It had only been a few days since Tyler saw him walking out of Jared's dorm room, but to Mark, it felt like a month had passed.
Practice hadn't gotten any easier.
Neither had the locker room.
Mark sat alone at the farthest bench, his gear tucked beside him like a protective wall. No one made eye contact. No one said hello. Some of the guys—ones he thought he'd at least bonded with during training—went silent the second he walked in.
He kept his eyes on his laces, pretending not to notice.
But he did.
"Yo, can you not change near me?" someone muttered behind him.
Mark turned. It was Richie, a sophomore outfielder. He was in the middle of pulling off his shirt, then moved several lockers away like Mark might brush up against him and infect him with something.
"What's your problem?" Mark asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
Richie scoffed. "I don't have a problem. I just don't want to get stared at while I'm half-naked."
Mark's jaw tightened. "I'm not staring at anyone."
"Yeah? You sure about that?" Richie shot back, then muttered, "Freak."
The word hit like a fastball to the ribs.
Mark said nothing. He sat there, gripping the edges of the bench until his knuckles turned white.
Even Travis, the only one who had shown kindness, had started keeping his distance. Maybe not out of disgust, but out of survival.
Mark understood.
But it didn't make it hurt less.
---
Jared had tried to ignore it, pretend it didn't bother him. But the shift was everywhere. The weight in the stares, the too-long pauses when he entered a room. The girls who used to line up for his attention now kept a wide berth.
By Thursday night, when the team threw their usual pre-game party at the dorms, Jared almost didn't go. But showing up meant he still belonged. He had to believe that.
The music was loud. Someone passed him a Solo cup. He sipped and tried to relax, leaning against the kitchen counter like always.
A few girls walked by, laughing, but when one of them looked over at him, her face changed.
"Isn't that the gay one?" she whispered—just loud enough to be heard.
The girl next to her made a face. "Gross."
Jared pushed off the counter, trying to ignore it, but they didn't stop.
"I heard he's been with guys *and* girls. That's how you get STDs," another one said with a sneer.
"Ugh, don't even get near me," the first girl replied. "I don't want to catch anything."
That was the last straw.
Jared left his cup on the nearest table and walked out, heart pounding, hands shaking.
---
He found himself walking the edge of the quad, hoodie pulled up, headphones in—but no music playing. Just silence and wind and the echo of that word—*gross*—ringing in his ears.
When he finally got back to his room, he stared at his phone for a long time.
A text sat unread from Mark:
"Can we talk?"
He didn't reply.
---
Mark stood outside the baseball cages the next day, watching Jared throw fastballs with robotic precision. Coach Whitman praised him like nothing had changed. Like none of it mattered. But Mark could see it. The tension in his shoulders. The fake laughs. The way Jared didn't look toward the bleachers where Mark stood alone.
After practice, Mark tried again.
He approached Jared by the water fountain, quiet but firm.
"Jared."
Jared glanced up. "Yeah?"
"We need to talk."
Jared looked around. Teammates were still milling nearby. "Not here."
Mark frowned. "Why not?"
Jared sighed, his voice low. "Because I don't want to deal with it right now."
"It?" Mark echoed. "You mean me?"
"No," Jared said quickly. "I just mean the whole thing. The gossip. The looks. Everything."
Mark stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You think it's been easy for me? Do you even know what it's like in the locker room right now?"
"I know," Jared muttered. "You think it's any better for me?"
"At least they still talk to you."
Jared clenched his jaw. "Not the girls."
Mark exhaled. "That's what you care about?"
"That's not what I said."
"But that's what you meant."
They stood in silence for a moment.
"I thought what we had… was real," Mark finally said.
Jared looked at him, then down at his cleats. "I don't know what we have."
"That's not good enough," Mark said softly.
Jared didn't answer.
---
Later that night, Mark sat alone in the dining hall with a tray of barely touched food. A few freshmen sat at the far table, whispering behind their hands.
One of them chuckled.
Mark stood and dumped his tray, no longer hungry.
When he got back to his dorm, he sat on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
His phone buzzed.
It was a message from Travis:
"You okay?"
Mark stared at the screen for a long moment, then typed back:
"No. But thanks for asking."
He put the phone down and turned off the lights.
