off camera ✶ K.J. Jackson
English is not my first language. K.J Jackson x Social media manager!Reader reader. warnings: none, just fluff and slow burn. an: I literally have like five drafts from a year ago that I still haven't posted, but whatever, I actually can't believe no one is active about K.J. on this app so I had to do it myself, happy easter
Grayson Stadium isn’t your typical ballpark; it’s a circus, a theater, and a frat party all wrapped up in a bright yellow uniform. And you’re the one in charge of making sure the whole world sees it in 9:16.
As the Digital Content Director for the Savannah Bananas, your life is measured in frames per second and trending audios. Your relationship with the players is professional, fun, and above all, distant. It has to be. You can’t objectively edit a video if your hands shake every time the lead guy gets too close.
And the main problem has a first and last name: K.J. Jackson.
"[Reader]! Tell me you caught that!" Jackson Olson shouted, sprinting past in a neon yellow cape.
"I got it, Olson. Go practice your flaming bat swings, I’ll handle the feed," you shot back without looking up from your iPhone 15 Pro Max, which was basically an extension of your right arm.
You were on the sidelines during morning practice. The Georgia sun was already starting to bite, and your iced coffee was dangerously close to melting. As you scrolled through the clips, a tall, broad shadow fell over your screen, blocking the glare.
"You know, if you keep staring at that screen for too long, you’re gonna forget what the real world looks like," a smooth voice, laced with that Southern confidence, echoed right above you.
You didn't need to look up. You knew it was him. K.J. had a way of walking that announced his presence before he even said a word. You forced yourself to finish captioning the video before locking your phone and letting it hang from your chest harness.
"The 'real world' doesn't pay the bills, K.J. The three million views Olson’s video is gonna get? That does," you said, turning to face him.
He was standing there in a sweat-soaked practice jersey, shoulders broad, wearing his cap backward in a way that gave him that "troublemaker" vibe. He had a baseball in his hand, tossing it up and catching it with hypnotic precision.
"Man, you're cold, [Reader]. I thought after six months of working together, I’d at least get a 'Morning, K.J., looking good today,'" he took a step toward you, invading that circle of personal space you tried so hard to guard.
"Good morning, K.J. You’ve got a mud smudge on your left cheek. It’s ruining the 'golden boy' aesthetic I’m trying to sell on TikTok," you said with a fake, professional smile, even though your nerves were doing backflips inside.
He didn't wipe it off. Instead, he leaned in a little closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to hold his gaze. His eyes were sparkling with a mix of amusement and something else... something that wasn't for the cameras.
"Then you clean it," he challenged in a whisper.
The air between you suddenly got heavy. You could hear the crack of bats hitting balls in the distance and the other guys laughing, but for you, the world had shrunk down to those two inches of space. Your hand ached to reach up and wipe the mud away, but the buzz of a notification on your smartwatch snapped you back to reality.
"Get a makeup artist, K.J. I’ve got a meeting with my bosses," you said, brushing past him.
But before you could get away, you felt his hand gently catch your forearm.
"Seven o’clock, after practice. There’s a new play I want to show you so you can film it. Just you and me at the plate. Without all the chaos."
He let go before you could even argue, leaving your skin burning where he’d touched you.
You spent the rest of the afternoon in the office, but your mind kept looping back to K.J.’s invite. Was it a tactic for more screen time? Or was it something else?
In the world of Banana Ball, the players are celebrities. You’re used to the harmless flirting; it’s part of the team culture. But with K.J., it was different. It wasn’t a show for the crowd. It was quiet. Subtle. Like the way he always found an excuse to be near you on bus rides, or how he remembered exactly how you liked your coffee (black, with a dash of cinnamon) and would leave it on your desk without saying a word.
At 7:00 sharp, you headed down to the field. The stadium lights were off, except for the security floods that bathed the diamond in an ethereal, silver glow.
He was there, at home plate, but he wasn't in his Bananas uniform. He was wearing training shorts and a black tank top that showed off years of hard work in the gym. He was hitting balls alone, the sound of contact echoing through the empty stadium like gunshots.
"You're late," he said without looking back, connecting with a clean hit that sent the ball deep into center field.
"A video editor is never late, Jackson. They arrive exactly when the light is perfect," you replied, pulling out your professional camera this time, not the phone.
He set the bat down and turned around, wiping sweat away with his shirt a move that made you swallow hard.
"Fine. Show me this magic play," you said, adjusting the focus.
