7. Cj
CJ
The morning of the charter flight started before the sun.
CJ had been awake for an hour before his alarm went off, lying in the half-dark with his eyes fixed on the ceiling fan above him.
The blades made a steady whir but were slow enough that he could track each one.
He told himself he liked quiet mornings like this, but the truth was that the silence was unsettling.
He felt like crawling out of his own skin.
He’d packed for training camp the night before, not that he would need much of his own clothing.
If history had taught him anything, he’d spend most of his time in team gear or in a swimsuit by a pool.
Still, he’d placed neat stacks of shirts and pants into his bags next to neatly rolled socks and carefully folded boxer briefs.
Last in were his toiletries and a team hoodie, still stiff with newness.
It all should have been calming, knowing he was ready to go, but instead, he kept checking the zippers as though they might have come undone while he wasn’t looking.
A mug of coffee sat cooling on the kitchen counter, mostly untouched. He’d made it out of habit more than need, and he took one more swallow before dumping the rest down the drain and washing the cup.
CJ pulled up the hotel confirmation on his phone, double-checking that he’d made the reservation for the right number of days, even though he’d checked it daily since booking it.
The email from Player Services had come weeks ago, a cheerful list of short-term housing options near the spring-training complex.
Condos, furnished apartments, and the occasional rental house for players bringing their families or who wanted more space to spread out. At the bottom, a handwritten note:
A couple of players prefer something quieter and more private.
Happy Valley Motor Lodge is an extended-stay hotel that offers studios with kitchens.
They have monthly rates that won’t cost an arm and a leg—if that’s something you care about—and they’re clean, convenient to the park, and protective of the players who have stayed there.
He’d booked it the same day. It had been easier than scrolling through listings or dealing with a rental agency long-distance. He didn’t care where he stayed. A roof was a roof.
The clock hit six-fifteen. Time to move. Back in Chicago, management gave them a date to get to training camp and let them figure out how to get there. This idea of traveling together as a team on a chartered flight was weird. Nice, but weird.
He grabbed his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder before grabbing the handle of his suitcase and stepping into the hallway. The door locked behind him automatically, but he still double-checked to be sure. The door took a key fob and CJ missed having an actual key to lock up.
It felt like the city was half-asleep as his rideshare headed to the airport.
The early light turned the buildings the color of rusted brass, and CJ leaned his head against the window, closed his eyes, and tried to relax.
By the time he reached the private terminal, the waiting room was already full of sleepy-looking players hunched over coffee cups.
After handing his bags over to the equipment manager, he pasted on a smile and joined the team.
When they were allowed to board the plane, CJ hung back, letting everyone else board and claim their usual seats.
When he finally boarded, the veterans had already claimed the front rows, sending the rookies to the back of the plane.
He tried not to chuckle as the younger players fumbled with their noise-canceling headphones and looked terrified of touching something they shouldn’t.
Had he ever looked that young? He didn’t need to ask if he’d ever been that scared.
CJ took an aisle seat toward the middle, letting the chatter rush over him as he settled in.
It wasn’t until he’d secured his seatbelt that he realized his mistake.
From his seat, he had an unobstructed line of sight straight up the aisle to a four-top table near the front of the plane.
Where Evan sat facing the back of the plane.
Most of the seats faced forward, rows of singles and pairs, but the charter’s front section was designed for cards and conversation.
Evan had taken the seat that let him see everyone else.
Which meant that every time CJ looked up, every time he shifted or reached for the tray table, his eyes landed right on him.
He’d picked the aisle for legroom and escape because he hated feeling boxed in and being trapped on a plane was bad enough.
The aisle meant he could easily get up and move if he felt restless.
Now, the open path down the aisle was clearly a mistake, and he couldn’t ignore the straight-line view.
Evan was already talking with a few teammates, relaxed with one hand curled loosely around a cup of coffee.
Every now and then, he smiled at something someone said.
Even from his seat, CJ’s stomach clenched at the full wattage of Evan’s grin.
He told himself to look away, to pull out one of his books, to do literally anything else.
But every time he looked up, the view down the aisle was the same: Evan, centered exactly in his line of sight like CJ had chosen the only seat on the plane built to make him pay attention.
He pulled his phone out and forced himself to focus on the screen, scrolling through the spring-training schedule he’d already memorized.
Behind him, the rookies were laughing as they started to relax, and he could feel the steady hum of the engines rumbling beneath his feet as the cabin crew secured the doors.
CJ wouldn’t consider himself someone who enjoyed flying.
He knew a lot of people did, but he’d never been one of them.
He tended to spend each flight listening for every odd sound and hoping it wasn’t something serious.
He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and told himself everything was fine.
He could survive a two-hour flight if he just sat still, breathed, and focused on something other than the noise.
It worked for a little while. He made it through take-off and didn’t react when the plane banked left a little too sharply for his liking. He was fine.
Then the seatbelt light blinked on.
The pilot’s voice came through the intercom, calm and clipped.
“Good morning, this is your captain speaking. It looks like we’ve got some bumpy air up ahead.
For your safety, I’ve turned on the seatbelt sign, and I ask that you make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened.
Cabin crew, please return to your seats. ”
He swallowed hard and took a deep breath, bracing for the hit.
The first bump was small, just enough to rattle bottles in the galley.
CJ gripped the armrest, knuckles whitening before he could stop himself.
He told his body to relax, but his muscles didn’t listen.
The next hit came harder, an invisible drop that sent his stomach straight into his throat.
Someone behind him cursed. Laughter faltered and faded.
CJ’s pulse skyrocketed. His right hand gripped the armrest with an impossibly tight grip and his left braced against the seat in front of him, trying to hide his reaction.
The last thing he needed to do was draw attention to himself.
The cabin air felt like it was getting thicker, and CJ focused on his breathing, trying to remember what his therapist in Chicago had said about grounding himself on flights.
Focus on the feeling of his seat beneath him. Breathe through the dips.
Another jolt.
His eyes flew open and he stared at the back of his hand.
In his periphery, he caught motion, and he lifted his gaze to see Evan leaning forward on the table in front of him, scanning the seats until he landed on CJ.
It was barely a glance, lasting just long enough for their eyes to meet.
Long enough that Evan’s gaze softened and something that looked like concern flickered briefly across his face before he turned his head away.
It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. That two-second glance meant nothing more than Evan checking on his teammates.
A quiet, reflexive concern that had been so familiar a lifetime ago that, in a moment of panic, it had felt like nothing had changed.
The way Evan had looked at him… Jesus Christ. An old, familiar feeling hit him low and hard, and the panic in his chest gave way to something he wasn’t going to name.
The plane steadied a minute later, the captain’s voice returning with an easy reassurance that everything was fine.
Around him, conversation picked back up like nothing had happened.
Someone joked about turbulence being “good for the abs.”
CJ didn’t laugh. He lifted his fingers off the armrest one by one and tried to pretend he hadn’t almost crumpled under his anxiety. He closed his eyes and counted backward from ten, and when he opened them again, he felt steady.
The air hit him the moment he stepped off the plane, warm and dry, the kind of heat that settled on the skin instead of sticking to it.
It was a different kind of warmth than he was used to in February.
When he was in Chicago, they went to Florida for spring training, and the humidity in Tampa rolled in from the Gulf, making everything sticky and damp.
In Phoenix, the warmth felt cleaner and lighter.
The sun was bright but not punishing, and CJ squinted against the glare before falling in with the rest of the team as they made their way to the bus waiting to drop them off at the car-rental lot.