---------
The rivalry game was supposed to be the event of the season—bragging rights, scouts in the stands, the kind of game players lived for.
But for Jared and Mark, it felt like walking into a warzone.
The stadium was packed. The air was electric with anticipation. And from the first pitch, it was obvious something was wrong.
"Change-up," Mark whispered behind the plate, flashing the sign.
Jared wound up—and fired a fastball down the middle.
Crack!
The rival batter sent it screaming into right field. A double. Their bench erupted in cheers.
Mark stood and tossed the ball back to Jared with a tight jaw. He didn't say anything.
Two innings later, it happened again.
"Fastball," Mark called.
Jared shook him off.
"Slider," Mark changed.
Another shake.
Mark stood up and pulled off his mask.
"Dude, what are you doing?"
Jared glared at him from the mound, chest heaving. "I'm pitching."
"Not what I called!"
"Then call something better."
By the time the sixth inning rolled around, they were down 10-2.
Coach Whitman was red in the face, pacing the dugout like a bull ready to charge.
"Get your heads in the damn game!" he barked. "We don't play like this! Not on my field!"
The game ended 12-3.
A massacre.
The moment Jared stepped into the locker room, he let out a roar of frustration and launched his glove across the room. It slammed against the lockers with a loud bang, startling several players mid-change.
Everyone went dead quiet.
Jared paced like a caged animal, yanking off his jersey and throwing it onto the bench.
Mark walked in moments later, keeping his distance but trying to stay calm.
"Jared," he said quietly, "what the hell was that out there?"
Jared didn't answer at first. He grabbed a water bottle and took a long drink, his back turned.
"You ignored every signal I gave you."
Jared slowly turned around. His eyes were wild, his chest still rising and falling with rage.
"Get away from me," he said sharply.
Mark blinked. "What?"
"I said—" Jared raised his voice, loud enough for the entire locker room to hear, "Get away from me, you freak."
The air went ice cold.
Whispers swept across the room like wildfire.
Mark's stomach dropped. "Jared…?"
"You heard me." Jared's voice cracked, not from emotion—but from the effort of keeping the mask on. "Because of you, everyone thinks I'm gay now."
Mark took a step back like he'd been punched.
Jared wasn't done. "You ruined everything. The team, the game… my reputation."
"Are you serious right now?" Mark said, voice rising. "You kissed me, Jared. That night in your dorm—you kissed me."
The silence that followed felt endless.
No one said anything. No one stepped in.
Mark felt every eye on him—watching, judging, whispering behind their towels and lockers.
He nodded slowly, swallowing hard.
"Got it."
He turned and walked out of the locker room.
No one stopped him.
Not even Jared.
That night, Jared sat alone in his room, door locked, lights off. His phone buzzed again and again. Messages from people—some checking in, most not.
He stared at the screen.
Tyler:
"Yo bro what was that today? You and Mark got issues or what?"
Travis:
"You okay?"
A message from a girl he'd hooked up with once:
"Guess I dodged a bullet."
He threw his phone against the wall.
It didn't break. He kind of wished it had.
Mark, meanwhile, sat outside the freshman dorms on a cold stone bench, staring at the pavement. His phone hadn't buzzed once.
He didn't even care.
His heart was numb.
He replayed Jared's words over and over in his head—every syllable slicing deeper than the last.
Freak.
You ruined everything.
Mark wasn't sure which hurt more: the kiss, or the way Jared pretended it never happened.
He wiped at his eyes quickly when he heard footsteps approaching.
It was Travis.
He didn't say anything at first. Just sat beside him in silence.
Finally, Travis murmured, "You didn't deserve that."
Mark didn't respond.
Travis continued, "He's scared. That doesn't excuse it. But I think he's just... drowning in his own crap."
Mark looked away. "He could've come to me. Talked to me."
"I know."
"He didn't have to call me a freak."
Travis leaned back against the bench. "You want me to punch him?"
Mark actually let out a small laugh through his nose.
"Nah," he said, voice hoarse. "But thanks."
Travis nodded.
"You're not alone, man," he said softly. "Even if it feels like it right now."
Mark looked at him. It wasn't much. But it was something.
And for the first time in days, he didn't feel completely invisible.