⸻

The first time Cam Schlittler really looks at you, it's because you stop filming.

Most of the Yankees social team won't, not right away. There's always another angle, another reaction clip, another awkward half second to mine for content later.

But Cam's standing under fluorescent lights outside the clubhouse, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, shoulders tight. He looks like he's being held hostage.

"So," you say, lowering the camera, "favorite postgame meal?"

He blinks. "Food."

You bite back a smile. "Very helpful."

"You asked." His look is so dry it almost counts as humor.

Ben laughs loud enough for both of you. "He's crushing it."

Cam's ears go pink.

You know the type players who light up under a lens, who get louder and bigger and more themselves. Cam folds in instead, like attention lands too heavy on him.

So you lower the camera all the way.

"We can do this another day. It's not urgent."

That makes him look at you. Not through you, not past you. At you.

"You're not posting that?"

You glance at the blank monitor. "Unless you want a riveting seven second clip of you saying 'food,' probably not."

His mouth twitches but it's the first time he looks anything close to comfortable around you.

That's how it starts.

Not with flirting or dramatic tension, just you choosing not to use the footage.

After that, Cam gets easier. Not easy he's still quiet, still private, still more likely to shrug than give a soundbite. But he stops looking like he wants to bolt every time you approach with a camera, and on content days he drifts closer before you even ask.

You notice things.

The way he relaxes when you explain what you're filming before hitting record. The way he hates being surprised on camera. The way his eyes find your face, not the lens, when he's unsure if you're serious. The way he talks more with the camera off than on.

You start saving the softer moments.

Cam leaning against the dugout rail while you swap batteries, asking in that low voice if social ever gets a day off.

Cam standing still while you clip a mic to his waistband, both of you suddenly aware of how close your hands are.

Cam lingering after a shoot wraps, watching footage over your shoulder, his shoulder brushing yours.

He never apologizes for it.

You never move away.

It becomes a rhythm.

You film, edit, travel, eat stadium food, answer messages, and spend half your life making chaos look polished in under sixty seconds.

Cam starts fitting into the edges of your days without either of you acknowledging it.

He appears with coffee one morning and sets it down beside your laptop.

"Is this yours?" you ask.

He shakes his head. "For you."

"How do you know what I order?"

He looks mildly annoyed that you asked. "You get the same thing every road trip."

Then he walks away before you can respond.

You spend the rest of the morning pretending that doesn't do something embarrassing to your heart.

By midseason, people have noticed.

Not enough to be a thing, but enough for Ben to smirk when Cam moves your bag before anyone else can take the seat beside him on the bus.

Enough for Will to say, leaning against the tunnel wall, "You know, if you keep hovering around social like that, people are gonna start talking."

Cam, holding a water bottle and pretending not to wait for you, says flatly, "People already talk."

Will grins. "Yeah, but this is more fun."

Max walks past, calm as ever. He glances between you both, takes in your camera bag and Cam standing just a little too close to it, and nods. "He's got the stare for it."

"The stare?" Cam looks genuinely offended.

"The one where you act like being perceived is a personal attack."

Ben nearly chokes laughing.

Even Cam cracks a smile.

You catch it without a camera for once, and something warm blooms low in your chest.

This should probably scare you, you think.

Instead, it feels easiest.

What scares you comes later.

⸻

It starts small.

A comment under a behind-the-scenes post: admin got favorites?

no literally why is she always posting him lmao

girl on yankees media team wants him BAD

You've dealt with fan comments before, but they multiply.

Under interviews, travel posts, candid dugout shots.

People speculate like they know you, like they know him. Like every frame is evidence of something.

You stop reading comments.

Then you start again, against your better judgment.

One night in your hotel room on a road trip, you sit on the mattress edge with your laptop open, letting harsh blue light wash over you while your group chat with the other social coordinators buzzes.

Ignore it. People are weird. Occupational hazard.

You know they mean well.

But your face burns anyway.

Because it isn't just the comments.

It's the teasing.

Ben bumping your shoulder, "Want me to leave you two alone or—"

Will walking into the media room, seeing Cam at your desk, backing out with both hands up.

Even harmless jokes feel sharp. You're already trying so hard to stay professional, and suddenly everyone is looking at you like they see right through your skin.

Cam notices before you say anything.

