3. CJ #2
The noise kept echoing with thoughts of a new city, new teammates, and one name he’d spent seven years trying to outrun.
On top of that was the rest of the bullshit that came with being traded.
The behind-the-scenes parts no one took into consideration when talking about how good or bad a trade was.
While analysts and fans were playing backseat general manager, CJ needed to figure out the logistics.
Finding someone to pack and haul seven years’ worth of furniture, gear, and memories halfway across the country was at the top of his list. Right behind that was deciding whether it was worth it to ship his car to California or just buy a new one when he got there.
The worst part of starting over in a city he hadn’t chosen was going to be hunting down a decent place to live, and that thought gave him pause as he stepped through his front door.
After a year in the minors, living in crappy apartments with four other guys, CJ knew he was going to buy his own place as soon as he made the roster out of training camp in his second year.
With a big-league salary, he was able to rent an apartment by himself, which gave him time to find something he really loved.
It had taken him three years of countless condo tours and smiling at his real estate agent when she tried to convince him to pick one, to find his place in Chicago.
And now he would have to pick a place to live between today and spring training?
Maybe one of his new teammates would know a good real estate agent.
His new teammates. “Fuck,” he muttered.
Walking into a new clubhouse meant starting over from scratch, learning nicknames and adapting to personalities, pretending like he belonged when every part of him was still wired for Chicago.
Beyond all of that was the phone call he’d dodged earlier.
He’d ignored more than a few calls he shouldn’t have, and he knew he would have some irritated voicemails to listen to later.
But one call had been the Barracudas’ GM, and he’d let it ring through, too angry to answer.
But he couldn’t avoid him forever. Sooner or later, he would have to dial the number, swallow his pride, and say the words everyone expected him to say: “Excited to be there. Ready to help the team. Thrilled for the opportunity.”
CJ didn’t like lying.
He lasted another hour in his condo, pacing in circles around his living room.
The space felt too tight all of a sudden, and the silence seemed louder than the city outside.
On the television, ESPN kept replaying parade footage, and he couldn’t stand watching himself smile like he still belonged.
Eventually, he grabbed his peacoat, shoved his phone in his pocket, and left.
He wound up at a bar in the neighborhood, tucked into a corner where he could be mostly hidden by shadow.
It was the kind of place where regulars nursed beers under dim lights with stained glass shades, and the TVs over the bar were tuned to either local news or sports.
Tonight, the TVs were locked on the channel that was all baseball, all the time.
Lucky him. On the screen, a pair of anchors sat behind a polished desk, deep in conversation as highlight reels of CJ in a Blazers uniform looped.
At the far end of the bar, a couple of guys were glued to the broadcast, beers in hand as they discussed the trade.
“Man, San Diego’s getting a cannon for an arm,” one said. “Hartman is such a beast.”
“Yeah, but he’s almost thirty. Blazers got the better deal,” the other countered. “Those prospects are gonna pay off, and Hartman’s gonna start losing a step.”
CJ hunched over his beer, shoulders curving forward as he pretended not to hear.
“I think he’s going to have better numbers out there,” the first continued. “Pacific Horizon’s a hitter’s park. Plus, sun every day? Not a bad deal.”
“The weather would be worth it,” the second man agreed. “But I doubt his numbers will be better than here. Doesn’t matter anyway. If he doesn’t do well, they’ll just find someone else. He’s replaceable. Everyone is.”
CJ stared into the foam at the bottom of his glass. Replaceable. That was the word that struck hard. He could still feel the sting of the champagne in his eyes, could still hear the crowds howling his name, but in this bar, he might as well already be gone.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to see the team chat picking up again.
Rook
Man, they’re gonna love you in Cali. U look like u could be a surfer.
Gonzo
Palm trees. Craft beer. Endless summer. I might actually be jealous.
Johnson
Did you guys forget he’s from Cali?
Enjoy those taxes tho
Gonzo
Not jealous anymore
CJ tossed the phone on the counter like it had burned him.
“Everything good?” The bartender’s voice was wary, and she eyed him like she was considering calling for the bouncer by the door.
“Never better,” CJ muttered.
As the bartender moved down the counter, CJ noticed the two men who had been talking were suddenly quiet, and the pause dragged on just long enough for CJ to feel their eyes on him.
“Hey, isn’t that…?” one of them muttered, his voice trailing off.
CJ didn’t wait for the rest. He pushed off his stool, dropped a couple of twenties on the bar, and shrugged into his jacket.
The bartender called out to him as he pushed through the door, but he didn’t turn around.
The cold air stuck to him all the way home.
He walked fast, head down, as if he could outrun the echo still ringing in his ears.
Replaceable. The word felt like a brand.
Back in his condo, the silence was overwhelming and his thoughts were spiraling.
Front offices called trades “business,” managers called it “adjusting the roster,” and agents tried to dress it up as an opportunity.
But, in bars with cheap beer and ten-cent wing nights, fans called it what it was. He was “replaceable.”
His phone buzzed again in his pocket and he dug it out with a sigh. But it wasn’t the team chat this time. It was Matt Caldwell, an old friend from college and the agent for the one player who made San Diego the last place CJ wanted to be.
Matt
You good?
CJ
Define good.
Matt
It’s just business. You know that, right?
CJ
Yeah. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.
Matt
San Diego’s not the worst landing spot. It’s a big market and you’ve got a chance
to make a big impact.
CJ stared at the words until they blurred, set the phone down, then picked it up again. He couldn’t stop himself.
CJ
Evan’s there.
Three dots, then nothing, and CJ could almost picture his old friend debating what to say.
Matt
I know.
CJ swore and dropped the phone on the counter.
He couldn’t even be irritated. Matt wasn’t CJ’s agent.
Years ago, just before he was drafted, CJ had asked Matt to represent him, and Matt had turned him down.
Not because CJ wasn’t good enough, but because Evan had gotten there first. Matt had decided it was better not to represent them both, to avoid any overlap and any appearance of divided loyalties.
At the time, CJ had nodded his agreement and told himself that Matt was right, and it was a complication he didn’t need.
But the rejection had hurt, and CJ had been pissed that Evan had claimed that space before he’d had the chance.
Now, years later, Matt’s name lighting up his phone on the night he was traded made him side-eye his messages. He didn’t have to reach out and, if anything, his loyalty lay elsewhere. It made it hard to believe it was just about friendship.
But maybe it was. It’s not like they didn’t have any contact.
They still got together a couple of times a year for dinner when Matt was in town.
Maybe Matt was checking in because of their history, because once upon a time they’d been roommates in college, and because of the things he’d seen but never mentioned.
But CJ couldn’t shake the darker thought that this check-in wasn’t about him.
CJ’s suspicion sat bitterly in his gut, and he tried to smother it but couldn’t.
He knew where Matt’s loyalty was. He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, an old habit that helped him anchor his thoughts.
He breathed deeply and told himself that it didn’t matter, that San Diego was just another city.
That Evan Delgado was just another player.
But he knew better.
Tomorrow, he would wake up a Barracuda, and sooner or later, he’d have to stand in the same room as the man he’d hurt.