12. Evan #2
Another time, Evan opened his door barefoot and half-awake to take out the trash and nearly collided with CJ in the hallway.
CJ’s hair was mussed, hair flattened on one side like he’d just rolled out of bed, and the sight of him blinking sleepily at him hit Evan with a sharp, stupid pang in his chest that he hadn’t been prepared for.
“Sorry,” CJ had said, voice rough and low. “Wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“You’re fine,” Evan had replied, then he stood there like an idiot for a second too long before retreating inside, still holding his bag of trash.
It was awkward but manageable, Evan lied to himself.
But they were careful after that, giving each other space that felt measured rather than natural, as if they had to evaluate every interaction for risk before committing to it.
Evan learned to pause before stepping into the hallway, listening for movement and the soft click of CJ’s door, or the shuffle of footsteps that would send him retreating into his apartment for a few seconds longer.
When they did see each other, their conversations shrank to a bare minimum about the team or games, or they gave each other polite nods instead of conversation. Nothing that lingered.
Somehow, that restraint made everything worse.
Evan found himself cataloging things he shouldn’t have noticed: the way CJ cleared his throat before speaking or how CJ’s eyes flicked away too quickly when they crossed paths, then came back, just to check.
He was more aware of CJ than before, and every almost-interaction carried more weight than an actual conversation ever would.
Second-guessing everything became part of Evan’s personality.
How long was too long to make eye contact?
How quickly was too quickly to look away?
Did saying “hey” sound too familiar? Was he an asshole if he said nothing at all?
The worst part was how it resolved nothing. They just lived in a limbo that required constant vigilance, and Evan was exhausted.
Only one person seemed to notice. Rizzo was a lot of things, but unobservant would never be one of them.
He had the good sense to wait for a quiet moment after practice, when most of the guys had filtered out, before he said anything.
Evan was at his locker when Rizzo dropped onto the bench beside him.
“You good?” Rizzo asked casually.
Evan didn’t look up. “Yep.”
Rizzo hummed. “Do you know you have this tone you get when you’re lying?”
Evan sighed and finally glanced over. “Are you always this annoying?”
“Only when I care.” Rizzo leaned back into the stall, eyes flicking briefly across the room before returning to Evan. “It’s funny. CJ asked me the same thing.” When Evan didn’t reply, Rizzo sighed. “You and CJ have been…weird lately.”
Evan stiffened despite himself. “We’re fine.”
Rizzo raised an eyebrow. “Okay, bud. But your shoulders go tight every time he walks into a room, so you might want to work on that.”
Evan opened his mouth to argue, then stopped when Rizzo continued, undeterred, “And CJ laughs differently when you’re around. He catches himself halfway through, like he isn’t sure it’s okay. It’s actually painful watching you two.”
Evan clenched his jaw and stared at the floor. “You’ve been watching us.”
Rizzo shrugged. “I notice stuff.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, hating that Rizzo had just put words to something Evan hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.” Rizzo tilted his head as the silence stretched uncomfortably between them. “You don’t have to tell me,” Rizzo said finally, voice softer. “I just wanted you to know that you’re not really hiding anything. At least not from me. The rest of the team is clueless.”
Evan released a humorless breath. “Great.”
Rizzo nudged his knee lightly with his own. “Hey. I’m not judging. You can tell me anything, and I would never judge.”
“I’m fine.”
Rizzo studied him for another beat, then patted him on the shoulder and stood. “If ‘fine’ stops working, you know where to find me.”
The problem with Rizzo was that almost everyone underestimated him.
On the surface, he was noise and jokes, filling every room with chatter and running commentary, as if silence personally offended him.
He distracted the world with his volume and charm, until everyone dismissed him as unserious and shallow.
But inside the room, Rizzo was listened to, though he wasn’t always taken seriously the way some of the veterans were.
His jokes softened the edges of his observations and his laid-back nature made people forget how closely he was paying attention.
Evan knew better now. He saw how Rizzo noticed things, the way he watched people like other guys watched film.
Rizzo tracked patterns while pretending not to care, and he let people believe he was easy to fool because it made them careless around him.
But Evan had also learned that nothing Rizzo did or said was unintentional, and that left Evan stuck on their conversation long after it ended.
“You’re not really hiding anything.”
Rizzo’s words followed him, lodged under his skin in a way that was irritating and persistent.
Evan had built a career on being unreadable when it mattered, and the thought that someone else could see straight through him unsettled him more than he was willing to admit.
He’d tried to shake it off, tried to be calm and unbothered while he played the part he was expected to play.
Rizzo hadn’t said it to corner him or to pry into his private life.
Evan knew that. Rizzo had just been annoyingly perceptive and had offered up those words as a fact, without judgment.
Evan didn’t know what to do with that, so he buried it under routine and games and all of the things he could control.
The next few weeks blurred together as early-season weeks always do.
Homestands folded into road trips, which folded into longer homestands.
There were early days, late nights, and video sessions that ran longer than they should have.
The rhythm of the season took hold, demanding Evan’s attention whether or not he was ready for it.
The team played well. He played well, and winning always helped.
So did the familiar comfort that came with being in control behind the plate, knowing his pitchers trusted him to steer them through a game.
He usually loved this part, loved how baseball cut his world down to manageable pieces.
This year, though, something else tugged at the edges of his focus.
Without meaning to, Evan started paying attention to how often CJ and Rizzo were together.
It wasn’t anything newsworthy, and Evan doubted anyone else noticed anything more than two teammates having fun.
Rizzo drifted toward CJ in the clubhouse like it was instinct.
He claimed the chair next to CJ’s locker more often than not, spinning it around backward and straddling the seat so he could talk while CJ taped his wrists or scrolled through his phone.
They shared headphones sometimes, Rizzo playing a song he thought CJ would like, or CJ sharing a video that made Rizzo laugh until he snorted.
Their heads bent close enough together that Evan had to look away before someone caught him staring.
Even on the field during warm-ups, when Rizzo should have been with the rest of the infielders, he always seemed to end up in CJ’s orbit.