You're in the editing room late after a home game, stadium quiet except for cleanup crews down the hall. Your laptop is full of timeline cuts, but you've been staring at the same clip for three minutes.

Cam appears in the doorway, silent enough to make your heart skip.

"You're still here."

"So are you."

"Lift ran late," he says. "You okay?"

The question is soft enough to nearly undo you.

You laugh once. "Yeah. Just tired."

He studies your face. Cam doesn't push usually, which makes it worse when he does.

"That's not it."

You lean back in your chair. For one stupid second, because it's him, because you're tired, because the room is dim and no one's here, you let the truth show.

"It's just a lot. The comments, people joking around, feeling like if I breathe wrong someone's gonna make it weird."

His jaw shifts. "It matters if it's making this harder for you."

The word this hangs between you heavier than it should.

"Cam—" Your chest tightens.

He steps closer. "I don't like that you're dealing with that."

The air turns fragile.

He's close enough that if either of you leaned, the distance would be nothing.

You swallow. "You're the only part of it that doesn't feel hard."

He exhales, slow and shaky.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "You too."

It's not quite a confession, but it feels like one.

He braces one hand on the desk, not touching you but close enough that your skin prickles. His eyes flick to your mouth and back, and your pulse goes wild.

You think he's going to kiss you.

Then voices sound from the hallway, and the moment shatters.

Cam straightens.

You look away first.

⸻

The next few days are softer but more dangerous. He looks at you like he's thinking too much. He finds reasons to stop by. Once, during batting practice, he passes behind you and his fingertips skim your lower back just long enough to steady you.

It would be nothing to anyone else.

It feels like everything to you.

Which is why the crash hurts as much as it does.

A video goes up from a road trip harmless, just airport clips and bus arrivals and players half asleep in hoodies. Cam's in it for maybe four seconds.

By the time you see the comments, there are too many.

There's a screenshot of a coworker's tweet making a joke about certain pitchers volunteering for extra content if a certain social admin is working. It's supposed to be funny.

You're in the service hallway when Cam finds you, he looks tense in a way you haven't seen before.

"Did you see that?"

"Yeah."

His mouth hardens. "So this is just what it is now?"

You stare at him. "What?"

He gestures at the invisible mess surrounding you both. "People talking. Making it into something public before we even knew what it was."

Your stomach drops. "You think I wanted that?"

"I think maybe lines got blurred somewhere."

The words land like a slap.

For a second your brain refuses to understand them.

Then it does.

"Blurred," you repeat.

Cam's expression flickers he knows he said it wrong. But fear got there first.

"You're around players all the time," he says, digging in instead of stopping. "This is your job. Cameras, content. And now everyone thinks—"

"Wow."

He stops.

"That's what you think this is?" You laugh once, small and wrecked. "You think I'm blurring lines for content?"

"No, that's not—"

"Because of my job."

He says nothing.

You nod slowly, throat burning. "Okay."

His whole body tenses like he wants to reach for you, but you step back.

"Don't," you say.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"But you said it like that."

You walk past him before he can respond.

⸻

After that, you become very good at your job.

Professional. Polite. Efficient.

You film him like you film everybody else, you say thanks and step aside. You don't linger, don't look longer than necessary, don't soften.

If he comes near your desk, you move.

If he stands in the doorway of the media room, you keep your eyes on your screen until he leaves.

Ben notices first.

You're packing up after a clubhouse feature when he leans on the table. "Okay. What happened?"

"Nothing."

He snorts. "Sure."

"Ben."

His humor fades. "He looks miserable."

You zip your camera bag. "That's a him problem."

He watches you. "Yeah. Probably."

Will is less subtle.

A week later he catches Cam after a game and says loudly enough for you to hear, "You could just apologize instead of standing around looking haunted."

Cam glares at him.

Max, walking by, barely glances up. "He should. The haunted thing's getting old."

You keep your face blank.

But your heart still hurts.

It would be easier if anger burned clean, you think. Easier if humiliation killed the feeling.

Instead you're left with hurt and missing him and the constant ache of knowing he saw how overwhelmed you were and still made it worse.

Weeks pass.

The season keeps moving. Games, flights, deadlines, edits done from hotel lobbies at midnight. Your life doesn't stop just because your chest feels bruised.

But the absence of him changes everything.

You still look for him without meaning to.

Still feel the hole where his coffee cups and doorway silences used to be.

