3. CJ
CJ
CJ Hartman liked routine.
Not in the obsessive, color-coded-calendar way, but in the kind of way that gave the off-season shape. Something to lean on when the ballpark light went dark for the winter and the roar of the crowd faded into memory.
Late fall into winter wasn’t gentle in Chicago.
It was all gray skies and sharp wind and snow that turned to dirty slush the moment it hit the streets.
But the city had become CJ’s home, and he’d found a rhythm here in the off-season, in his apartment that overlooked the river, and he liked the ritual.
Coffee first, steam curling from the chipped Blazers mug he’d stolen from a diner his rookie year.
Then a workout at the gym down the street.
A quick stop at Manny’s for a breakfast burrito big enough to feed two, but that he demolished solo.
Maybe—maybe—a late-morning nap before heading to the batting cages in the afternoon.
It was a rhythm that kept his head clear. A rhythm he planned to keep until spring training.
Except this year, the lights hadn’t faded the same way.
The Blazers had won a title after decades of near misses, and Chicago was still celebrating.
CJ had caught the final out, had stood on the field and felt the champagne burning his eyes and the weight of his teammates piling on top of him until he couldn’t breathe.
Two days later, there had been a parade down a confetti-covered Michigan Avenue.
Fans had climbed light poles, trying to get closer to the players on the upper levels of double-decker buses, chanting their names until their voices broke.
They’d been convinced they were untouchable.
For more than a week now, the city had been a living party, and CJ should still be riding that high.
But celebrations ended fast in front offices, and the confetti had barely been swept up when the business side of baseball went back to work.
While fans clung to glory, someone in a suit was already moving names around like chess pieces.
During the season, rumors had circulated that teams were interested in trading for him, but the trade deadline had come and gone and CJ had remained in Chicago.
He was confident enough in his game that he knew what Chicago would be losing if they traded him, but he wasn’t so far gone that he wasn’t aware it could happen.
Conversations with his agent had revolved around the possibility more than once, in the kind of vague, what-if scenarios that agents float so their clients aren’t blindsided.
But CJ had still shut down the conversation when he could.
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” he’d told Marcus. “I like it here. I want to finish here.”
Years of practice representing athletes had given Marcus Howell enough practice with keeping his tone neutral when he’d replied, “You know teams are always looking for the best competitive advantage. They have that with you, but I just want you to be prepared in case they start shopping contracts and you hear rumors.”
“I think I’ll be okay.” CJ had cut him off. “This is my team. I think I’ve more than proven to them how much I want to be here. Plus, if they were thinking of trading me, someone in the front office would have given me a heads-up.”
“CJ.” Marcus sighed. “Trust me when I tell you that isn’t how things work. You don’t get a heads-up if they’re thinking of trading you. Hell, I only get notified when there’s actually a deal in place.”
“Okay, fine. If a trade happens, it happens. Just make sure they know I don’t want to leave,” CJ conceded eventually. “I suppose as long as it’s not San Diego, it will be fine. Make sure you tell them that if you get a call.”
There’d been a long pause. “What is it about San Diego?” Marcus questioned. “You’ve been there on road trips. I know you like visiting the city. They have a relatively new facility and a great fan base. Hell, you’re from California. Why is it at the bottom of your list?”
CJ hadn’t answered, and Marcus let it drop, but the question hung between them. The truth wasn’t something CJ wanted to explain.
So, yeah, being traded was something every player had to consider at some point. But CJ knew he was safe. Which is why, when his phone started vibrating at seven-fourteen a.m., like it was trying to dance its way off his nightstand, he ignored it. The buzzing didn’t stop.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, fumbling for the phone.
He thumbed the screen on and it lit up with the team’s group chat. Thirty-three unread messages, some in all caps, GIFs of exploding fireworks, and one video of a crying baby.
Van
HOLY. SHIT.
Tuck
Dude. CJ. You seeing this???
Griff
Sorry, man.
CJ frowned, half-awake, squinting at the screen. “Seeing what?”
Then the news notification from ESPN popped up.
TRADE ALERT: Barracudas Acquire Outfielder
Chris Hartman from Blazers in 4-Player Deal
For a moment, the words didn’t compute. His brain stalled, still clinging to the idea that it was a mistake.