K.J. got into position, but instead of doing one of his usual stunts, he walked toward you. He stopped right in front of your lens. You could see every detail of his face through the viewfinder: his long lashes, the trace of the now-dry mud, the determination in his eyes.
"The play is this," he said softly.
He didn't dance. He didn't do a bat trick. He simply reached out and covered your camera lens, slowly lowering it until your eyes met his without a piece of glass in the way.
"K.J., what are you doing? I’m losing the light..."
"Forget the light for a second, [Reader]. Forget the content, the engagement, and the followers," his voice was deeper now, stripped of the usual teasing. "I’ve been trying to ask you to dinner for three months, but you’re always hiding behind this thing."
Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it in the silence of the stadium.
"It’s my job, K.J. I can’t mix…"
"Don't tell me you can't mix business with pleasure. This isn't an accounting firm; it's the craziest team in the world. Rules don't exist here," he took another step, pinning you against the dugout railing. "Are you gonna tell me that when you’re filming me in slow-mo, you don't feel a single thing? That it’s all just 'marketing'?"
He placed a hand on either side of your waist not touching you, but trapping you in his heat. His scent of summer nights and adrenaline was clouding your judgment.
"I feel like I'm gonna have a lot of work editing that," you whispered, one last attempt at a defense.
He let out a husky laugh that vibrated in your chest.
"You’re a hell of a liar. But your eyes don't lie. They dilate every time I get close. I’ve seen it in the videos you post. You out yourself in every edit."
K.J. leaned in, his nose brushing yours. You could feel his warm breath. He was waiting. For all his cockiness and confidence, he was giving you the choice to walk away.
"If I say yes to that dinner..." you started, your voice barely a thread. "Do you promise to stop ruining my shots with your winking?"
"No," he answered with a smile that was predatory and sweet at the same time. "I promise to give you real reasons to look at me like that when the camera’s off."
Just when you thought he was finally going to kiss you, he pulled back a few inches, putting his star-player mask back on.
"Friday. Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up at the south gate. And don't even think about bringing the camera, 'cause I'm not planning on sharing you with your followers that night."
He turned around, grabbed his bat, and headed toward the locker room with that confident stride, leaving you alone in the dark stadium with your camera hanging from your neck and the absolute certainty that your professional life just got way, way more complicated.
You checked the last clip you’d accidentally recorded. It was a blurry shot of the ground and his feet moving toward yours. It was useless for TikTok. It was useless for Instagram.
But it was the first video you decided you were never going to delete.
Grayson Stadium isn’t your typical ballpark; it’s a circus, a theater, and a frat party all wrapped up in a bright yellow uniform. And you’re the one in charge of making sure the whole world sees it in 9:16.
As the Digital Content Director for the Savannah Bananas, your life is measured in frames per second and trending audios. Your relationship with the players is professional, fun, and above all, distant. It has to be. You can’t objectively edit a video if your hands shake every time the lead guy gets too close.
And the main problem has a first and last name: K.J. Jackson.
"[Reader]! Tell me you caught that!" Jackson Olson shouted, sprinting past in a neon yellow cape.
"I got it, Olson. Go practice your flaming bat swings, I’ll handle the feed," you shot back without looking up from your iPhone 15 Pro Max—which was basically an extension of your right arm.
You were on the sidelines during morning practice. The Georgia sun was already starting to bite, and your iced coffee was dangerously close to melting. As you scrolled through the clips, a tall, broad shadow fell over your screen, blocking the glare.
"You know, if you keep staring at that screen for too long, you’re gonna forget what the real world looks like," a smooth voice, laced with that Southern confidence, echoed right above you.
You didn't need to look up. You knew it was him. K.J. had a way of walking that announced his presence before he even said a word. You forced yourself to finish captioning the video before locking your phone and letting it hang from your chest harness.
"The 'real world' doesn't pay the bills, K.J. The three million views Olson’s video is gonna get? That does," you said, turning to face him.
He was standing there in a sweat-soaked practice jersey, shoulders broad, wearing his cap backward in a way that gave him that "troublemaker" vibe. He had a baseball in his hand, tossing it up and catching it with hypnotic precision.
"Man, you're cold, [Reader]. I thought after six months of working together, I’d at least get a 'Morning, K.J., looking good today,'" he took a step toward you, invading that circle of personal space you tried so hard to guard.
"Good morning, K.J. You’ve got a mud smudge on your left cheek. It’s ruining the 'golden boy' aesthetic I’m trying to sell on TikTok," you said with a fake, professional smile, even though your nerves were doing backflips inside.