Sometimes you catch him looking at you from across the clubhouse, expression raw enough to make you look away.

He tries, once or twice, to say something.

After an interview, he lingers while you disconnect his mic.

"Can we talk?"

You keep your hands steady. "No."

Outside the bus on a road trip.

"You're avoiding me."

You give him a tired look. "I'm working."

His jaw tightens. "That's not what I mean."

You shoulder your bag and step around him. "Doesn't matter what you mean."

You leave him standing there.

⸻

The breaking point comes on a gray afternoon in Boston.

You're in a cramped hallway with your supervisor, talking about coverage assignments.

"I can take Ben for the player feature," you say. "Or Max, if you need that pitching piece."

Your supervisor nods. "And Cam?"

Your stomach twists.

"It might be better if someone else handles him for a while."

Silence.

Then, from behind you, the sharp sound of someone stopping short.

You turn.

Cam is standing at the end of the hall, duffel over one shoulder, face gone blank.

Your supervisor, not stupid, disappears into the room.

You and Cam stare at each other in the empty hallway.

"You're switching off me," he says.

"I'm requesting space."

His voice is rough. "Because of me."

"What do you want me to say, Cam?"

He takes a step closer. "That you don't mean it."

The hurt is almost enough to cover the exhaustion. "You don't get to ask me for that."

He looks wrecked.

"I know."

You wait.

He swallows hard. "I know."

Something in the way he says it makes your chest constrict.

He glances down the hallway, then back at you. "Please."

Just a plea.

You should walk away.

"Five minutes," you say instead.

He nods once, sharp.

You follow him to the far end of the tunnel near the service exit where it's cooler and darker, just the faint hum of the stadium around you.

Cam turns to face you. For a second he says nothing, like he's trying to figure out how to begin without hiding behind the wrong words.

Finally he exhales.

"I was scared."

You fold your arms.

He keeps going. "I saw everything getting worse for you. The comments, the jokes, people making it into something public before…" He breaks off, presses a hand to the back of his neck. "Before we even knew what it was."

Your eyes sting.

"And I told myself if I pulled away, it would make it easier on you." He laughs once, bitter. "That's not true. It was easier for me. I was freaking out."

His gaze lifts to yours and doesn't look away.

"You were already overwhelmed, and I made it worse. I took the one thing that was real and acted like it wasn't." His throat works. "That was cruel."

You swallow against the lump in your throat.

He steps closer, carefully, like you might still leave.

"I never thought your feelings weren't real." His voice nearly breaks. "Not for your job. Not for anything."

"Then why did you say it?"

His face twists. "Because it was the worst thing I could think of."

The honesty knocks the air out of you.

He shakes his head, angry at himself. "I wanted distance. I wanted it to stop feeling like if I wanted you this much, everyone else would get a piece of it too. Instead of saying that, I said the thing that would hurt enough to push you away."

Tears burn at your eyes. "It worked."

"I know." He sounds devastated. "I know."

For a second all you hear is the hum of the lights.

Then you say, quietly, "Do you have any idea what that felt like?"

He nods, but you keep going because he needs to hear it.

"You made me feel stupid. And humiliated. Like every comment and joke was right, and I was some girl who got too attached because it was convenient." Your voice shakes. "I was already drowning, Cam, and you looked at me like I was part of the problem."

His face goes pale.

"I cared about you," you say. "For real. And you made it sound like that was just my job."

"It wasn't." He says it instantly, fiercely. "It wasn't."

You look at him for a long moment.

Tears are in your eyes now, and you hate that he gets to see them, but maybe he should.

"If you want someone," you say, "you have to trust them. Not just when it's quiet and easy. All the time."

He nods immediately. "I know."

"No. You know now."

He takes that. Doesn't argue. Doesn't defend himself.

"Yes," he says. "I know now."

Your breath leaves you slowly.

He steps closer, still leaving space for you to stop him.

"When you said you wanted off my coverage," he says, voice rough, "that was the first time I believed I could actually lose you."

You close your eyes briefly.

"I thought giving you space would make things safer," he admits. "But these last few weeks have been…" He shakes his head. "Worse. Just worse."

When you look at him again, he's staring at you like the answer to something he's been getting wrong.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Not in a way that asks you to get over it. Just… I'm sorry. I was scared, and I let that make me mean, and you didn't deserve any of it."