“No. No, no, no—” He sat up, leaning against the headboard, before he clicked on the link. He scanned the article, like maybe he’d find a line that said just kidding. His stomach dropped, and for a second, he thought last night’s dinner might make a reappearance.
There it was, in neat little paragraphs: the Barracudas “bolstered their outfield” and “added veteran presence to their roster” in exchange for two Double-A prospects and a rookie third baseman. The phrasing was diplomatic, but CJ could read between the lines: Chicago couldn’t afford to keep him.
His phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Marcus.
Marcus
Call me. Now.
He swung his legs off the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor as he dragged a hand down his face before he dialed. Marcus picked up immediately.
“What the fuck, Marcus?”
“I didn’t know,” Marcus said without preamble. He sounded like he’d been up for hours. More likely, he hadn’t been to bed yet.
CJ headed for the kitchen and sandwiched his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he prepped the coffeemaker to brew.
In his ear, Marcus was talking, but CJ wasn’t giving him his full attention and missed half of what his agent said.
He hit start on his coffee and then made his way to the windows in his living room.
He studied himself in the reflection of the glass, taking in broad shoulders that tapered into a lean, athletic frame built for speed and open space and running down baseballs.
His light-brown hair stuck up in every direction from sleep, longer on the top than the sides and already falling into eyes that shifted between blue and green depending on the light.
He shoved it back with an impatient hand.
More than one person had told him he looked more like a surfer than a professional athlete, and standing barefoot in a worn Blazers T-shirt and athletic shorts, he couldn’t entirely disagree.
The face staring back at him looked tired and irritated, and CJ still didn’t understand how that face had landed him sponsorship deals despite his complete lack of interest in being photographed.
“I’m sorry, Marcus. I zoned out for a minute,” CJ interrupted his agent mid-rant. “Tell me this is a mistake. A rumor. Something put on social media as a joke.”
“It’s not. But someone fucked up, and they didn’t let me know so I could break it to you instead of you finding out from— Who did you find out from?” Marcus sounded genuinely pissed off, and CJ felt some of his anger toward his agent fading.
“Team chat,” CJ said sourly. “Then ESPN.”
Marcus sighed. “Look, you knew there was a chance for a trade—”
“Yeah, but not to San Diego.” CJ paced his living room in a loop that took him past the window with the skyline view he’d fallen in love with three years ago. “When we talked about it, I told you to make sure it wasn’t San Diego.”
“I told them that, CJ, but you don’t have a no-trade clause in your contract.
There was nothing to stop them from sending you to whatever team had the best offer.
” Marcus hesitated. “The paperwork went through this morning. The Barracudas wanted you, and the Blazers needed to clear your salary. It’s done, CJ. ”
CJ stopped pacing. “And I get shipped across the country. I like it here. I want to be here.”
“I know,” Marcus said gently. “But you’ll like San Diego too. You’ll be closer to your family, the weather is beautiful, and it’s a fresh start.”
CJ let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Fresh start.”
Marcus hesitated, and CJ could hear the unasked questions in the silence. CJ didn’t give him a chance to ask them. He ended the call and clenched his jaw. The words he could have used to explain everything sat heavily in his throat.
By mid-afternoon, the sky had darkened to a flat steel gray, and Chicago felt as if it were bracing for snow. CJ forced himself through the motions of his routine anyway because that’s what he did. He followed his routine.
Today, his routine looked a lot like punishment.
At the gym in his building, one of the trainers eyed him cautiously as he loaded plates on the bar.
CJ bristled under the scrutiny, but he understood.
It was more weight than he normally lifted in November, and his muscles screamed in protest as he pushed through sets, chest burning and arms trembling.
But he kept going, like he could shove the frustration off his body one rep at a time.
Guys he knew from the building glanced at him in concern, but no one said a word.
His jaw was set, eyes locked on the mirror in front of him as he squatted under the weight on his shoulders.
Sweat soaked through his shirt and rolled down the side of his face, and he told himself that if he strained hard enough, loaded enough weight on his back, he could silence the noise in his head.
It wasn’t working, and CJ gave up on lifting, returning the weights to the rack and pretending not to feel the stares as he left the gym.