He didn't wipe it off. Instead, he leaned in a little closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to hold his gaze. His eyes were sparkling with a mix of amusement and something else... something that wasn't for the cameras.
"Then you clean it," he challenged in a whisper.
The air between you suddenly got heavy. You could hear the crack of bats hitting balls in the distance and the other guys laughing, but for you, the world had shrunk down to those two inches of space. Your hand ached to reach up and wipe the mud away, but the buzz of a notification on your smartwatch snapped you back to reality.
"Get a makeup artist, K.J. I’ve got a meeting with my bosses," you said, brushing past him.
But before you could get away, you felt his hand gently catch your forearm.
"Seven o’clock, after practice. There’s a new play I want to show you so you can film it. Just you and me at the plate. Without all the chaos."
He let go before you could even argue, leaving your skin burning where he’d touched you.
You spent the rest of the afternoon in the office, but your mind kept looping back to K.J.’s invite. Was it a tactic for more screen time? Or was it something else?
In the world of Banana Ball, the players are celebrities. You’re used to the harmless flirting; it’s part of the team culture. But with K.J., it was different. It wasn’t a show for the crowd. It was quiet. Subtle. Like the way he always found an excuse to be near you on bus rides, or how he remembered exactly how you liked your coffee (black, with a dash of cinnamon) and would leave it on your desk without saying a word.
At 7:00 sharp, you headed down to the field. The stadium lights were off, except for the security floods that bathed the diamond in an ethereal, silver glow.
He was there, at home plate, but he wasn't in his Bananas uniform. He was wearing training shorts and a black tank top that showed off years of hard work in the gym. He was hitting balls alone, the sound of contact echoing through the empty stadium like gunshots.
"You're late," he said without looking back, connecting with a clean hit that sent the ball deep into center field.
"A video editor is never late, Jackson. They arrive exactly when the light is perfect," you replied, pulling out your professional camera this time, not the phone.
He set the bat down and turned around, wiping sweat away with his shirt—a move that made you swallow hard.
"Fine. Show me this magic play," you said, adjusting the focus.
K.J. got into position, but instead of doing one of his usual stunts, he walked toward you. He stopped right in front of your lens. You could see every detail of his face through the viewfinder: his long lashes, the trace of the now-dry mud, the determination in his eyes.
"The play is this," he said softly.
He didn't dance. He didn't do a bat trick. He simply reached out and covered your camera lens, slowly lowering it until your eyes met his without a piece of glass in the way.
"K.J., what are you doing? I’m losing the light..."
"Forget the light for a second, [Reader]. Forget the content, the engagement, and the followers," his voice was deeper now, stripped of the usual teasing. "I’ve been trying to ask you to dinner for three months, but you’re always hiding behind this thing."
Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it in the silence of the stadium.
"It’s my job, K.J. I can’t mix—"
"Don't tell me you can't mix business with pleasure. This isn't an accounting firm; it's the craziest team in the world. Rules don't exist here," he took another step, pinning you against the dugout railing. "Are you gonna tell me that when you’re filming me in slow-mo, you don't feel a single thing? That it’s all just 'marketing'?"
He placed a hand on either side of your waist—not touching you, but trapping you in his heat. His scent of summer nights and adrenaline was clouding your judgment.
"I feel like I'm gonna have a lot of work editing that," you whispered, one last attempt at a defense.
He let out a husky laugh that vibrated in your chest.
"You’re a hell of a liar. But your eyes don't lie. They dilate every time I get close. I’ve seen it in the videos you post. You out yourself in every edit."
K.J. leaned in, his nose brushing yours. You could feel his warm breath. He was waiting. For all his cockiness and confidence, he was giving you the choice to walk away.
"If I say yes to that dinner..." you started, your voice barely a thread. "Do you promise to stop ruining my shots with your winking?"
"No," he answered with a smile that was predatory and sweet at the same time. "I promise to give you real reasons to look at me like that when the camera’s off."
Just when you thought he was finally going to kiss you, he pulled back a few inches, putting his star-player mask back on.
"Friday. Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up at the south gate. And don't even think about bringing the camera, 'cause I'm not planning on sharing you with your followers that night."
He turned around, grabbed his bat, and headed toward the locker room with that confident stride, leaving you alone in the dark stadium with your camera hanging from your neck and the absolute certainty that your professional life just got way, way more complicated.
You checked the last clip you’d accidentally recorded. It was a blurry shot of the ground and his feet moving toward yours. It was useless for TikTok. It was useless for Instagram.
But it was the first video you decided you were never going to delete.
