5. Cj
CJ
On the day he left Chicago, the weather was perfect.
The sky was so blue that it looked fake, and there wasn’t a cloud to be found.
As he boarded the plane, his phone continued to vibrate with team emails stacking up one after another in his inbox, reminders about voluntary workouts and preseason physicals.
All of them came with the same upbeat subject line—Welcome Back, Barracudas!
—but an exclamation point didn’t make him feel any better about this.
The flight attendants made their standard request for electronics to be put on Airplane Mode, and for once, CJ was relieved to shut his phone down.
The reprieve was immediate. No buzz of another team email.
No new messages pinging the player group chat he’d been added to yesterday, where introductions had poured in from every corner of the roster.
CJ had added names to phone numbers as they came in and created a new group in his contacts.
Guys he knew only from playing against them had been firing off jokes, GIFs, and a string of memes that made him blush. It was pretty clear that the Barracudas operated on a language of inside jokes and insults.
It should have felt good, being pulled into the group so easily. But even as his screen filled with names and jokes, he couldn’t help noticing the one who hadn’t chimed in. Evan hadn’t sent a single word. Not a hello. Not a joke. Just silence in a flood of chatter.
Now, at thirty thousand feet, CJ leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed and tried to be grateful for the silence. He knew it wouldn’t last, and when they landed and he turned Airplane Mode off, the notifications would start again, and the silence from Evan would still be the loudest noise.
At the airport in San Diego, a driver waited with his name on a card.
Player Services had arranged it all, including helping him find a real estate agent who could secure a temporary rental.
The team staffer assigned to help him swore that the condo he settled on was perfect: close enough to the stadium for an easy commute, quiet enough that no one would bother him.
It was on the edge of the Little Italy section of the city, and he’d been given a list of restaurants to try.
For as much effort as he’d put into finding his condo in Chicago, he really didn’t care about the location of the apartment he was renting or how short a walk it was to the nearest grocery store.
He just needed four walls, a bathroom, and somewhere to sleep at night until he either signed with another team or found a place to buy.
The drive carried him through a city that didn’t seem to believe in seasons.
Palm trees flickered past the windows and the sky was as blue in February as it was in June or July.
The sun flashed off the bay, and CJ regretted not grabbing his sunglasses from his suitcase before the driver had placed it in the trunk.
When the car pulled up in front of the building, CJ exhaled as he exited, looking up at the steel and glass angled to catch every last ounce of sun.
Temporary or not, this was home for now.
Inside, the acidic tang of lemon cleaner was so strong that it clung to the back of his throat.
A concierge in a navy blazer spotted him instantly and hurried around the desk to greet him, his smile polished and professional.
Before CJ could say a word, a packet of paperwork and a set of keys were pressed into his hands.
CJ gave the concierge a polite smile and a genuine thank-you, and headed for the elevators.
The elevator carried him up to the fourteenth floor fast enough to make his ears pop.
CJ stared at his reflection in the brushed-steel doors, noting the scruff shading his jaw and the bill of his hat pulled low enough to shadow the bruised circles under his eyes.
“Fuck,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face as the elevator slowed to a stop.
The sound of the door shutting echoed back to him inside the quiet apartment and uneven towers of boxes lined the walls to greet him.
The movers had arranged everything exactly as he’d drawn on the diagram they provided but had left his boxes packed as he requested, despite it being part of their concierge service.
He wanted to unpack his own belongings. The couch faced into the living room, with its back parallel to the kitchen island, the coffee table neatly squared in front of it.
The bookshelves were anchored to one wall and the TV was already centered above the fireplace.
It should have looked like home. Each piece was placed exactly where it belonged, but it all felt wrong.
The couch cushions were still stiff from the move and the bookshelves stood empty, waiting for something to give them weight.
Even the air smelled new, like fresh paint and a hint of bleach.
CJ crossed the living room, his footsteps dull against the hardwood, and he brushed his fingers along the cool leather of the couch as he passed.
