9. Cj
CJ
CJ slept for maybe three hours. Maybe. The air conditioner hummed its steady white noise, the sheets were clean, and the mattress was thicker and softer than he’d expected.
There’d been a time when that would have been enough, when he could drop into bed after a travel day, close his eyes, and be asleep before his head fully hit the pillow.
That was before he’d spent seven years carrying around the consequences of a choice he’d never figured out how to make peace with.
The motel could have the most comfortable bed in the Southwest, and it wouldn’t have mattered.
Sleep was hard to come by when his brain refused to shut up.
After seeing Evan again, his thoughts had found fresh fuel, and the moment he’d turned out the light last night, everything he’d spent seven years burying clawed its way up from the dark.
The memories weren’t big or meaningful. They were just flashes of moments.
A warm night their sophomore year, the team sprawled across the outfield after conditioning, cooling off in the grass beneath the stadium lights.
Evan had been lying on his back beside him, forearm draped over his eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly until his breathing turned slow and even.
CJ remembered looking over and thinking that he’d never met anyone who carried quiet the way Evan did, steady and calm, allowing space for those around him to relax.
By five a.m., CJ accepted that sleep wasn’t going to happen, and he blew out a frustrated breath, shoved the blanket off, and sat up. He scrubbed both hands over his face, then stood and padded to the bathroom, wincing at his reflection.
“Get it together,” he muttered.
After taking care of business, he threw on a pair of running shorts and a Barracudas T-shirt, grabbed his phone, and cracked open the door to his room.
It was early enough that the courtyard was quiet and the sky was just beginning to shift from deep navy to purple.
Next door, a light glowed beneath the door.
Evan was awake. Of course he was. CJ forced himself to stretch instead of staring like an idiot.
Running had always been his thing, had been the way he’d stayed sane in high school, how he’d gotten rid of the pressure in college.
How he’d survived every day since he’d been traded.
He ran laps around the blocks of the neighborhood across from the motel, realizing he’d need to map out a more challenging route.
Step after step, he tried to outrun the memory of his conversation with Evan last night, and the hurt look on his face when CJ made it clear that they didn’t need to interact.
It didn’t work, of course, because he’d never been successful at outrunning his past.
By the time he made it back to the hotel, his T-shirt was drenched with sweat and clung to his back. The sun was gold on the horizon, and he slowed as he entered the courtyard, taking in the mountains in the distance. Turning toward his room, he froze for a moment before slowly continuing.
Evan was there, and CJ tried not to stare.
He really did. But he was only human, and Evan was stretching and focused, earbuds in and completely unaware of CJ’s presence.
CJ took a moment to really look at Evan.
The way his back curved slightly as he reached for his toes, muscles shifting beneath his shirt.
CJ’s pulse spiked so hard that he almost tripped.
His cheeks flushed, and he hurried to his door, hoping he looked casual and not like panic on two legs.
By the time he got to the facility, the sun was up and the air smelled like fresh grass.
There were already a few guys milling around the door, rookies and guys he recognized from TV, and they nodded at him as he approached the building.
A couple offered quick hellos, and CJ coughed to hide a laugh when one rookie tripped over his own feet when CJ said, “Morning.” He wasn’t used to people reacting like that.
Chicago’s fan base had been chaotic, but inside the clubhouse, he’d never been the guy who made another player starstruck.
The equipment team was already there when he made it to the locker room, and he nodded hello before walking the room slowly.
He found his locker, three stalls down from the veterans but not quite on Rookie Row.
Not part of the established core. It fit.
He dropped his backpack, took a stiff new cap off the top shelf, and tugged it on.
Just as he was adjusting the brim, someone slapped him sharply between the shoulder blades.
“Look who’s here bright and early.” Dominic Rizzo’s grin took up half his face.
CJ glared at him, but his smile ruined it. “It’s seven-thirty. We’re supposed to be here at eight.”
“Exactly. Bright and early.”
“Do you wake up annoying, or do you have to make a conscious effort?”
Rizzo’s smile grew impossibly wider, and he dropped onto the empty seat next to CJ, like someone who’d never been shy a day in his life. “It’s a gift. Some people get speed or power. I got charm and chaos. Don’t be jealous.”
