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2
COREY
The plane touchesdown in Dallas twenty minutes earlier than anticipated. Every other passenger is happy the flight is over, but I’m dreading stepping off of this plane.
Why did I leave Minnesota early? My apartment is leased until January. That gives me two months to postpone my return to the state where I spent most of my shitty childhood. I haven’t been back since I started college. If I had it my way, I never would’ve returned.
But then the Loons traded me…
If I wanted to continue playing ball, I had no choice but to drag my ass back to a place filled with so many bad memories that I wouldn’t be able to discuss all of them in ten years of therapy. Not that I’ve ever gone to therapy. Nothing against it. I’m just not interested in divulging secrets to a relative stranger.
Seated in first class, I should be one of the first people off the plane, but I need the ten to fifteen minutes it will take for the others to disembark for me to suck it up and accept that I’m back in the one place I never wanted to return. Emotions aren’t my strong suit. They never have been. People who know me call me stoic. If they like me, they might even call me composed. Ifthey don’t, I’m a broody asshole. I tend to think the latter is more accurate. So did the Loons management.
“Excuse me, are you Corey Johnson?”
I look away from the tarmac I’d been staring at through the small cabin window. A little kid stands in the aisle, blocking traffic, staring at me with wide eyes.
“I am,” I answer in a voice that’s gruff from disuse. I’ve barely said a word for three days. I’ve been texting my sports agent about the trade, and his team arranged for my move to Texas when I told him I wanted to leave Minnesota early. No talking was required. “What’s your name?”
“K-Kevin,” the kid replies, still looking a little starstruck. In a jerky motion, he holds out a rolled-up magazine. “Will you sign this for me?”
I’m not a fan of the attention that comes from being a professional athlete. Even my childhood best friend calls me a borderline recluse. But I’m not so heartless as to deny a kid an autograph.
Grumbles sound from the walkway behind the kid.
“Sure.” I nod and motion for him to step closer to clear the path. He does so excitedly.
A woman I assume is his mother steps into the row on the other side of the plane to wait for him. I take the magazine and pen from his hands and unroll it. I press my lips together when I see the cover.
I’m front and center on the Sports News Magazine with the rest of the Loons’ starting lineup behind me. This spread was published well before playoffs when our team was still fighting to prove ourselves and earn a spot in the postseason tournament. Despite all our subsequent success, I was still traded.
Gripping the pen tighter than necessary, I write,To Kevin, hope to see you at a game. Corey Johnson.
“There you go.” I hand it back to him.
“Thank you!” He clutches the magazine to his chest with the brightest smile that thaws even my icy heart. “I can’t wait to see you play for the Lonestars next season. With you, we’re going to kick ass.”
“Kevin!” The woman admonishes.
I huff a laugh. “Thanks, kid.”
With a wave and another “thank you” from him and his mom, the pair leave the plane. There are only a few stragglers left, some who look at me curiously as if trying to figure out who I am. I keep my head down. I’ve had my fill of attention for the day.
When it’s just me and the flight attendants left, I take a fortifying breath and stand. I get my bag from the overhead bin and draw my baseball cap down over my eyes as I disembark the plane, ignoring the young flight attendant’s flirtatious farewell as I leave.
Humidity hits me in the face the moment I step on the jetway. It may be November, but there’s no telling when Texas will deign to give its residents cooler autumn weather. I hope it’s soon. I’ve acclimated to the weather in Minnesota, and this warmth is stifling.
I keep my head low as I walk through the terminal, and I make it out without anyone else recognizing me.
I reach the baggage claim and see a gentleman in a black suit holding a sign withC. Johnsonwritten on it. I walk in his direction.
Gary, my sports agent, arranged for the driver to pick me up and take me to my new apartment. It’s out of his job description, but that’s just one of the reasons I keep him around. Not only is Gary a kick-ass agent, but he’s also a good guy who looks out for his players both on and off the field. No task is too menial in his mind if it means securing the well-being of his clients.
And after my tirade following the news of the trade deal, I’d say he’s particularly worried about my wellbeing.
The drive to Midtown is surprisingly devoid of traffic. I didn’t grow up in the city, but I used to hate being stuck in the bumper-to-bumper traffic anytime I came here with the Jones family. I’m borderline claustrophobic, and being trapped on overpasses in a small sedan never failed to make me break out in a sweat. And while the majority of my childhood memories are shit, there are some good ones that all involve the family of four.
Carter Jones, the starting linebacker for the Texas Rough Riders, has been my best friend since we were eight. We’re both the pride and joy of the small town we grew up in. I was drafted to the MLB right after my junior year of college while Carter was drafted to the NFL after graduating. Part of me wishes I’d finished my degree to be the first person in my family to graduate college, but after growing up with nothing, I couldn’t turn down the opportunity placed right in front of me.