The quiet that follows feels different.

Just waiting.

"I want a real chance. If you can still give me one."

Your heart trips over itself.

He doesn't reach for you. Doesn't try to make the choice for you. He just stands there with his shoulders tense and his expression open, and waits.

You think about the weeks of missing him. About the way he showed up in your days before either of you knew what to call it. About the coffee and doorway pauses and the almost kiss in the editing room. About the pain, yes, but also about how plainly he is standing in it now.

When you speak, your voice is barely above a whisper.

"One chance."

His whole face changes.

Not into relief exactly, but into something softer and stunned, like he didn't let himself believe you would say yes.

"One," you repeat.

He nods fast. "One."

"And if you freak out again—"

"I won't."

You raise an eyebrow.

He huffs a breath that is almost a laugh. "Okay. I might. But I won't do that to you again."

That feels more honest.

You let out a shaky breath.

Then Cam does something he hasn't done once this entire conversation.

He lifts his hand, slowly, carefully. Giving you every second to pull away.

When his fingers brush yours, you nearly break all over again.

You don't pull away.

His hand closes around yours like he's been wanting to for months.

For a minute you just stand there in the quiet tunnel, fingers tangled, no cameras, no comments, no one looking.

Then he says, almost sheepish, "Can I kiss you now, or is that too soon for the one chance?"

You laugh through your tears. "That was a terrible question."

"Yeah," he says. "I know."

You step closer anyway.

This time when he kisses you, there's nothing hesitant about it. One hand warm against your jaw, the other holding yours, mouth soft and certain and apologetic all at once. The kiss is not dramatic, just relief and honesty and finally stopping the bleeding.

When you pull back, his forehead rests briefly against yours.

"You still switching off my coverage?" he murmurs.

You give him a look. "That depends. You gonna make my job harder?"

His mouth brushes the corner of yours. "I'll try to be less hauntingly in love with you in hallways."

You stare at him.

He freezes. "I—"

But you're already smiling.

Pink rises up his neck.

From down the tunnel, a voice rings out.

"Okay," Ben calls, "I know I said I'd give you privacy, but this is taking forever."

You jolt back just enough to see him leaning around the corner with a smug grin. Max stands behind him, expression composed, while Will looks delighted.

"Oh my god," you mutter.

Will points at Cam. "Told you haunted."

Max nods. "He does look better now."

Ben squints at both of you. "Are we all emotionally stable again, or do I need apology witness duty?"

Cam, still red from the ears down, says flatly, "Go away."

Ben beams. "That's basically a yes."

You cover your face with your free hand.

But when Cam's fingers tighten around yours, hidden by the angle and shadows, you don't let go.

⸻

Later, things settle.

Not all at once.

You still work and he still pitches. The comments don't vanish, and the world doesn't stop being nosy just because you finally got honest.

But the difference is trust.

He doesn't pull away when it gets messy. You don't have to guess where you stand when the room gets loud.

At first you keep it private in the way it deserves, not hidden in a way that hurts. A hand brushing yours beneath the table in the media room. His shoulder finding yours in an empty hallway. Coffee appearing by your laptop every morning.

Ben notices and acts insufferable.

Will notices and acts worse.

Max only gives you one calm look over the rim of his cup and says, "He smiles more now."

You glance across the field where Cam is stretching near the foul line, head bent while a coach talks to him.

"Yeah," you say softly. "He does."

One night back at Yankee Stadium, you're filming a postgame clip near the dugout while players mill around. The game was good, energy is loose.

Cam passes just out of frame.

To anyone watching, it means nothing when his hand brushes lightly at the back of yours.

It lasts less than a second.

Just enough.

You don't look up right away because you're still excellent at your job.

But your mouth betrays you anyway, curving before you can stop it.

From behind you, Ben's voice drifts over.

"There it is," he says to no one and everyone.

You hear Will laugh.

Max, calm as ever, says, "Leave them alone."

And for once, the teasing doesn't cut.

Because when the camera lowers and the work is done and the stadium begins its slow exhale into night, Cam is waiting for you at the edge of the dugout with that quiet look in his eyes that no longer makes you afraid.

You go to him.

No rushing. No panic. No one pushing anyone away.

Just his hand finding yours out of frame, exactly where it belongs.

⸻

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