CJ wasn’t. Not really. Except maybe he was a little, but only because Rizzo’s energy reminded CJ of who he used to be in college—loud, bright, relentlessly friendly.
Before pressure and expectation wore him down into this quieter, duller version of himself.
Rizzo was the kind of guy who collected people without trying, and it made sense that he’d been the first teammate to decide CJ was worth befriending. “What time did you get here?”
“Before the sun,” Rizzo said cheerfully. “Already ran some drills with Coach Reyes.”
“Christ.”
“You’re wound too tight,” Rizzo said, slapping CJ on the shoulder. “You need to loosen up, or Reyes is gonna make you do yoga.”
CJ blinked. “Is that a joke?
“No.”
“Is it a threat?”
“Yes.”
CJ groaned. “Great.” They fell into a not-quite-comfortable silence.
“So, you and Delgado,” Rizzo said out of nowhere, and CJ stiffened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rizzo tilt his head and felt him studying him.
“Me and Delgado…what?” CJ forced his face into what he hoped looked like a neutral expression and started unpacking his duffel bag.
“You two go way back, right?”
“College teammates,” CJ answered. He thought he’d kept his voice even, but something made Rizzo look at him curiously.
“You two good?”
“We’re teammates,” CJ said stiffly.
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“It’s the only answer I’ve got at the moment.” They were silent for a moment until CJ turned to look at Rizzo. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because you flinched when I said his name.”
“I didn’t flinch.”
“You inhaled dramatically.”
CJ rolled his eyes. “I breathed.”
“Suspiciously.”
“Dominic.”
“Okay, okay,” Rizzo said, palms up. “No need to first name me. I was just asking. He’s a good guy.”
CJ swallowed hard. “Yeah. I know.” Too well.
Rizzo didn’t push, but he didn’t move away either. He bumped CJ’s shoulder with his own. “If you ever need a buffer, I’m excellent at being annoying on command.”
CJ snorted. “I’m not sure that’s something to brag about.”
Rizzo grinned. “Feels like it should be though.”
For a second, CJ let himself relax enough to remember what it felt like to be around someone who didn’t expect anything from him except maybe a conversation and a half-decent joke. Then he grabbed his water bottle and stood. “I’m going to the gym to warm up.”
Rizzo nodded. “Cool. I’ll tag along and pretend you actually want company.”
CJ didn’t stop him, which said more than he wanted to admit.
He followed Rizzo, trying to ignore the way his skin prickled the closer they got to the gym.
Being able to feel someone’s presence before seeing them was something from a romance novel.
It didn’t happen in real life. Except, when he stepped inside, there Evan was, sitting on a stretching mat, one leg extended, with a trainer testing the range of motion in his hip.
CJ froze, just for a moment, and because he had the worst luck, Evan looked up at that exact moment and locked eyes with him. It felt like someone had taken a fist and pressed it right against the center of CJ’s sternum, not hard enough to leave a bruise but enough to let him know it was there.
Evan nodded once, a small, controlled, silent greeting. CJ nodded back with an even smaller tilt of his head. He hoped that counted.
Rizzo’s narrowed gaze flicked between them like he was trying to figure out a mystery. “Okay,” he said softly, the word drawn out. “Vibes are weird but survivable.”
“Shut up,” CJ muttered under his breath.
Evan looked away first, and that shouldn’t have stung as much as it did.
He threw himself into the rest of the morning as if his life depended on it.
If he kept moving, kept running drills and catching balls, maybe he could stop his brain from working overtime.
Outfield drills were the one place CJ felt steady right now.
They were familiar—sprint forward on the first step, push off and change direction, figure out where the ball is going the second it leaves the bat.
None of it was fancy or needed overthinking.
It was just running, reacting, and trusting his gut instead of the noisy mess in his head.
Out there, with the grass under his feet and the sun in his eyes, he felt like he could breathe.
Out there, he could focus and keep his mind off the man behind the plate.
He didn’t dare look toward the catchers, but he didn’t need to.
He’d always known where Evan was on a field.
It was an old habit from years of playing side by side, with CJ working the outfield and Evan anchoring everything behind the plate.
Even now, he could picture him, and he knew without turning his head that Evan was crouched low, glove steady while he gave pitchers that calm, quiet direction he was known for.
The kind of focused, precise work that made guys trust him immediately.