Framed prints from photographers he loved leaned in a row along the wall of windows facing the bay, wrapped in bubble wrap and brown paper to protect them.
CJ moved around the apartment because trying to stay still was impossible.
The weight of the silence pressed on his shoulders, so he made his way to the front door and kicked off his shoes before hauling his suitcase down the short hall.
It thudded once against the wall. He winced, checked to make sure it hadn’t left a mark, and then rolled it to a stop beside the bare mattress.
Back in the living room, the boxes marked bedroom waited in crooked stacks against the wall.
It took him three trips to bring them down the hall, each one heavier than the one before it.
When the last box landed with a hollow thud, he grabbed his keys and sliced the tape open.
The familiar, clean scent of his detergent hit him as he pulled the flaps apart, and he inhaled deeply before grabbing the folded bedding inside.
He shook out a sheet, the cotton snapping in the air before it floated across the mattress.
He moved mechanically, emptying boxes into drawers and shelves, and when he finished, he stepped back and took it all in.
The bed was made, there were collapsed boxes by the door, and his dresser was half-filled.
On the nightstand, two dog-eared paperbacks he carried everywhere found their home beside the thick team binder he kept pretending he’d read.
It looked like progress, but it didn’t feel like it.
CJ fell face-first onto the mattress and tried to find a comfortable position. It was his bed, with the same mattress and sheets and even the faint dip on the left side where he always slept. But it felt off.
After the movers emptied his condo, he’d spent a week in a hotel. What should have been familiar comfort now felt strange beneath him, like his body couldn’t remember how to relax into it.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, considering his options.
He could try to take a nap and get some rest, or maybe unpack more boxes to see if that made the place feel more like home.
The heat kicked on with a quiet click and warm air gusted from the vent near the ceiling.
He wondered idly where the thermostat was. He wouldn’t be needing the heat.
With a sigh, CJ closed his eyes, only to see what he couldn’t seem to stop seeing: memories that had been playing on a loop since he got traded. The dugout cages at school, the yellow lights along the fence, a mouth he’d loved and words whispered like a vow. October, Ev. One day in October…
His eyes flew open and he sat up. Okay, so napping wasn’t an option.
He made his way back to the living room and turned the television on, the sudden blast of sound filling the room with chatter from a sports channel. He turned the volume down and let the captions run.
Knowing he would need to eat eventually, he carried boxes to the kitchen and began emptying them of pots and pans, plates and silverware, and even one box filled with canned items that he should have directed the movers to donate.
When the cabinets were full, he turned to survey the open living space, then stilled in surprise before making his way to the wall of glass overlooking the bay.
At some point, the sun had begun to set, and the water had gone molten, gold spilling across the surface.
The sky was streaked with pinks and oranges, and boats cut quiet wakes through the light without disturbing the stillness.
He pressed a palm against the glass, as if touching it would make the view less surreal.
Sunsets never looked like this in Chicago, where light got swallowed by buildings and the orange glow bounced down crowded streets.
But there was nothing here to block the light.
The buildings across the bay were low enough that all he saw was open water stretching to the Pacific.
It should have felt like an upgrade or a gift. But it didn’t. It felt like a glimpse of a life that didn’t belong to him yet.
In the reflection of the glass, CJ could see his apartment behind him.
His entire life, contained in cardboard boxes, taped shut and stacked neatly, waiting for him to finish what he’d started.
Still, he didn’t move, standing at the window longer than he meant to, until the pink faded to violet and the bay turned black.
With a long exhale, he dragged a hand over his jaw and turned to face the room.
Unpacking could wait. He dropped onto the couch and reached for his phone, opening the family group text.
His older brother had sent a selfie with their mom’s dog stuffed into a ridiculous red sweater, and the dog looked deeply offended. Underneath it, Ryan had texted:
Ryan
Did you land yet? I thought you’d be there by now.
A second message from his sister followed.
Natalie