. “your definition of cute’s always been questionable.”

“trust me,” alyssa grinned, “he’s hot. and great with fans. i need him to sign our jerseys.”

“if he even comes out,” you mumbled.

the air around you shifted the moment he did.

one second, the chatter of the crowd was just background noise. the next, it was all white noise, fading under the buzz that rippled through the barricade. jarren duran stepped out from the tunnel, baseball cap swapped for a dark sweater, jeans that fit too well, cowboy boots clicking against the concrete. tall. easy posture. the kind of presence that drew attention without asking for it.

alyssa’s voice went high and breathless beside you, and you couldn’t help but follow her gaze. he was signing caps and baseballs, laughing with fans, moving down the line one by one. his cologne, something clean and faintly warm, like cedar and soap—carried on the night breeze before he even got close.

the closer he came, the more your stomach twisted itself into knots. you didn’t even know why. you weren’t here for him. but when he got to the group on your left, your pulse picked up, traitorous. you caught a glimpse of his hands—big, tan, veins visible even in the dim light. you had to look away like you’d seen something you weren’t supposed to.

then it was alyssa’s turn.

and then he looked at you.

for a second, you froze. he was even more handsome up close, which wasn’t fair. too much definition in his jawline, a smile that was lazy and a little crooked, like he knew exactly what it did to people. a tattoo sleeve disappeared under his sweater, the ink catching in the floodlights.

but it was his eyes that undid you. brown and soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him, steady and warm like he was looking right through the noise, right at you.

“you’ve been out here a while, huh?” his voice was low, friendly, and a little rough around the edges.

you cleared your throat. “my friend made me wait. she’s the baseball nerd.”

“liar!” alyssa chirped from behind you.

his mouth curved, eyes flicking back to you. “so you’re not a fan?”

“oh, i am,” you said quickly, “just not the screaming, sign-holding kind.”

“hm.” he leaned in slightly. subtle, but enough that you caught the shift in air, the faint heat of him. “what kind are you, then?”

you blinked. “uh—quiet.”

he chuckled, soft and amused. “quiet?”

“yeah.”

he held your gaze for a beat too long, something unreadable behind the grin. you felt it all the way down to your knees.

“um… can you sign my jersey?” you asked, breaking the silence.

“oh, right.” he laughed quietly, almost to himself. “yeah, of course.”

you turned around, pulling your jacket out of the way. the fabric of your jersey stretched slightly across your back, and then you felt it—the weight of his hand steadying the material, fingers brushing your shoulder. his breath tickled the back of your neck when he spoke again.

“you from around here?”

you swallowed. “yeah. i live a few blocks down.”

“convenient,” he murmured, the sharpie squeaking faintly on the cotton. “makes it easier for you to come see me play.”

“see you play?” you teased, trying to ignore the way your skin felt too hot under his touch. “i guess so.”

“you guess so?” he said, sliding his pen back into his pocket with a grin. “you’re killing me.”

“sorry,” you laughed weakly. “i’m not great at small talk.”

“that’s okay.” he tilted his head. “i’m not trying to make small talk.”

your brows knit. you opened your mouth to say something, but he just smiled.

“well, thanks for the autograph,” you managed.

he didn’t hand it back immediately. “you didn’t tell me your name.”

you hesitated, then told him.

his grin softened. “that suits you.” he said your name again, slower this time, like he was tasting it. your heart skipped.

“what do you mean by that?”

he capped the marker and slipped it into his pocket. “you’ll figure it out.”

before you could say anything else, he was already moving down the line, still grinning, head turning just slightly over his shoulder, like he knew you were still watching.

and you were.

the city felt different on the walk home.

it was colder now, the kind of cold that crept through your jeans and bit at your fingertips, but you barely noticed. the sound of the crowd still echoed somewhere behind you—laughter, car horns, someone yelling go sox! from across the street. it all blurred into white noise, because your brain was still looping one moment:

him saying your name like it meant something.

alyssa talked the whole walk back, half-screaming into her phone about how she finally got her jersey signed, how hot he looked in real life. you smiled and nodded, but your mind wasn’t really with her. you kept replaying the feel of his hand on your back, his voice brushing the shell of your ear, the little smirk when you said you were a “quiet” fan.

you told yourself you were imagining it—the warmth in his voice, the way his eyes lingered. guys like him were used to attention. he probably flirted without even meaning to. still, your pulse had been uneven since you left.

by the time you got home, your fingers were stiff and your nose was pink. you dropped your bag by the door and peeled off your jacket, the apartment quiet except for the low hum of the fridge.

you too off your jersey, signed and slightly crinkled. you smiled faintly, running your thumb over his name, the sharpie ink catching the light.

then you froze.

under the bold curve of jarren duran, there was something else. smaller, fainter. smudged slightly at the edge where the fabric had folded.

you blinked, leaning closer.

numbers.

ten of them.

“no way,” you whispered to no one, heart stuttering.

you turned the jersey over, like there might be some explanation hidden on the other side. there wasn’t. just your reflection in the dark window and the sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

you grabbed your phone from your pocket, hands shaking a little as you typed the number into a message box. your thumb hovered over the keyboard for a full thirty seconds before you finally breathed out and hit send.

hey. hypothetically, if a fan found a phone number under your signature… what’s she supposed to do with it?

you tossed the phone onto your bed, face down, pretending not to care—but your heart wouldn’t slow down. every buzz of the fridge, every creak of the floorboards made you think it was your phone lighting up.

and then it did.

you fumbled to pick it up, the screen glowing soft and blue in the dark.

well, if it’s mine, she’s supposed to use it.

you stared at the message, a smile creeping across your face before you could stop it.

are you sure this isn’t like… a marketing thing?

nah. just my way of saying i hope i see you again.

you bit your lip, grinning down at your screen, warmth blooming in your chest despite the cold.

maybe you will.

you set your phone down beside the jersey, still faintly smelling of his cologne, and let yourself fall back onto the bed—dizzy, giddy, completely gone.

you’d gone to one game.

and that, somehow, was enough.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔.:･･:.ೃ࿔.⋆❀°

ᴋᴇɴ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ—ᵎᵎ ✦

i’m back from the dead😛😛

this ask is so adorable!!!

i’m sorry it took forever (op sent this in SEPTEMBER💀), i got carried away and made a oneshot!!!

I just saw this on TikTok omfggggg why god why they look so good